A Hard Road to Travel

This last month has been an interesting one...for the last few weeks it's been a mystery what should be written next. There are some personal experiences that have been on my mind a lot, and at some point need to be shared, but it's definitely from a more difficult time in my life. And, honestly, I believe that there are thousands and thousands of women/girls that have experienced a certain degree of this part of my story. Mine is not quite the extreme, but it was enough that if I hadn't been able to overcome it, it would have easily devastated my life.

Being around young women a lot, having become close or listened to conversations about how they view themselves has disappointed me. A little ways back I wrote a post on self worth. The quote that I personally came up with (and if someone else has heard it elsewhere then I suppose it's not originally mine) went something like this, "When self-worth is based on how the world sees us, we will never be enough. When self-worth is based on how God sees us, we will ALWAYS be enough."

Sadly, there are a very high percentage of teen girls, mid-twenties, and so on and so forth up the ages, that have never felt appreciative and accepting of who they are. The core of every person is so uniquely made yet I fear that we spend most of our time trying to change what makes us 'us'.

Let me begin with my story. This is a vulnerable place to be in, and so bear with me as I share very personal experiences, yet they are not mine to keep but to show any young girl/woman reading this how devastating and damaging it WILL be to continue down the path of self-hate.

For a long time I didn't think anything horrible about myself, in fact, it didn't begin until about late Junior High...maybe it's when hormones started or maybe it was that point that there became a distinction between the 'cool' or 'popular' kids versus the - well - 'not-so-cool' kids. I'm not sure where I fit in and though the friends I had were always wonderful and kind people, there was a sense of self-doubt that came along with the evil word I befriended for too long - Comparison.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the adversary seeks to destroy many women through the avenue of self-hate. Think about this...how we see ourselves drives our decisions in life. How we feel about ourselves is eventually how we will treat others. That right there can have such a profound impact on not only our personal life, but the lives of all those that we come in contact with - especially with our spouses and our children!

In High School I really didn't think I had a problem at all. In fact, the skipping of meals seemed to be the only way to achieve the look I wanted. Rail thin. Because from what the 'ever-so-smart-and-all-knowing' media and world taught and still teaches, was/is that a beautiful woman could not be curvy and soft. No, she must look like a stick.
In order for me to achieve this look and become attractive to all those handsome high school boys it would have to come at the sacrifice of food because let's face it - my genetic makeup is NOT anywhere near rail thin.

Most of the time the starvation was so overwhelming that mid afternoon I would finally break down and eat. Sometimes the day would go 'as a success' and I wouldn't eat until dinner, but by that point in time I felt ravenous and would binge. The disappointment that came from eating only fueled my hopes to succeed the next day and my obsession grew. Soon the upset of these daily failures were all that I could focus my attention towards. At this point my school work suffered because I didn't care about grades or studying. I became angry at my friends and family. Heavy depression set in. I resented my parents and treated them quite horribly.

Many times my dad would sit at the table and say quite sternly, "you are not allowed to leave til your plate is cleared."
I would take a few bites and fib that I was full when in fact the food tasted so amazing I wanted to eat everything on the table. He made me eat til it was all gone and I was so angry at him for it. He would explain how the body works when it came to starvation. Those that lived long, long ago were able to survive harsh winters when hunting was scarce by adapting. The body says, "hey, I'm going hold on to all this fuel because soon I'll be in the middle of winter and must prepare for the period of starvation."
These insightful words from my dad were a source of anger and resentment. My emotions were volatile during this period. Imagine a teenage girl with the expected ups and downs, then add to that a a constant inner voice of hate...it was absolutely brutal and quite frankly the darkest period in my life. It lasted for four years.
Many times I stood in front of the mirror and told myself how horrible of a person I was. How ugly and fat and that nobody liked me. Just writing that makes me shudder. I was living with my own worst enemy!
 I still remember the first time I tried bulimia, which came as another whirlwind of disappointment being that I have the inability to throw-up. Even during my pregnancies with how incredibly sick I became my body nearly refuses to throw-up. I am so grateful for this because had I been successful at my try with bulimia, I am quite certain that the eating disorder period of my life would have spiraled down a long and dangerous hole.
It's pretty crazy and upsetting to recall all those years that were wasted and fueled by false, negative beliefs.

For a long time I believed I was the only one experiencing this, but later in my senior year I found out that several girls in the school were struggling just as I was. And for some reason this shocked me. Why you may ask? Because in my eyes these girls were beautiful and what I wished I could be; to find out that they were in the same pit of self-hate was unbelievable.

It took me a while to help myself, and I received help from a therapist. I struggled with the thoughts of self-hate for many years, in to my twenties actually. What helped me to get out was a conscious effort to develop a healthy relationship with food along with learning what I could about the body and how it works. Knowing what I now know continues to be a strength whenever those thoughts come back (because they still haunt me and I believe they always will).
The difference at this point in my life is I am very strong and I have made a choice that those thoughts are no longer allowed to be part of my life. They do not bring joy, acceptance or love. They do not help me to become a better person. The only thing those thoughts add to my life are complete and utter darkness, therefore, I have trained myself to squash them immediately. They can not be entertained, not even in the slightest.

For those of you suffering from this debilitating-at-times trial, know that it is possible to make it through and recover. It is a hard road that must be traveled with determination and perseverance. Most importantly, it must be done with a renewed sense of self-love and acceptance. Get help if you must and do it now. With love,
Rochelle

Read Reshaping it All by Candace Cameron Bure   
for a new perspective on how to love your body and have a spiritual love for your body.

The Voice of Character

While working as a secretary/receptionist for a small yet wonderful engineering company (an enormous blessing at that time), I had taken off the entire month of March and most of April for heart surgery and slowly began to work my way back into things. Going back for a full eight-hour day seemed like cake...HA!

I remember my dad picking me up after two hours at the office. Never had my body fatigued so quickly before. At 19 it felt as if I had aged to that of an eighty-year-old. Every rib hurt, every muscle in my back ached. "This is going to take longer than I thought," I forced the words to my dad on the ride home. The vocal paralysis was still fresh at this point in time.

Up until the miraculous recovery in late June, it was still necessary to sip on any liquid and swallow tiny amounts of food slowly or it would go down the wind pipe and immediately come right back up.

This was a difficult time not only due to the recovery physically and emotionally, but the inability to easily communicate with my family and friends greatly discouraged me.

People say that you can choose to be offended. This is correct. However, there are things that people say that ARE offensive and ARE hurtful. So how is it that we choose to respond? Do we dwell on these comments and become more and more hurt/enraged?

I had become so horribly embarrassed at how I sounded that in public I refused to talk, and when I were to take a chance and voice something to those around me, strangers would stare. It became clear to me that the ability to deal with the stares was not quite my forte. Soon I learned that I truly cared too much what people thought. Here I was, having survived a 5th heart surgery and in recovery yet I felt weak at the strange looks shot my way due to the sound of my voice.

Something had to be learned here - and it was learning not to take offense.

I still remember sitting in church, feeling a great desire to voice a spiritual prompting that came to my mind. 'But they will stare.' I thought. Then felt peace come over me. It didn't matter what anyone thought. And I was in church, so it was a safe place.

Raising my hand, the woman leading the lesson called on me and I began to share what had filled my heart. Stopping me abruptly, the woman loudly said, "Please. Stop. You don't need to talk anymore."
I was confused, so I said, "I wasn't finished."
She shook her head, "Please don't talk anymore. You don't sound good."
Did that really just happen? I mean - really?

My face went flush and my heart raced faster. Embarrassment filled me and all I wanted to do was run out, but that would attract more attention so I sat there the rest of the class and kept my mouth closed and blinked back tears.

There were many experiences like this one, where people became quickly uncomfortable and would stop me and advise me to 'just stop talking,' or say immediately, 'you sound horrible.'

One very vivid memory is when I had gone back to work towards more full-time status. The owner of the company needed me to contact a local business and as it was the year 2005 the most reliable resource at that time was a phone book. The number was dialed, yet I somehow flipped the last two digits.

"Hello?" Came a woman's voice.
"Hi, I am looking for--" I can't remember what the call was about, but the woman on the other line began to chuckle slightly.
"Miss, this is an institution for the insane."
"Oh, I definitely have the wrong number." I said, flustered, voice barely audible and sounding like a croaking frog. Swallowing hard didn't do much to help as I had hoped it would.
She responded with some humor in her voice, yet very matter-of-fact, "You sure you're not looking for us? You definitely sound like you belong here."
I politely said goodbye, hung up the phone and felt large tears stream down my face. At this point it wasn't known yet if my voice would ever come back or have the ability to be 'normal'.
Later through frustration and tears I relayed the experience to my parents, their hearts breaking that someone might be so careless.

