While I Was Sleeping

After dealing with a sore shoulder all summer long, and after having tried both physical therapy and a cortisone shot to remedy it, my doctor and I made the decision to proceed with surgery. I ended up having torn labrum cartilage, so it's a good thing we did.

My surgeon said it would be a relatively simple surgery.

Narrator: 'It was not simple."

On Tuesday, September 3, I went in to the surgical center to get prepped and wheeled into the operating room. The last thing I remember before passing out from the anesthetic was JB leaving the room to go out into the lobby to wait.

I awoke two or more hours later in what I assumed was the recovery room at the surgical center. Instead, I learned that I was in the emergency room at Lakeview Hospital. JB was there by my side. I asked how the surgery went, and she replied that it was successful. There was one complication, however. She said three words that have forever changed my life:

"Your heart stopped."

Well ... that was humbling news. I missed all of the fun when I was asleep, apparently. I also missed my first-ever ride in an ambulance, because I was snoozing for that, too. In JB's words in a text message she sent out to family members, here is what happened:

"Jon went into cardiac arrest (not a heart attack) during his surgery this afternoon. His heart stopped beating for less than a minute, and they were able to quickly revive him. He was brought to the ER at Lakeview, and they ran tests to be sure everything was OK. All of the tests have come back positive, but he is being kept overnight for observation. His oxygen levels are a bit low, so he might come home on oxygen if that doesn't improve. At this point, they still aren't sure what caused the cardiac arrest. The hospital doc thinks the sleep apnea contributed, but the anesthesiologist from his surgery was just here and said Jon's heart rate just dropped rapidly, and he thinks it was a result of the anesthesia. There will probably be more tests down the road."

Up till now, my closest brushes with death, I believe, were a number of frightening taxi cab rides I somehow survived in the sprawling metropolis of Lima, Peru. I believe I had a guardian angel (or angels) looking out for me then, when I was a missionary. I believe I had at least one looking out for me on the day of my surgery.

As JB wrote, the tests (including a heart ultrasound and chest X-rays) conducted at the hospital fortunately came out positive. I spent the night in the hospital (also a first for me) for observation, and, thankfully, my vitals and all other signs looked good enough that I could go home to rest and recover the next day. Both my surgeon and the anesthesiologist visited me and caught me up to speed on what happened. According to the surgeon, he was "99 percent" done with everything he wanted to do during the operation when the cardiac arrest occurred, so at least the original goal of the surgery was accomplished in the process.

And in the two weeks since then, well ... honestly, I'm still dealing with a few emotions. I'm in a little bit of shock and awe at it all. I rested at home for eight days until returning to work last week. The most (physically) painful part of my recovery wasn't my shoulder but instead has been a great deal of bruising around my sternum, oddly almost in the shape of an Iron Man Arc reactor triangle, where CPR was administered. It has  gotten much better since, and I've mostly resumed my usual day-to-day activities.

Through that time, the overwhelming emotion has been gratitude. I'm grateful to be here still. I'm grateful to the surgical staff, EMTs, doctors, and nurses who took such good care of me. I'm grateful my patient, caring wife was there by my side and that she'll always be there, no matter what trials or health problems may befall me or us in this mortal existence, as long as I live worthy of the covenants I have made and we have made together. I'm grateful for a loving family who visited and prayed for me and for JB and our little family. I'm grateful for good neighbors and ward members who minstered to and watched out for JB while I was in the hospital, who prayed for us, and who were over in our home the first few nights back to bring dinner and well-wishes with genuine concern and fellowship.

To my Heavenly Father, I'm grateful for the very gift of life itself. Having been given this realization of just how fragile life can be, I am trying to be more appreciative of some of the simple things I used to take for granted: sunsets, sunrises, waking up each morning, and especially a heart that beats throughout the day and night.

My perspective on several things has also changed. I make sure to say "I love you" to those closest to me with more frequency, and I also am trying to do and say things that will show it.

A day will come, hopefully decades from now, when my heart will stop beating again and won't start back up this time. I'm keenly aware of it now. Until that day comes, I hope to keep these important lessons in heart and mind and to make my life worth saving.

Nose Jobs, the Universe, and Everything

Three months ago today, I went under the knife for a nose job.

