Dealing with the overwhelming fear of heart surgery on an infant



(Editor's note: This is the second of a two-part series detailing the birth and heart surgery of American reporter M. Scott Carter's son, Zachary.)



By M. Scott Carter

American Staff Writer

OKLAHOMA CITY -- For a brief moment, we thought Zach might draw a bye for his first surgery. His blood oxygen levels were tracking much higher than normal. Because of this, the doctors wanted to stop the drug and see if those oxygen levels would stay high enough to send him home.

If so, Zach might go home early and, even better, bypass the first surgery.

The normal blood oxygen level for an infant is 100 percent; for Zach, a high was 87 percent.

Two days after he was born, he was taken off the drug and slowly, his blood oxygen numbers fell. