“Villians,” I shrieked! ‘Dissemble no more. I admit the deed!. Tear up the planks! Here, here!. It is the beating of the hideous heart!” –  Edgar Allen Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart.

I’ve heard a million times that recovery from open heart bypass surgery is not a straight line, but of course hubris is infectious, I believed mine would be.  I was reminded of reality more forcefully today, a day filled with intimations of infection, pain and depression. Apart from my broken heart, things have been going my way pretty much. The surgery went well, I was home in three days.

Today I went to check-in with my nurse practitioner Karen Bruce, it was she who sent me off to the hospital in the first place after my fateful EKG  and she didn’t like the looks of the incision wound below my neck, the one that marked the cutting of my sternum. She said she thought she saw the beginning of a skin infection and put me on some anti-biotics, she told me it was essential we keep the infection from getting to the bone. That is unlikely, we caught it quite early, but I didn’t care for the thought of it.

“I just don’t like it,” she said, “let’s take care of it now.” It felt like she was a judge pounding out a sentence. And what did I expect? To be out tubing in the Battenkill this week? They stopped my heart a few days ago, there will be ups and downs. In this way I connect so much to Poe and his evocations of madness and dementia, some of which I felt today. I know I am mad sometimes, surgery will make you mad sometimes.

So back on anti-biotics, my stomach already in protest. I was reminded of my helplessness. It took the wind out of Maria’s sails too, she blames herself when something like this happens, as if she should have caught it or seen it. Or could have.

Karen also gave me a long and sobering talk about depression, she said it is quite common after bypass surgery, it is believed to be a bio-chemical byproduct of the surgery itself, it usually lasts only a few days, do not, she said, be surprised by it.  I have not experienced depression, quite the opposite, but the visit was discouraging to me, although I expect Karen once again saved me from real trouble. I expected more approval and good words. A clap on the back, more hosannahs.  Come back in a week. I was the good boy for once, the star. I like it. But not today. An infection, more medicine, and I don’t like the idea of an infection around the that scar.

The incision is tender and painful to the touch, not surprising after such surgery. So time for perspective.  It was a setback, but only that. Karen says little or no walking for a few days. That was depressing, and the weather turned unbearably hot and rainy and humid, and that was depressing also. My major walk of the day was interrupted by a downpour and booms of thunder and flashes of lightning. More weeks and months of this, I thought.

I did so some writing on my book, I got a lot done, but my neck and chest were too painful for me to sit too long. I love writing, it has never been painful for me to do it.  I am reminded every day of my own identity, the uniqueness and individuality of my heart and my recovery. Nobody else’s heart is like mine, mine is not like anyone else’s. I love my own path, it is sacred to me.

So I will not be walking miles tomorrow, not plowing through chapter after chapter of my new book, not reveling in praise and encouragement. I will be taking a few short walks, resting a lot.

Tonight, a time of reflection and meditation.  I expect sunshine in the morning, I demand it. I will be out early walking, but not far. Next up, days of rest.

Surgery, like life, is a teacher. You get from it what you will.