No, really. It's true. My particular procedure is called a septoplasty, aka the fixing of a deviated septum. This is when your nasal passages are crooked, not letting air pass through the right way. It was a problem I'd known about for years, and it had finally reached a point, with constant sinus pressure and pain, that multiple ENTs (ear, nose, and throat doctors) recommended the surgery. In addition, I had a turbinate reduction, in which my turbinates were reduced (as far as I know) to improve my ability to breathe.

Which, it turns out, is a really important part of staying alive.

The surgery was a successful one. I left the hospital woozy, nauseated, and generally bewildered, doing things that I never, ever do, like taking selfies:

I was sent home with a roll of gauze like you see in the photo and had to change my gauze "mustache" every 45 minutes to an hour, because my nose kept bleeding throughout the day and kept saturating the gauze, giving me red mustaches.

Good times, huh?

To make a long story even longer, recuperation went about like I was told it would be. In some ways. I had a few sleepless nights. I ate only a little bit and only soft foods for a week, losing 14 pounds total that week. I missed about about six days of work. But after a couple of weeks of a stuffy nose, I started to realize that I was actually, truly breathing better and that the surgery had done me a lot of good.

In other ways, recuperation was nothing like I could have possibly imagined. My throat was sore for weeks due to the tube that had been inserted for surgery, as I was told might happen, except it continued for additional weeks, which became months. As one prone to depression and anxiety, those issues were affected to a great deal. My brother graciously answered the phone and drove me to the E.R. at 3 a.m. and stayed there with me till 5 a.m. on one troublesome night. Another brother drove me to a different ENT for an emergency visit to have my nose splints removed a day earlier than planned when I learned my surgeon was out of town and couldn't do it right then. In fact, multiple family members stepped up and either let me vent what I was going through or sat with me to give me moral support or priesthood blessings. My sleeping habits were interrupted for a number of weeks, and other issues, such as work, improv, social life, etc., were thrown topsy-turvy for a time. Until tonight, I have also not posted an actual blog post (other than photos of family goings-on and whatnot) for nearly three months for these same reasons.

Without boring you with any of the other sordid details, I had a tough time. A much tougher time than I expected. It really put me through the ringer in ways I never imagined. This is not to dissuade anyone out there contemplating going through a septoplasty procedure for yourself, because it has done a lot of good for my sinuses and my breathing, as I was told it would, and most people who undergo this surgery do not go through the same complications I have faced. I also don't pretend that my difficult few months are or were any more difficult than anyone else's challenges or trials over the same period of time, only that they were quite difficult for me.

Upon my fifth or sixth follow-up visit to my surgeon, he commented: "I've never seen any of my patients go through this before" (reassuring, huh?). He also said, "You've really been through it these few months, haven't you?" After these six (or seven?) visits, consulting with and getting a second opinion from another ENT, as well, the good news is that we finally (knock on wood!) seem to have nailed the problem, and I've been feeling much better lately.

I don't know if the feeling will continue, but I am optimistic it will. All told, I am figuring out this mortal life thing one day at a time, just like the rest of you. I read something the other day in which an LDS general authority (I forget which one) compared life to an ocean wave; that it has highs and lows, and the hard times (the "lows") eventually pass.

A life lesson I've been reminded of multiple times these past several weeks has been that everyone is going through something tough. Often, these challenges are unseen or unspoken. The tough times test us to the very core. They test us physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and in every other way, shape, and form. And yet, how very reassuring it is that the Savior descended below all and knows how we feel and can comfort and guide us through His Holy Spirit. If these lessons are not lost on us, we gain empathy and sympathy for those around us carrying heavy burdens and pick up some glimpse into what He feels for us as the Savior of all.

I've "ponderized" and have written down several impressions that have occurred to me over the last little while, and I hope to give this blogging thing another try and may just share a few of these ideas with you. I also plan to be a bit more open in the future on my struggles with both depression/anxiety/OCD (they're all interrelated in one big ball of goo), as well as chronic pain, in the hopes that it will both give me an outlet for these issues and also give hope to others who may be going through similar challenges. Stay tuned.

As Tom Hanks's character says in Cast Away, "Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and who knows what the tide will bring?"

I pray I may never take another sunrise for granted. Each and every one is a wonderful blessing, come rain or shine.