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MY ABLATION PROCEDURE AT ST. LUKE'S HOSPITAL
It was early morning on May 29th, 2003 and I was walking into
St. Luke’s with my heart thudding loudly. My vision and
consciousness were also winking on and off. All of this was
normal for me, although it had grown much, much worse over this
56th year of my life. Doctors near my home in upstate New York
had recently diagnosed me with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy in
December 2002, but they hadn’t known what to do about
it. I’d been desperate for help when I first came to see
Dr. Sherrid at St. Luke’s.
At first, it looked as though I’d be quickly moved toward
open-heart surgery. Then, after testing, Dr. Sherrid informed
me that due to some nerve defects in my heart, the picture was
more complicated. The traditional open-heart operation would
leave me with heart block, completely dependent on a pacemaker.
He said there was a chance that a newer catheter procedure,
an ablation, would not destroy any more nerves. In my case,
the ablation seemed to have some major advantages, so I agreed.
So the day was finally here, and I was in St. Luke’s.
The doctors advised me that very rarely, catheter procedures
result in sudden death of the patient. The risk was meaningless
to me, a woman whose heart was no longer beating, but instead
gulping, due to the extremely large obstruction beneath my aortic
valve. I’d only survived the last few months on heavy
medication by sitting, barely moving, transfixed by history
books twelve hours a day. My heart continued to pound as I signed
the consent form.
I was rolled into the cath lab, which looked just like an operating
room. A large group of professionals were there. They all greeted
me enthusiastically, telling me what a special patient I was
and how pleased they were to see me. A specialist from another
heart center was also there to advise the staff. They only sedated
me slightly, because I had to follow orders during the scans
that are integral to the procedure. There was a lot of consulting
over the echocardiogram images of my heart. I could sense the
multiple catheters running up my chest, but it was not painful.
When all factors had been considered and the “real surgery”
was about to begin, I steadied myself, for I understood that
the shot of alcohol that would wither away the obstruction would
probably burn. They gave me some morphine just before, and actually,
the sensation was so minimal that my relief was palpable. A
cheer went up from the staff. “A success! It worked!”
I lay quietly, wondering if this was it. Dr. Sherrid, who monitored
the echocardiogram throughout the procedure, came to me and
patted my face. “It couldn’t have gone better, Caroline.”
I still had days in the hospital to go. The external pacemaker
was left in me for about thirty hours. When it didn’t
fire once, they knew my nerves had not been harmed and I would
not need a pacemaker. My remaining time in the hospital, I proved
a slightly unruly patient. I was just feeling too darn good
to play act like I was sick! I found that I could even pick
something up off the floor without getting the blackout. Amazing!
Those little winkouts that had bedeviled my entire life just
weren’t there! Unbelievable!! I’d only consulted
18 neurologists about my abnormal epilepsy, and here the problem
had always been my heart! The same heart that had only released
its secret when an echocardiogram had finally been ordered in
December of 2002.
Well, this is mid-October. I am still blackout free. Moreover,
I’ve been gradually weaned off of the heavy beta-blockers
I was previously taking. Soon, I won’t be needing to take
this medication at all. I know I still have a heart condition,
and I still have some chest pains, but I am so much better!
My heart beats like a normal person’s and the murmur that
had grown to astounding proportions is gone.
THANK YOU DR. SHERRID AND ST. LUKE’S HOSPITAL! |
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