by Dana Wineland O’Rourke, contributing writer
My husband Tim and I never managed to get a good parking space in the hospital lot, and that hot August day in 2015 was no exception. Both of us were hustling to get into the lobby’s air conditioning. I wanted to run back, but not back to our car. I longed to run back to the spring of 1996 before the words ‘possible heart failure’ hit my ears.
We pinballed our way toward the medical building. Tim smiled as he held the door open for me. “This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of our wedding vows,” I thought as I smiled back.
The two of us were asked to sit in a room together. The next few minutes of test results, forms, and details were a blur. Tim needed open heart surgery. A date was scheduled for the following month. His cardiothoracic surgeon ended the appointment with handshakes.
At age 40, Tim had been diagnosed with a bicuspid aortic valve; the most common congenital heart condition. It was a matter of when, not if, the valve would need to be replaced. At age 59 we had nearly twenty years to anticipate the news, yet I was caught off guard when it came.
Together we got our ducks in a row with time off work and other necessities. I planned a pre-surgery resort getaway for the two of us as a treat to relax and build upon our memories. We enjoyed quality time and ate fancy dinners. We took long walks, but no pictures. I’m always sure to capture special moments with photos. This time, it was different.
Surgery day began early, and several coffee-sipping family members met us in the waiting room for support. Tim was in good spirits, or at least pretended to be. Everyone exchanged “I love yous” and Tim gave a thumbs-up as they wheeled him away. I felt my heart stop for a moment.
A few hours later, a healthcare team member walked toward our group. I stood and wondered if he was bringing good news or bad. Immediately, he shared that everything went well and that he could escort two people back to the CICU. Unwilling to choose between our two sons, I said I’d go alone. He kindly gave the okay to the three of us.
It was scary seeing such a strong man on a ventilator with medical equipment surrounding him, but he gave us another reassuring thumbs-up. As vulnerable as he appeared, a couple of hours later he was off the ventilator and sitting up in bed enjoying half a popsicle, joking he’d pay $100 for the other half.
Once the visitors left, I pulled two love seats toward one another to form a nest. An aide provided me with sheets and a pillow, and I spent the night in the CICU waiting room. Random loved ones of other patients came and went, and there was little if any conversation.
Spending the night did not involve much sleep. Up before sunrise and anxious to see Tim at the first possible moment, I did not leave the waiting room to scavenge for coffee.
What a relief to witness his progress and hear plans to move him out of the CICU to the heart floor where I planned to stay with him until he was discharged.
The next night and day were difficult, but he pushed through. I assisted where I could; helping him dress, playing music on my phone, and making sure no one took his little cans of ginger ale until they were empty. I slept in a recliner beside him, happy to be there.
Your world gets very small when a loved one goes through a serious medical issue. An average hospital room is 12×12, and that’s how little the world feels. Your focus is on the patient, with hopes for a full and speedy recovery. You pray your world goes back to normal, the normal you may have taken for granted, but never will again.
Fortunately, Tim showed improvement every day. The respiratory therapist called him the floor MVP. He chalked up more laps than any other patient and regularly popped his head in the room next to his to encourage a man who had the same surgery, but no support system.
I lost track of the hospital days, but there were seven. The evening before his discharge, we watched the Brian Wilson movie “Love & Mercy” on my laptop from his hospital tray. A nurse brought us Dixie Cup ice creams with tiny wooden spoons.
“We should make a toast with these!” I insisted, raising my spoon.
“What should we toast to?” Tim replied as our eyes met.
I had no words, and I had a thousand words. The Beach Boys song “God Only Knows” started to play in the movie. Neither one of us needed to say anything.
We smiled the same familiar smiles.
It’s 2025 and Tim’s mechanical aortic valve will celebrate 10 years of ticking in one of the strongest and kindest hearts I know. Both of our hearts are grateful.
Ours was a temporary situation. For those battling illnesses, especially chronic issues, and for their caregivers, know that prayers for healing, strength, and grace are with you.
***
About the author: Freelance writer Dana Wineland O’Rourke retired after wearing the many hats required for her position as a school secretary for 30 years. A lifelong resident of Monongahela, Dana has been married to Tim for 46 years. Their two sons and daughters-in-law made the family an even dozen with six grandchildren. She enjoys spending time with family, traveling, gab & grubs with friends, biking, and fitness classes at the YMCA.