And that's the thing...a lot of times people are careless, heartless, offensive, all sorts of not-so-nice. Yet, we are placed in situations under, at times, less than desirable circumstances to have a chance to show our true character. How strong are we in the midst of belittlement? How is it that we respond to abrasive words and sarcastic remarks? It is important to remember that we must never become someones punching bag, we have a right to stand up for ourselves, but someone with true character is able to learn how to respond with firm conviction, always keeping in line with their beliefs and NEVER returning with belittlement and sarcasm to fight the offender.

At times I reflect on these moments of the past and think, "wow! I really failed that one!" Yet the important thing I am missing is that slowly and surely, these experiences have molded me and though they look as failures, they have become stepping stones to building a stronger character.

It's amazing how miraculous the healing of the vocal chord came - how it lasted for almost three years before medical intervention became necessary. The pain of the paralysis was debilitating at times, and to this day - though it has been corrected - I still find times when that pain returns and it hurts to speak - it feels forced - but no matter what I am ALWAYS grateful for the gift of speech.
Just as we all should be.

The Blue Bike

For two years Elijah has ridden a pink bike, bought at a yard sale. There are stickers on it and it has been through much use. And ever since he got his bike he has asked me, "Mommy, can we please get a blue bike." You see, blue is his most favorite color in the whole world. At dinner if the blue kiddie plate is clean I prepare his meal on it. If the blue plate is dirty, I will wash it just for my Elijah, because he lights up when he sees that he gets to eat off a blue plate. It's the little things in life, right?

One time at Wal-mart I passed the spray-paint aisle and instead of continuing forward, I stopped, got an attendant and had them unlock the cabinet. Deep, beautiful blue. I had plans to paint that bike.
Then time passed. And it seemed that this bike would never get painted and Elijah continued to happily ride his bike but still look up at me with his amazing, brown-puppy eyes and ask, "Mommy, when can we paint my bike blue? For my next birthday? For Christmas?"

Just a bit ago his birthday was approaching and I knew...he was going to get a bike. And it HAD to be blue. His pink bike was now too small so really, it was the perfect opportunity. As a single mom I planned and saved to purchase the bike, knowing it would cost about $70-$100 for a nice bike. While searching at the store it became apparent that the green or silver choice would not do. Not to mention, the store had only two bikes in the appropriate size! "Check online," suggested the associate with his blue vest and cheerful smile.

Then a voice whispered. Patience. Just wait.
Me...wait? Admittedly I can be a bit hasty and impatient but nevertheless, I followed that voice and began to search for the other items on my list. With a hand around my wrist I was stopped by a friend of mine, a sweetie I get to see often while at the gym. She asked what I had going on and with a sigh I recounted the frustrations of finding Elijah an 18" blue bike with coaster brakes. She tilted her head and smiled wide, "I have a bike...in fact I have wanted to get rid of it but can't find anyone that needs it. I was about to take it to donation. Want it?"

My heart swelled. "Send me a pic, I would love to take it if it's the right size." At this point I knew that blue would not be an option, but maybe he would like another fabulous color of the rainbow.

When the text came later that day I opened it and felt my heart swell. A blue, 18" bike with coaster brakes. Immediately I knew who to thank.

God is always mindful. He is SO GOOD. This little blue bike seems trivial, but it's the little things, and we have a God that KNOWS how important those little things are. Especially for this momma who desires to show her boys that they are beyond priceless. They are Princes. They are their momma's heart.

Patience without Words

While working at Wells Fargo in the spring of 2006, things in life were going more smoothly. It had been almost an entire year since the last heart surgery and the leg was doing much better since the repair surgery just a week after getting married (that's for another post).

The use of the vocal cord had come back and though it hurt quite often, it was a huge blessing to be able to speak again. Coming into the branch, a young man in his early twenties accompanied by his father approached my teller counter. He was there to make a transaction and the nervousness in his eyes shone in the lack of confidence of his stance. My heart immediately softened toward him.
A long line formed quickly, only a few of us open on the teller line.
The young man didn't speak, he looked to his father for help, and the man quickly took over. We completed the transaction and the line continued to move through.
It wasn't much later that the young man came to the branch again, a few weeks maybe. This time he waited in the long line for his turn. He ended up before me once again, this time alone. More people gathered to make deposits and withdrawals (most people aren't very happy when it comes to money, UNLESS it involves getting more of it!).
The young man scanned the counter and didn't see what he was looking for.
"You need to withdraw or deposit?" I asked.
He shook his head and took a moment to think. Then he used his fingers to mime holding a pen and writing. I thought it odd that he wasn't using his words. "Here you are." With a quick flick of the wrist he began to write what he needed help with. It's been so long and I can't remember what we discussed but I do recall that it took some time working with him. He wrote a few words, turned the paper to me, then I relayed the answer by talking.
He tried to say a few words and they were unintelligible, almost when someone that is deaf tries to speak. However, he was not deaf. He could hear just fine. He was a mute.
We were low on tellers due to lunch break, and most people waiting in line began to moan and groan. A passive-agressive way of saying, 'This is really annoying that this man is taking so much of my time'.
The look on the young man's face was slight embarrassment for the hassle everyone was making of his lengthy transaction, yet there was a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes as we continued to write back and forth. I made sure to smile big and reassure him through each step.
My tears were in the corners of my eyes, my heart aching for this young man. Here I was just almost a year ago unable to speak, worried that I may never have full use of my voice ever again, the frustrations of that situation embedded in my memory - and across from me this man would never be able to speak. I wanted to reach over the counter and hug him. I didn't, and maybe I should have. It's hard to say if it would have been a strange gesture or not for him.

What I also thought was that those standing in line could use a little empathy, compassion and patience. Is this life about hurrying through day-to-day, shoving aside another person that needs our love and understanding? Is it about moaning and groaning in the face of someone's challenge because it is inconveniencing us?
What is this life about? How many people on a day-to-day basis do we interact with and how do we treat and respond to them? Some people are rude ALL the time, some people are SELFISH and INCONSIDERATE. And that is unfortunate for them. Their entire life they will rarely ever FEEL the immense joy of what happens when a moment is taken with a stranger to help them feel safe, accepted and loved. To moan and groan at someone else's challenge because it inconveniences us is purely selfish.

There is more I will share on this subject in a future post because I was once in his position, unable to speak. I never imagined that people could be so horrible, inconsiderate and rude straight to my face for a hardship that I NEVER asked for. In a way it helped me grow a backbone and realize that I could either listen to what they had to say or I could discard it. Many times I had to make a choice: be offended or not be offended.

This young man who was so kind-hearted, touched my heart and uplifted me! He was a blessing to me that day. We interacted several times, he always waited for my teller window and he always greeted me with a smile. Many times I think back to those moments and wonder how he is doing and hope that he is being shown kindness.

Take a moment over the next few days and really pause and listen to the tone of voice and words that are used with those you love, are acquainted with, and even strangers.

One of my favorite talks Tongue of Angels by Jeffrey R. Holland

Recoverying the Heart

Once home from the hospital, 5th open heart surgery completed, the time came to heal. Due to the intense, long recovery ahead, I had not enrolled in college for the semester. It would take at least six weeks to begin to feel strength return.
At the time I lived at home, my two younger siblings still attending High School, and shared the 'tall' bed with my younger sister. It quickly became apparent that getting in and out of a high bed post chest surgery would not work. My mom transferred me to the lower bed.
For more than two weeks my mom would dress and undress me. Shower me. Poor my milk in my cereal. Help me to lie down in bed and to get out of bed. Basically, everything I did was with assistance.
I remember thinking that lifting a gallon of milk wasn't such a big deal and so with my 'Hulk-like' strength I wrapped my fingers around the handle and began to lift the jug to pour. The gallon felt like a 50pound anchor super-glued to the counter and I dropped the gallon, spilling milk everywhere. My grip strength wasn't even strong enough to hold on. My sternum stretched and seemed as if it were on the verge of ripping in half. I stayed away from proving my strength, or lack of, and tried to heed the doctors orders from there on out.
In the evenings and sometimes in the nice afternoon, my dad and I would take little walks up and down the sidewalk moving at a record slow, even for a snail, pace. "We went further that time, dad." I would say. He would nod, "you're doing really well, Shel," and then with exhaustion I would turn around and go back in the house where I would slowly lower myself into the chair.
The doctor put me on anti-depressants for after the surgery, and I thought such a thing was ridiculous. Until I realized the trauma. The heart is many things - literal and figurative. It is the VERY heart of the body physically, and it is figuratively the HEART of the body. It is the Soul. With the trauma of physically handling the heart, there comes a lot of emotional trauma.
The blues set-in with such heaviness at one point that I found myself staring for hours at the walls, wanting to go on no more. Life had no meaning. Here I was almost like a baby, unable to take care of myself. My mom would set up a lawn chair out on the patio before leaving for work (my dad was home during the day) and say, "When I get home I will ask you if you went outside and got sunshine. You better say 'yes'."
So...doing as mother told me, I would trudge outside and ever-so slowly lower myself into the chair and stare at the sky. I suppose it was better than staring at the walls. In all honesty, I did not handle recovery well emotionally.
There was one of the wires inside that began to poke from beneath the skin. The cardiologist advised that there are cases where a wire has come loose and poke through the skin. Around the wire, the skin became translucent and it frightened me to think that the wire could come through. Still to this day, if I lay on my belly on a floor, the wires closing the sternum are so close to the skin that I can feel them against the flooring. Putting a pillow between myself and the floor seems to help.
When the body began to rid itself of the extremely heavy doses of medication, my body went in to a withdrawal. The headaches came on gradually, until one day the throbbing was beyond any headache I had ever known. There are people that suffer from debilitating migraines, and I honestly do not understand how they cope. The pain of this headache debilitated me and then intensified so quickly that I began vomiting. With each heave, I held the bowl with one hand and placed the other firmly against my sternum. The seams of my freshly glued skin felt as if they were tearing.  I had a priesthood blessing for the headache and within minutes it was completely gone.
At night in my sleep, my sister later told me (post recovery) that most nights she would wake-up to me crying. She would look over and see that I was still asleep, yet I was crying and muttering, "It hurts. It hurts."
I don't remember the exact pain anymore, just the vivid thought over and over, "if I ever have to do this again, I think I would rather die." To say that the pain was the worst pain experienced by the human body would grossly exaggerated, however, it was enough to bring me to tears many of the days.
During this recovery my voice was also greatly damaged still. Most of the time my voice was a hoarse whisper, and when I tried to use it too much, it would go away completely. I tried to communicate by writing but got very impatient and ended up hurting myself worse by trying to force the speaking. I got in to a habit of taking tiny sips of water, holding it in my mouth, then preparing and swallowing. This was to avoid immediately vomiting the water back up as it would go down my wind pipe if I wasn't careful.
After about 4 weeks I started attending my parents church family congregation, then around 8 weeks started going back to the Young Singles Ward with my fiance.
I am not sure how people go through a procedure like this, or similar, without the support of family and without the support of the Lord. It was, up to that point in my life, one of the most difficult and painful experiences.
Now as I look back, I know that the physical pain of the body can never compare to the emotional pain of the body. One thing that amazes me is how much our Spirit can hurt, badly enough that at times feels as if our heart is breaking.
This pain of the spirit and emotional heartbreak would come later in my life, but not much.

Vocal Paralysis - Thyroplasty

 One thing I found when I started talking after heart surgery was that I had no voice- literally. I could barely make a sound, and when I did- it was not the prettiest. After speaking to the surgeon he advised that it may sometimes take the voice a little while to come back because of the breathing tube. Also, the laryngeal nerve wraps around the heart and when damaged it can cause vocal cord paralysis. The biggest cause though was figured to be the breathing tube, especially since coming out of anesthesia I was pulling so hard on the tube.

After about 2 and a half months of no voice response I went to see an ENT in Phoenix who advised me that my left vocal cord was paralyzed and was not moving, and probably wouldn't again. This was very upsetting to me and I remember that day still. My Aunt Jana took me to my appointment and after learning the news we went out for ice cream- doesn't ice cream just make everything so much better?!

After much prayer, priesthood blessings and fasting, my voice came back around the end of June. I was thrilled.

So flash forward to over a year later - November 2006. I ended up getting very sick for about 3 weeks, I had laryngitis, viral infection and strep throat. After I recovered from that my voice was gone again, not as severely as the first time, but is was very hoarse, and weak. For the next year I would have a very hard time carrying on long conversations. If I were to speak too much I would end up feeling like a had strep throat for about a week. Lots of throat lozenges and trying to get through each day. At the time I also worked at University of Phoenix where my job was on the phone as a financial advisor. So this was very difficult as most of the day meant 2-4 hours on the phone with students.
I started to go to an ENT around February 2007- a different one that lived closer to me- and he told me the problem was acid reflux and so for a month I was on medication for this, which didn't help anyway. The doctor increased the dosage of medication and after two months I decided to stop taking the medication and look for another route.

I found a Speech pathologist around August 2007 and after several months of therapy, there was still no change in the vocal cord and the pain.

Vocal cords are shaped like a 'V'. Each side of the vocal cord meets in the middle when you speak, swallow, etc. My left vocal cord was not even moving and so the right side was overcompensating and instead of going to the "middle" it was moving clear over to the left vocal cord. This caused much stress and pain when I would talk too much because the right vocal cord was basically doing the job of two. When I first had the paralysis in 2005 it was bad enough that when I would swallow water I would choke it back up because my vocal cords were not closing and it would go down my wind pipe. My ENT advised that since it has been about 3 years and the left vocal cord had not improved, it most likely would not. The best thing for me from all options, I decided, was thyroplasty.

Simply put- an implant is put by the left vocal cord to medialize it. My left vocal cord has been moved to a talking position. The ENT advised that unless I am a marathon runner I won't notice the less airflow I will have, well- I am not much of a runner so I was okay with that. Now my right vocal cord will be doing its intended job of meeting the left vocal cord in the middle. I was very nervous for surgery but with the priesthood blessing and fasting from family I knew I could get through this. I was put under anesthesia and once the surgeon had the larynx exposed they brought me out of anesthesia so I could be awake while they inserted the implant. The reason behind this? Well...in order to make sure they moved the left vocal cord over enough I had to talk while they inserted the different sizes of implant. This way they would make sure that it was moved over enough, but not too much as they would be able to tell when I spoke. After they inserted the correct implant they put me back asleep and stitched me up. I was in the hospital overnight and on vocal rest of 48 hours.
When I woke from the surgery, the nurse decided to wait until I could signify the level of pain. So when I was fully alert, the pain set in. It brought me to instant sobs, and my dad stood there and I tried to tell him how much pain I was in, yet I couldn't speak (literally couldn't due to the surgery recovery), and the sobbing was inflicting more pain. The nurse came in and gave me pain meds yet it seemed to only take away a sliver of the pain.

The surgery was performed in February 2008, almost three years after the paralysis. They were years with a lot of pain, and I have forgotten how much pain I was consistently in. There are residual effects of the paralysis, and my voice is not like it used to be prior, nor will it ever be. Also, there is a lot of pain that returns when I do speak too much. In all things, there is so much gratitude for the ability to speak, and there are times when I know I take the gift of having my voice back for granted. Those 3 years were difficult and painful. I will post another day on some experiences with the paralysis and being a mute, and directly relate it to using the gift of speech for saying kind things to others.

5th Heart Surgery III

Tonight as I reflect on the surgery, there are several things that have been embedded in my memory. When I first woke, it took several attempts to rid my eyes of the grogginess from an entire day of sleeping. The surgery was Wednesday and lasted seven hours, the majority of the surgery used to scrape away scar tissue from the previous repairs in younger years.

Put in place of the old valve that had been inserted at age four was a new porcine valve. All in all, the surgery went beautifully, even with the several hours of scar tissue removal.

When I awoke to family on Thursday, my upper body felt as though it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. I had never quite experienced that kind of pain. The medications numbed the pain enough to where it could be tolerated, but when there was a lapse it was all I could do to wait for the next dose.

When they took out the breathing tube, my throat had incredible pain and hoarseness. This didn't alarm the nurses when mom asked about my inability to speak.
"Sometimes that happens after a surgery. The throat is just sore from the tube."
It felt as though I was in the hospital forever, but only because it was so difficult to move even an inch. There was no strength to sit on my own or lie down in my bed. Baby steps down the halls were slow and with a nurse or family member to lean on. Fifteen feet and then we would turn around and head back to the room calling it a success.
A technician would come in for what I called my regular beating. They rolled me to my side, I gripped the railing of the hospital bed as best as I could, and the tech would beat my back (this is all I recall) to loosen anything in the lungs, to prevent pneumonia. Because breathing was incredibly difficult after open heart surgery, this treatment helped prevent the complication of pneumonia.

To help get breathing back, it was required to do daily breathing exercises with a treatment machine. I would blow air into the mouth nozzle and try to get the little lever inside to rise up. Lines at different heights marked the progress. I couldn't believe how difficult it was to breathe after the surgery.

There were tubes everywhere. In the side of my chest, in the middle of my chest. I was constantly hooked to an EKG, wore an oxygen mask, and pulse reader. Just getting up to go use the restroom or make the daily walk down the hall was a fifteen minute ordeal to untangle and unhook cords and rehook them to a moveable stand. The tubes in the center of my chest were inserted through teeny, tiny incisions. I still remember the feeling when the nurse said it was time to remove them. The sickly feeling of the chords moving through the chest, rubbing against the open incision, still gives me chills thinking back. Gratefully, the NG tube was removed prior to waking up (THAT is an insane feeling having a tube pulled out from the abdomen, through the esophagus and out the nose. *shudder*)

There were a few times that I had nightmares, dreaming of being a helpless body in a hospital bed, unable to move while being attacked. I would wake sweating profusely and in immense pain. Nights in the hospital were long and hard, and sleep never came easily, and just when I would finally drift off it came time for vitals. I just wanted to be home.

I had many visitors. Most of the time they were a welcome surprise, but there were times that I was so incredibly exhausted that I felt guilty wanting to sleep while they were there to keep me company. Even sleeping, it helped knowing someone I loved was watching over me.

After a few days, my voice was still not sounding well at all, in fact, it was now a concern with the nurses, though they still promised that it may just take a week or two to get back to normal.
Supposedly while under sedation post surgery, I began to thrash around, yanking at the breathing tube. The doctor advised that this rough jerking of the breathing tube was a good possibility for the cause of the difficult speaking. Only time would tell.

5th Open Heart Surgery Part II

Once the heart surgery was on the schedule, the months leading up were a blur. My parents and I met with the cardiac surgeon to review the surgery and the prep that would go in to it. Hearing the details of being placed on a heart and lung machine, the sternum cut open to reveal the heart, and the possibility of a lot of scar tissue to work through brought anxiety and stress, more than imagined.
Just that December upon hearing the news was the same time I got engaged to be married. We had hoped to marry in the spring, but due to the valve replacement, delayed the wedding until mid-July to allow time for proper recovery.
About a week or so prior to the surgery date, my dad and I went in to the hospital to do pre-op. Radiology techs took images of the heart, drew blood, took vitals and in the midst of all this I remember laying on the hospital bed and unable to hold back tears from the fear of the unknown. All the surgeries for my heart were so long ago that I couldn't remember what the recovery was like. On the bed I cried, the nurse walked in and saw how upset this nineteen-year-old girl was and brought back a teddy bear. They give those normally to children, and in that moment I felt like a child. My dad reached over to hold my hand and gave it a squeeze as I hugged Mr. Teddy. They nurse smiled and rubbed my shoulder, "You nervous?" I nodded in reply, for it was all I could muster.
"It will be wonderful. Dr. Teodori is the best. He is such a phenomenal surgeon. You're in great hands."
Yes, my heart would literally be IN his hands, and I knew that he was absolutely incredible. God blessed me with an amazing, capable surgeon.

The night before surgery my anxiety hit the ceiling, my nerves a fire with the possibilities of complications, painful recovery and hoping that I would wake up from the surgery. At that time my father and uncle gave me a priesthood blessing to calm and give me encouragement and hope that this surgery would have the necessary outcome for a healthy life post surgery. They blessed the surgeon that his hands would be capable and skilled. With this blessing, just like the many others, my fears left and a feeling of peace and love filled my body and soul. All would be well.

We awoke early to arrive to the hospital around five in the morning, fiance and parents in tow. We checked in, were admitted to the hospital and into a room. An I.V. was placed, oxygen tubes inserted into my nose and my heart rate began to climb from anxiety. The nurse came and gave me a relaxant medication and instantly I smiled, felt all the fear float away.

Then the time came for them to wheel me back. My parents and fiance walked back to the double doors, then were told they couldn't go any further. I waved goodbye and watched their faces disappear behind the doors. The hallway didn't seem too long, most likely due to the happy, carefree mood the medication put me in.

Soon I heard the beeping of machines as cords were hooked to monitors. I asked if they could put the arterial line in after I was asleep as I knew this would be quite painful. They obliged my request. In a matter of seconds a mask was put over my face, well wishes given from the nurses and then I began to count...10...9...8...7...

5th Heart Surgery

At nineteen years old, life could not have been any better. Having just started college as a dance major my goal was to enjoy the next semester dancing until the proper major became obvious. Still unable to come to a clear conclusion as to what I should decide to do 'for the rest of my life', dancing felt like a great option to stay busy doing something that I loved and greatly missed. As a clogger, on the flag team and dance team for High School, and touring Italy for three weeks folkdancing, dancing was the natural thing to do at the time.

I auditioned for select parts of the College dance recital and had been mainly selected for a duet and smaller group dances.

It was quite an honor being selected as being a modern, jazz and ballet dancer had never been part of my life until my sophomore year of High School. To say I was incredible would be highly exaggerated, but I did love it enough that I worked very hard to improve at any opportunity.

Days at this time were filled with eight hours of dancing and rehearsing. For quite some time, my right leg had been really bothering me, enough that walking from my car in the parking lot to the studio dance hall was excruciating. The pain traveled from hip clear down to the tips of my toes. Dancing through the pain for a little while only worked short term because there came with this difficulty breathing. Other dancers floated effortlessly across the floor, their winded breath lasted a short while, and they were able to work through the intense practicing. On the other hand, I had to sit out from a lot practice time to catch my breath and allow for my leg to recover.

During one of the recital duet rehearsals, my leg began to throb horribly. As the music progressed, the choreography for the lift approached. The pain of the leg and difficulty breathing was so intense that I ended up ramming my partner in the shoulder. He was hurt bad enough that he had to rest from rehearsals for two days and ice. At this time, one of the instructors let me know that dancing in her number would not work, and the duet number was also changed and given to an understudy. I had only two numbers left to perform in and I was heartbroken that all that hard work had to be given up because my leg and oxygen intake was handicapping me.

Finally, after long awaiting, my parents and I went in to the cardiology appointment scheduled to discuss the possibility of surgery in the right leg and receive a referral to a vascular surgeon for this procedure. Months prior, we had met with the cardiologist and discussed the leg, but had decided to allow time for the leg to create a new pathway for blood, as it had done so when I was just a toddler. We had hoped that dancing for hours a day would push the body to create new routes for the blood.

I remember the pain was so intense that after performing the recital group number I went to the back, lied down, and cried while squeezing my thigh with both hands. The pain of lack of oxygen and blood flow to a limb is extremely painful, and I was ready to have it repaired. This would be the second repair.

Sitting in the cardiologist office after having finished routine EKG and Echo tests, the doctor looked at my parents and I and held up a poster of the heart.
"Now, I know you are here for the leg. But let's take a moment to talk about the heart." He looked through his scholarly glasses with silver trim at us. We all must have looked a bit perplexed for several seconds because we had not come for my heart. All this pain for several months (about a year) was entirely for the leg. The heart was fine, and had been fine for years and years.

The cardiologist began to explain that the pulmonary valve was leaking and that it needed to be repaired within the next six months. Even though the leg seemed to need repaired, the heart had to come first as it was a top priority.
If the pulmonary valve was left in this condition, the blood pumping would leak into the right ventricle thus deteriorating the ventricles ability to squeeze and pump. Imagine it like a balloon that you fill with water and it begins to sag and stretch.

So, with the knowledge of this we left the cardiologist office and scheduled my fifth open heart surgery for March 2005.

Hospital stay

Due to the doctors concern with my heart condition and the increase risk of infection, they kept me for a week in the ICU, monitoring vitals closely. There were staples starting from the bottom of my open heart surgery scar and continued clear down the length of my abdomen, wrapped around my belly button and ended just after. The first time I sat up I made sure the staples didn't go flying out, leaving my torso wide open for all those organs to spill out. Yes, even at 13 years-old my imagination ran wild at times.
I do remember my bishop (ecclesiastical leader) and his counselors coming to visit and bringing with them a Blizzard. What a kind gesture.
Unfortunately, most of the time I was so horribly nauseated that I didn't want yummy things such as ice cream with giant candy bar chunks or the ginormous cookie basket wrapped with yellow ribbon. However, my siblings were definitely the recipients of all tasty things and enjoyed themselves quite thoroughly.
I specifically remember one night that I could not sleep. In all my time in the hospital it had to be the most difficult night. The nurse came somewhat promptly after the giant 'help me immediately' button was pushed. She listened intently as I cried about how sick and horrible I felt, that I just needed my mom. In minutes my mom flew through the hospital doors. Relief. After that the memories are quite foggy, but she calmed me instantly. Sometimes all you need is your mommy!

When the time came to leave, the time also came to remove those staples. From my belly. So all my organs could spill out. I. Was. FREAKING. Out!
Aunt Sandy was in there, with my mom, and they both were prepared to rip the metal from the skin with crazy-looking scissors (staple removing scissors as the nurse said in a very professional, calming voice). Only few staples were stubborn, but for the most part, those two ladies became experts in a matter of seconds. Left along each side of the scar were little dots were the ends came out. And my organs even stayed in!

Once home, I got settled into my parents room on the bed with a movie. And then within just a few hours things started to turn a bit sour. My mom ran a bath for me to soak my legs saying, "A nice warm bath fixes almost everything!" Well...it usually does. Unless you end up with Clostridium Difficile or as it will be lovingly referred to as A Horribly Foul Infection of the Intestines - C-diff.
Read here:
C. difficile infection can range from mild to life-threatening. Symptoms of mild cases include watery diarrhea, three or more times a day for several days, with abdominal pain or tenderness.

Now that we have gotten really comfortable with one another, let's just say that I got C-diff really, really bad. As in life-threatening. Things progressively worsened over the next few hours, which meant that my mom forced me back to the hospital to find out what was going on.

Once diagnosed the doctor admitted me promptly back to another room, in the ICU, where the stay lasted another week.
Much to my disappointment.
If you have ever stayed in the hospital, the nifty shape-shifting beds, funny bed-pans, and interesting food is only exciting for about three hours tops, and then home seems like a distant memory, so far away, yet only two miles down the road. A place where people giggle and join hands singing about that twinkling little star up so high in the sky. Where families eat all of your goodies because you can't, and enjoy a peaceful night rest in complete darkness and silence.
Home.
I want to go to there.

The second stay was much harder than the first, only because at that point I missed my family more than I imagined possible. I missed their noises, their comings and goings, and especially the feeling of being in that place of comfort.

The time finally came to return back to my home, finally having recovered from C-Diff (A Horribly Foul Infection of the Intestines). I was about fifteen pounds lighter but all-in-all so incredibly blessed and grateful to be living and breathing. To have experienced a miracle of God that spared every life in that accident. Where ten out of eleven people were ejected and several received scrapes and bruises and no one died has absolutely nothing to do with luck, because there is NO such thing as luck. There are only blessings of God and miracles of God. And this accident was both. A divine blessing. And a miracle. And I feel fortunate and grateful to this day that I was given the opportunity to experience something so powerful and life-changing, as scary as it was at the time, looking back these eyes see just how prominent God's hand is in each and every one of our lives.

Some interesting facts:

Here is a list of the injuries of those involved in the accident:
crushed foot
broken collar bone
2 broken legs
2 broken backs
broken elbow
compression fracture of the back
massive cuts from glass and bruises
lost tooth (never found)
cracked pelvic bone
hairline fracture in neck
coma(head injury) with no feeling or movement in legs (this returned after accident)
lots of bruises and scratches
ruptured spleen

Three were thrown out the windshield. Seven thrown out the back window.

Farmer recently removed barbed wire fence and plowed up the fence line.

Per the woman watching in the oncoming car, 2 bodies were thrown in front of the rolling suburban. One of the boys watched as it came rolling towards them. It came to its side and immediately stopped before crushing both of the boys.

Yellow Submarine: The Hospital Arrival

It is interesting what the mind chooses to remember and what it wills itself to forget.

At one moment the hard dirt clods dug into my back and in the next there were two people, male I think, hooking me up to an I.V., I don't even remember the sting of the needle. They asked questions about how to contact parents and without hesitation the numbers of my home flew out of my mouth. Then my grandmother's number. Then some of my friends. I wanted to make sure they had plenty of people to contact.

The most memorable part of the trip was the EMT's refusing me to close my heavy eyes - because it's really all that I wanted.
"Please. Just for a little bit. I'm so tired."
One placed his hand on my arm, "We can't let you fall asleep."
I closed my eyes, "Just a little bit."

Exhaustion wrapped around my body creating a sense of great frustration as these men, horrible they were, to not allow me to just sleep for the tiniest, smallest sliver of time. The entire trip to the hospital was a battle between the EMT's and I: to sleep or not to sleep?! They won. Only because they stalked my attentiveness like vultures, immediately tapping, rubbing, or lightly shaking me awake.

The others in the ambulance were answering the questions of the EMT's with great ease, their voices much brighter and alive.

When we arrived at the hospital the ambulance doors flew open, several staff waiting on the tips of their toes to assist in any way possible. This is what they had been trained for and they wasted no time transporting the victims of the crash through the hospital doors. It was loud, obnoxiously so, and all that noise hurt my head. Beeping of machines, chattering of staff back and forth from one doctor to the next, feet pounding the floor dashing across the hallways to the next room, the cling-clang of medical instruments. It was most irritating and my normal level of irritability shot up about one-thousand points.

They had several staff by my side and then with the count of three lifted me from the ambulance bed to the stiff board that would become my place of misery for the next several hours. Or so it seemed. For the most part, optimism had come to me quite naturally, always finding the humor in each situation, however, the state of my failing body made me nearly mad.

In walked my parents, though I heard their voices before I saw their faces.
"When will they help me?" I nearly begged.
"Soon, honey." If memory serves well, my mom said something close to this.
All that went through my mind was the pain, immense and intensifying with every second that passed. The base of my skull pounded fiercely, twigs sticking in the mess of hair felt as though they shifted until finding the best position to dig into the cranial flesh. I felt my body tensing and begin to writhe. Much like a toddler might squirm on the floor in the middle of the supermarket after being told they can't have any candy, I reacted the same. Body tensed up and then I began to buck on the table, kicking my legs. "Someone help me." I remember screaming, kicking, flailing around as my parents tried to soothe me with words. "No one is helping me. Why aren't they helping me?" I would say it's safe to bet that I had foam seeping from the corner of my mouth at this point.
Then and there I was given another priesthood blessing, by my dad, and then everything calmed inside me.

Some time later they took me back to imaging, still on that blasted board. They put barium in a cup, asked me to drink as much as possible. The chalky substance slid down my throat hitting the stomach like a sack of rocks. The nausea was coming in the middle of the scan. "I feel really sick."
"Just a little longer. We're almost done."
"I can't." The tears welled up. "I'm going to throw-up."
"Okay. Hold on. Just hold on."
The vomit made it partially into the trash can, the rest hit the floor near or on the nurses feet. With a frown I apologized to the girl, "I'm sorry I threw up on you."
"Don't worry."

Immediately post scan they wheeled me back to the ER. The spleen had ruptured on impact. More than half my blood had emptied into the abdominal cavity. On the way from the crash site I had already begun to fail. My body was in bad shape.
It was a scary outcome at this point.

Yellow Submarine III

It has been 16 years since I have listened to Yellow Submarine.

If there is no seat belt, I refuse to ride in a car, even if the destination is less than a mile away.

The night before flying to Italy for a 3 week folk dance tour, I almost backed out due to anxiety of flying.

For several years post accident, before a road trip I would write a journal entry about all the things I loved, regretted and wanted to say to my family (like a 'last testament' just in case I died in a car crash)

The idea of a cruise sounds amazing, but fear of 'Titanic crashing' in the ocean only to become shark bait or ending up in a 'perfect storm' is enough to deter me from ever going.

These all make me sound a bit coo-coo-bats, if you will, however, they are  real fears or anxiety factors. Not sure if they would have been there regardless of being involved in the accident but they are, and they have to be worked through.

Upon waking from the dream-like state, the sky above filled with clouds; sunset approaching not too far off which meant there would be little light for the scene of the accident.  There were people that must have stopped immediately when the accident happened and then quickly exited their vehicles to check the status of the survivors (if there were any - no one knew at that point) and call for ambulances. Only 4 ambulances were in the county, and each one responded.

The beginning of March in Idaho meant that the ground still had the frozen effects from the long, hard winter, it wasn't uncommon for blizzards to come in April. For stretches of miles, most of the terrain had deep barrow pits, fence lines made of barbed wire, clustering of trees and all other uninviting obstacles for a suburban to collide with. The beautiful miracle of the wreck's location was the freshly plowed potato field, and the very recent removal of a long, deep rooted barbed wire fence across the shallow barrow pit. If there was ever an ideal moment for a suburban to flip and eject 10 out of 11 people, this was it.

Nine out of eleven of us were cast members, most with important main-character roles. The second vehicle passed was about four miles out from Oakley. Someone hollered about an oncoming car a bit of a distance off. The wheel was taken by two people, the vehicle over-correcting and the tail-end shifting around so the suburban traveled sideways down the highway towards the left shoulder of the road.  There was no stopping the vehicle as it began to roll, flipping towards the barrow pit.

Those looking on, in cars of their own, couldn't believe the amount of bodies that flew out the front and back windows with each toss and turn. Hillary and I, having been sitting right next to each other, landed several yards away from one another. Though the accident site should have been complete chaos and panic, the scene circling the field was encompassed by serene peace, a heavenly glow among all the victims scattered.

Dirt.
Sky.
Cold.
Aching body.
Wet. Blood.
Screaming.

Eyes shifted up and head tilted back, I tried to see as much as possible without moving around too much. The vehicle was so far away. My abdomen hurt badly. And back. The pain was overwhelming yet at times dulled by the pumping of adrenaline.
Next to me someone moaned, their voice heavy and wounded as greatly as their body. One of the guys stood up, cursed, and tumbled to the ground. "My leg is broken."
Another friend of mine was frantically sifting the dirt, begging the rest of us to help her find her lost front tooth that had been knocked out. "I'm a toothless whore!" She squealed while her fingers combed the earth.

In my mind the words kept coming, thoughts of my own, 'I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Please don't die. I don't want to die. Am I okay? I'm alive. I'm going to die.' Then they came out of my mouth in sobbed whispers, "Don't die. Don't die. I'm not ready to die. Please, God. Don't let me die. Oh, God, don't let me die!"

Something incredible came over me. A blanket of warmth that soothed the pain and aches. It washed away those worries with simple words that were not my own, 'You will live. You will be okay.'

They were strong, confident, unwavering declarations of an angel in the midst of frail human bodies. Other spiritual instances happened following this, however, they are for my heart to keep close and sacred, not to be shared out in the open.

I stood up, wobbled a bit, then slowly walked a few steps with a hand on my belly screaming for Hillary. Someone came to me, told me to go lie back down and wait for help, but I was frantic and refused to stop searching. "My friend was right by me. I don't know where she is. Is she okay?"
"What does she look like?"
I described her in detail, begged they find her, praying in great faith that she lived. I didn't know if anyone beyond those right next to me were alive at this point in time. The person, I think a man, insisted he lead me back to the area from where I landed. So gently he helped me to the ground while someone put a pillow beneath my head and draped a blanket over my body as it began to shake violently from not the cold, but the sudden onset of shock. The blood from a gash on my forehead seeped into the pillow.

Hands were lain on top of my head, and the first of many priesthood blessings were offered.
With all my might, I fought to stay awake, fearful of slipping into a never-ending sleep.

Yellow Submarine Part II

I still remember tryouts. Singing Castle on a Cloud accompanied by so many nerves that the only thing holding completely still was the stage beneath my feet. Up in the stands sat that cute 8th grade school crush of mine, his wide-rimmed circular glasses often slid down the bridge of his nose. You notice silly things like that. And that laugh of his. Yeah, that was quite adorable too.

Crush or no crush, there were many fun times spent riding to play practice, carpooling out with my best friend who was an understudy for one of those Fiddle sisters. This happened to be the very first play I had ever been in and already I was hooked to theater. Musicals, mainly.

Finally, after several weeks of practicing, family night arrived. We were to have a final run through, and all eleven of us that hopped into the suburban felt a surge of excitement to show off our crazy theatrical skills that evening. Hillary and I ran in to the small convenience store while the other cast mates arrived at the carpool meeting grounds. The delicious Little Debbie snack caught my eyes and I set it atop the counter, paid the cashier and ran out to the car. There had been a lot of people arrive during the time of the little errand, so where I once sat - on the back bench - another body had filled the vacancy. Hillary and I climbed in the luggage area of the navy suburban and got settled across from one another. It was a chilly night, the gray hooded jacket locking in a small amount of warmth next to my body. 

We all chatted in our own conversations for a few miles, then those famous mop-top (as EVERYONE knows them) boys came through the speakers loud and clear. It was too irresistible not to warm up our voices, everyone singing without any care for the small enclosed space. I munched on my Little Debbie snack, adding my vocal skills when it seemed fitting. The air was chilly outside, just by looking out the windows it made me shiver. What I didn't understand though, was why everything moved so slowly.

What I can liken this to is that scene from The Vow as the truck barrels out of nowhere and then...WHAM! As Rachel McAdams character jerks forward the slow motion takes over and we see a horrific snapshot of this accident.

I would say that I experienced much the same feeling - that out of body observation.
First, my eyes widening as they peered out the windshield, my body lifting off the back floor.
Then the tiny flicker of an instant as the wheel shifted the car with a harsh jerk, sending my body crashing, more like crushing, into the side window. That third pause of time came much like the others, except in this moment my eyes blinked a few times, almost as if they could transform the horrible scene into a silly creation of the imagination. No such luck. It was in fact real. The blow of my head hitting the window sent the world into a blackened dream.

As eyes fluttered open with no knowledge or concept of time, the cloudy sky stared back. And then the screaming began.

Yellow Submarine

This next little bit is a pretty incredible, miraculous event, one that many who were involved will remember for years if not the rest of their life as I will for the rest of mine.

It is 'what comes next' and it can not be summed up in just one post, which means it will be a two or three part. Throughout the time that has come and gone, there are several different experiences from this event that have touched me spiritually and emotionally. There are physical scars that have been added to the other scars across my body that highlight my beloved war-wounds of life.

There are a lot of things running through my mind these last several weeks, and days, and when it comes to what I really want to write, well - most of those thoughts are not appropriate for the eyes of fellow BLOG readers, or really for anyone. A lot of what has been going on in my mind, what I really want to write about must be done so with great care and consideration, with maturity, respect and a perspective that leads to light instead of darkness. But those topics I think of often are for another day, not today or tomorrow or a week from now. They will come to me, and the words will be fitting for the message that must be shared, and they will be thoughtfully prayed over as to who may need to read the experiences that have been dealt to my hands and similarly to theirs.

For now, we will continue forward in the memoir with the terrible-awful, yet absolutely amazing Suburban rollover accident most people (who grew up in that small town of Burley) know as The Fiddler Accident.

This name didn't come from a famous fiddler, it came from the play Fiddler on the Roof and it happened faster than anyone could blink an eye.

And so begins the recounting:

There were eleven of us stuffed into the suburban, all singing about that infamous Yellow Submarine in our best theatrical voices. Outside, snow fell so sparsely that my eyes strained to get a glimpse of the flakes; I shivered at the sight of rolling clouds.
Encased in plastic, a Little Debbie's perfection sat in my lap, begging to be devoured. I opened the oatmeal pie and listened to the merriment of the twenty-mile drive.
Sitting to the left, my best-friend clapped to the beat, blue eyes dancing. Spunky girl that Hillary, possessing enough charisma in the corners of her smile to befriend Mr. Hyde. My fingers brought another bite to my lips. cream touching my tongue in the same instant the vehicle jacked left, throwing my body right. My hips, shoulders, and head greeted the window.

Memories that Stick

This next post is one that has been running around wild in my mind, trying to find a way out through the maze and roadblocks of embarrassment, shame, pride and fear. Embarrassment and shame because it is a very sensitive subject. Pride because it is something that will put me in an extremely vulnerable place. And fear because I do care how people view me (to a certain extent). I'm in no way the person I used to be, these experiences throughout the years have reshaped weaknesses into a burning strength. They are events that were incredibly traumatic as a young girl/teenager and brought with them a downward spiral of severe depression during the mid to latter teenage years.

These are shared only because I KNOW without a doubt that there are others out there who have had similar experiences and seek to find a sense of worth and knowledge that they're indeed NEVER alone. How many billions of people are in this world - past, present and future - and so many have been through much the same parts of life? With this comes increased empathy, broadened knowledge, and a shoulder for someone to cry on. We are all, in fact, going through life together.

In the young mind as a 9,10,11 year old, everything happening was stored away, locked up tight. At times the frustrations were vocalized to my mom and dad, and their love and compassion surely helped get me through, but unfortunately, much of the time I vowed to travel this desert alone, without a master guide. To wander the wilderness alone, to refuse water, shelter and help from a guide is dangerous, even deadly.

If the time could be pinpointed when my mind shifted from that carefree child to a traumatized young girl, I would like to go back and see with these experienced adult eyes, to transfer this knowledge and understanding to that little girl. But that cannot be. The past is the past, and all the can be done is to move forward.

My mom would pick me up from school, and together we would drive to Boise (in the early years) or Twin Falls (in the later years) for the yearly check-ups for my heart. My cardiologist, an AMAZING, TALENTED man, was the kindest soul. He was a pediatric cardiologist, and a phenomenal one at that. One of the best if I do say so myself!

The perspective of a young girl in the midst of recognizing her body changing and going through the beginning stages of adolescence has a difficult time seeing the true intentions of great doctors. I still remember the thoughts and the feelings I experienced in these times. I felt myself shut down on the road to the check-ups, in my mind the thoughts were so bombarding and overwhelming everything inside wanted to explode.

The nurses that prepared me for exams were mostly male and to me they were perverts. In my mind, every single one was there to take advantage of me.
One time specifically comes to mind, I have NEVER been able to forget it.
I lay on the exam table, being prepped for a heart catheter. I was a bit older, I remember this because the nurses came over and moved the gown in preparation to shave my upper leg/groin so that the heart catheter could be placed. (I was still having heart catheters in the right damaged leg, but through the bypass). I found a place to stare at in the lights, my back hurting from the hard board, cringing at the touch of their hands, recoiling that they were looking at MY body, my SACRED body that wasn't supposed to be exposed to just anybody.
I wanted to die right there. The tears welled up, pooling in my eyes. I can still hear his voice as he spoke to the other nurse, "Hold this here. Hand me the razor." Folding my body in half, I tried to sit up to see what was going on, and how much of my lower half was exposed. They kindly pushed my shoulders down. "Sweetie. You need to lie flat." A simple procedure prep by trained professionals who were kind was not seen as such by these young eyes. Instead, they were molesting me, and I could do nothing but lie there and let them.
Older and now wiser, I can look back and recognize the error of my thoughts and perception. But at the time, no amount of explanation from anybody, not even my parents, would ever suffice. I was being taken advantage of, it happened every check-up, and I began to LOATHE male doctors/nurses.
I would sulk in the car on the way, crying to my mom, "They're all perverts. They only become doctors to molest young girls. They don't care about me. They just want to take advantage of me."

After this specific heart catheter (I was there to have a balloon procedure into the valve as it has narrowed and needed intervention.) my cardiologist came out and informed my mom that a miracle happened. The valve that had been blocked was wide open. Everyone in that room was shocked by the outcome. There was no balloon procedure done, what a blessing. When my mom told me the news it validated my feelings that all these people wanted to do was take advantage of girls like me. "See, nothing was even wrong! I hate them all!"
These were extremely trying years for my mom and dad.
The incredible doctors, nurses, and healthcare professionals throughout the course of my life saved me on many occasions, however, I was so absorbed in the trauma that I could not see the many miracles of God. Not until now.
I still have glimpses of these moments. Lying still as possible for an ECHO, having been mid-development, and the male tech reaching into the gown to move the wand across my chest. I remember the many tears that trickled down my face during those procedures. It felt as if ants were crawling all over my body, the touch of the gloved hands almost too much to bear.
And yet there are wonderful moments that pop up. One of a nurse carrying me into what had to have been the O.R. (I had to have been less than 5 years old) and asking if I wanted cherry or bubblegum sleepy medicine. He was so kind.

Anyone that has experienced these moments knows the trauma, the embarrassment and shame that comes with them. Thankfully, there comes a time that we can recognize these moments for what they actually were, see the miracle of modern medicine, and find gratitude for the love and kindness of amazing people who have a gift for healing. Unfortunately, these hard things come with the territory of a CHD - and many other health trials that others experience - but all things have opposition, and with the difficult parts there are ALWAYS many great things to learn.
Thankfully God gave me the BEST parents, and thankfully they NEVER gave up on me.

Femoral Repair at 7

At a young age, I had earned a rather humorous, yet appropriate nickname by those who loved and cherished me most. Yes, my rambunctious and mischievous personality often forced those in my presence to yell with hands in the air, "RoHELL!!"
It could be said that from no fault of my own, rather just a pure, innocent-like fascination with seeing those wide-eyed adults curse my name, I found little things to keep them on the tips of their toes.
For instance, that one time at the age of a toddler when for some odd reason I decided to grab the salt canister and dump it down the little neighbor boys pants. Anyone can imagine the horror of that little boys mother when he squealed all the way home.

Or when Jacob (the child who swallowed 32 aspirins), waited ALL DAY long for daddy to finish a college paper so they could leave on a father-son camping trip. So they could spend hours frolicking through the woods, picking berries and gorging themselves on tiny little squirrels roasted over a fire.
 I will elaborate:
My dad had to write a super-duper long essay paper for an upper level history class that was due by the end of that evening.  Being that his quick little pointer fingers were unable to match the speed of my mother's experienced secretarial typing skills, he would jot down on paper what he wanted typed, and with Olympic sprinting agility, Jacob and Makenna would baton hand-off the notes to my mom.
All was right in the world. That is...until RoHell showed up. The paper was about 2/3 of the way finished and mom had to take a bit of a break, so she left the room. Ironically, the computer had a virus and anything that was saved would turn to Klingon (okay, okay - more like jibberish)  - therefore it was necessary to print a document immediately after finishing.
With a large smile, so proud and helpful, I popped out of the room and said, "I turn it off!" In hopes to save the electricity, I had unplugged the computer. As any toddler might do.
Let's say that my helpful deed did not receive any grand applause.

Then there was the poor, new teacher for my class at church that just didn't know what to do with me, even with a class of all boys and one girl (me), I was the trouble-maker. She made a call to my parents who went over to her home to discuss my Sunday antics and hopefully put an end to my classroom disruptions. 


As years post TOF Open heart surgery passed by, each yearly check-up the cardiologist made sure to evaluate the growth of the right leg as well as the pulse. There came a time, at 7 years of age, that walking became difficult and painful. Then the leg aches started.

During spring break  my dad and mom took me to Boise, leaving the older and younger siblings to be looked after by family. They had friends at church who had family in Boise, and that was where my parents took up lodging during the femoral artery repair.
The damaged artery was almost 4 inches long, and it would need to be bypassed by a shunt to redirect proper blood flow throughout the entire leg. A week was spent in the hospital with strict instructions to not bend the leg and lie flat while the repair healed.
This surgery concluded the 5th major surgery in the seventh year of my life...and there were more to come.

Once the recovery was complete, I was back to my mischievous self, ready to wreak havoc on the world.

Empty Pods...Just for Me!!

While information is being gathered for the continuation of this memoir, it's important to relay another hilarious story from the past, one that will almost live up to the awesomeness of the sunflower seeds.
Now, often I wonder if there is some universal law that sets me up to make the same errors. Let me begin...
My dearest friend all the way back from 7th grade wanted to have a little Halloween get-together some years back. We were to go over and enjoy some delicious cornbread (my FAVORITEST thing in the world - right next to brownies, Reeses blizzards, pistachio gelato and a hot fudge sundae), soup and games.
We all sat around the table post-delicious dinner, our bellies full and happy. However, there's always room to snack on edamame's, otherwise known as soy beans. I had never before eaten these, nor did I really even know what they were at that point in time. (I'm from Idaho where every meal is potatoes. Breakfast - hashbrowns. Lunch - fries. Dinner - baked potato. Catch my drift?)
So these silly looking bean pods were almost foreign to me. In fact, if memory serves me well, I even had a hard time saying the word edamame, and thus resorted to soy bean.
The game of Killer Bunnies was our game choice for the evening. And if you know this game you may have a little chuckle at the thought of those hilarious yet cray-cray bunnies being smashed by a large bus.
There were several bowls on the table and I was so focused reading my game cards the thought had never occurred to try these new delicacies until others had well begun to devour.
"So...how do you eat these?"
My friend answered while looking at her own cards, "Just suck on them."
"Really? That's it?"
So what did I do? Next to me a bowl had several pods in them, and so I began to take pod after pod and suck on them, then discard into the empty bowl next to me. After I emptied the bowl of the pods next to me, having transferred them sucked clean to the discard bowl, I reached to the middle of the table to retrieve more.
I looked to my friend, "So...I thought these were suppose to have beans in them? Do you really just suck on the pods?"
Oh the hilarity of it all. I will tell you this. Normally, I would figure these things out well before I had sucked clean about thirty of these little beasts. However, no such luck. Just as the sunflower seeds from my previous post. This story ends much the same.
My dear friends bursts into the biggest fit of giggles. More like snortles. She was on the verge of tipping off the high chair, and falling to the floor in fetal position. Before she lost control, she said, "Have you been taking from this bowl?"
"Yes...yes I have."
"Roch!" In this point of the conversation everyone is all laughter, and I am still a wide-eyed doe in the headlights, wondering what on earth is going on. (sometimes it takes me a bit to catch up, it happens to the best, most intelligent minds, I assure you!)
"Aren't these mine to eat?"

"No! That's my discard bowl. I've been sucking out the beans and putting them in there!"
Well, then...
I compose myself, "That's gross." My voice is flat, but inside I'm heaving. The bowl in the middle has plump pods, obviously great with seed. "So these are the ones I eat?"
 "Yes, Roch. Those are the ones to eat."

Yet another hilarious 'jokes on me'. I believe I laughed it off. And...not to mention I survived yet another mix-up. Silly me.

Open Heart Surgery

Post three operations, recovery went well, my body grew stronger and healthier with each passing month. A seven inch scar starts from under the arm-pit and wraps around the right chest as a reminder of this event. (It's actually pretty cool. There are several inch-long scars crossing over the longer scar resembling what Frankenstein might have.)
When it came time for check-ups at the cardiology clinic, my mom would hold me in the waiting room and watch all the other mothers with babies that were frail, tiny, and struggling to survive their condition.

4 years old

My parents moved to Provo, Utah when I had turned 2 and at the time went to see a new doctor, finding that they were unable to get a heart catheter through the femoral artery in my right leg. The heart catheters performed during the surgeries and procedures in my young months had completely damaged the artery. They advised my parents to watch that leg, to make sure it grew properly, as well as didn't discolor from loss of blood flow. Fortunately, the smaller veins branched out around the artery. Like when a canal becomes blocked - the water finds another way to get around. This is the same with blood...it will find a way through the blockage if possible.

During the 3 year check-up, it was determined that there needed to be a final repair. And it needed to wait until 4 years of age so that an adult aorta could be used for the repair of the valve, therefore preventing the need for any future surgeries.
Overriding aorta − the aortic valve is enlarged and appears to arise from both the left and right ventricles instead of the left ventricle as in normal hearts

waiting to be taken back for surgery prep

Soon after my fourth birthday, we arrived at Primary Children's Hospital July 4th where the final repair of Tetralogy of Fallot was to take place. From the hospital room, admitted and anxiously waiting, we sat together and watched fireworks from the window. The morning of July 5th brought the worry of what would lie ahead this go around, and if there would be the same traumatic experience similar to the multiple repairs at 10 months.

While in surgery, the cardiology surgeon found that the narrowed pulmonary valve was actually underneath the aorta, not above as it should be, which meant that they could not just replace the narrowed part of the valve, but had to instead bypass the repair by going over the top of the aorta (think of it like a bridge.). This proved extremely successful, the surgery outcome having no complications and after only a week in the hospital, the doctor released us to go home.


Only 5 weeks post surgery, I went out back while at my grandma's house to play on the old swingset (y'know, those ones that had the really thick metal crossbar?) and climbed to the top. With monkey-like dexterity and agility that only Spiderman knows, I gripped that crossbar and giggled with child-like abandon. Then I fell.
5 weeks post open-heart surgery I broke my arm.
Children are resilient.

At this point in time, my health had improved so exponentially that the surgeon happily told my parents that there were to be no life-long limitations or restrictions. I was to enjoy all facets of life as any normal, non-CHD person should.
This doctor was an excellent, knowledgeable man, however, he was strictly a pediatric cardiologist, therefore, his experience with adult patients was  non-existent. For quite some time, I went on as any normal, heart-healthy person, however, there would eventually come a day that I would learn the truth about Tetralogy of Fallot, and the complications that arise. You see, TOF was not meant to be survived, and now that modern science proved to prolong the life and the heart, there was a catch. There always is.

Speeding for Help

Panic took over. My dad grabbed Jacob and rushed to the yellow station wagon, strapped him in the front seat of the car then did his best to remain calm. At home, my mom sobbed hysterically while she rocked me in the chair, wondering what the outcome would be that night.

Speeding to 85, the station wagon swerved on the freeway, passing every car that came in its way, Jacob lolled from side-to-side, nearly losing consciousness at times. Flashers on, driving with wild abandon, my dad prayed that a police would pull him over, see the direness of the situation and direct him to a hospital. My dad had no idea where a close hospital was, the nearest one where I had had my cardiac surgeries was more than a half-hour away. And there was no time.

Finally, a woman pulled up next to my dad, signaled that he roll down his window. He thought maybe he could yell loud enough to ask if she knew where a hospital was. She shouted from her rolled down window, "Your flashers are on!"

My dad, frustrated, sped off in hopes that he would somehow find signs for a hospital.

Miraculously, he made it to a nearby hospital, only due to Divine Intervention.

By this point Jacob was flopping around. My dad pulled up to the emergency entrance, grabbed his son, and raced through the doors yelling for help. Immediately taken back, the nurses rammed tubes down the toddler's throat, pumping his stomach full of charcoal to stop the aspirin from absorbing. Following that procedure, they pumped him with Ipecac to induce vomiting. After he began to throw-up the contents in his stomach, the nurses then pumped out anything that was left.

They admitted him overnight as to continuously check vitals and make sure that he was stable and free of any lingering effects from the ordeal.

Released at six the next morning, my dad drove home with Jacob doing well.

My mom later said that if she had not seen the pill bottle, she would have placed Jacob in his room for his nap and he never would have woken up. A sickening thought for any mother, even to this day.

Later that week, a lockbox with a bow was left by the front door, and my mom and dad made sure that all medicine bottles were locked away, out of the reach of children.

A Will to Survive

In Georgia, in the year 1986 in the merry, merry month of May...um, let's start over, shall we?

At only 9 months old the fight of my life would soon begin; the doctor had admitted me immediately to the hospital for surgical repair of VSD (hole in my heart). The 'Tet' spells were a sign that the time had come to receive the first of many heart repairs.

In this particular moment, my mom was nursing me in the hospital room when a group of nurses suddenly rushed in, ripped me out of her arms, tied my wrists to a board and set me on a hospital bed to wait out the evening...and then the long night. Surgery had been scheduled for the next morning, and when morning came, the operation time had been bumped. And bumped. And bumped again. By the time they finally took me back, it was well after three in the afternoon, and I had gone hours without eating, and hours with my arms strapped to that board.

A shunt was placed in the heart to allow proper blood flow. After completion of surgery, the complications started. First, the skin turned blue. The shunt placed was much too small, and my body was not getting enough blood.
Late that night I went back in to surgery to replace the smaller shunt with a larger. My parents were told it was much too late to visit me and to head home, rest and come back in the morning to check on my status.
Around two in the morning the Cardiologist called. He spoke to my parents, informing them that the second shunt ended up being too large which allowed too much blood flow through the body. My lungs were drowning in blood.

Rushing to the hospital, my parents could do nothing but wait out the third surgery. The Cardiologist walked briskly out of the surgical room, looked at my parents for only a split second and continued walking. He had no intention of stopping to report the status of my condition with my parents. They feared the worst had happened.

The final shunt placed in to the heart was in fact the larger shunt they had used previously, but because there were only two sizes available the cardiologist ended up stitching the larger shunt to make it 'just right'.

Finally after grueling hours waiting, my parents were allowed to visit the ICU post third surgery. Only allowed ten minute visits during each hour, my parents patiently, yet anxiously watched the clock on the wall and when the time came, rushed to the visitor phone to check and see if they would be allowed back. At this point in time, the outcome of me living through the week seemed slim.

It had only been 72 hours since being first admitted into the hospital.

For two weeks I had a respirator, and the oxygen setting was on so high, that oxygen gathered beneath the skin, and when touched, you could hear the skin crackle.
Each time my parents would go in for a visit, I would close my eyes, then turn my head the other way.  They would walk around the bed to the other side and I would again turn my head.  My parents knew I was angry and I refused to look at them.

For those entire 2 weeks post surgery, my arms would remain strapped to the bed, tied down, twenty-four hours a day.

Then a miracle came.

On Mother's day my parents arrived to the hospital, went up to my room in the ICU and were told that I had been moved the night before to a regular room. In to a crib.
During the whole ordeal of these weeks, the church members of my parents congregation took turns with my two older siblings, Makenna and Jacob, shuffling them from house to house so my mom could work in the mornings, go to the hospital in the afternoons and stay until late evenings.

Going in to surgery I weighed eighteen pounds, and after finally leaving, I was down to only eleven pounds at ten months old.  However, I was doing well, and the time had come to go home.

Upon getting ready to leave the hospital, the Cardiologist approached my dad. He told him that now that all was well, that I was healthy, he wanted to share with him something.
The night he had called to inform my parents that I was drowning, he had been laying in bed with his wife. He rolled over after hanging up the phone with my dad and said, 'There's no way this baby will make it."
As he later walked past the waiting room after the third surgery, he purposefully avoided updating my parents on my progress. He knew that I would not make it. The doctors and staff were certain I would soon die.

Finally home, a somewhat regular routine returned. I was prescribed to be on a diuretic and baby aspirin daily and a friend of my mom's had advised that she get a lock box as pill bottles in those days did not have childproof lids.
A few days later, my mom went out for groceries, returned home after the errand, and set the bags on the table, grabbed Jacob - 27 months at the time - and set him up on the counter. Something was off. He was lethargic.
From a distance she spotted a pill bottle in the corner of the counter, the lid removed.
She grabbed the bottle. It was completely empty. There were 36 orange-flavored aspirins in the bottle, and only 4 had been used. "Jacob! Where are the pills?"
He pointed to his tongue and with slurred speech said, "Ate them mommy."

My brother Jacob had eaten 32 baby aspirin.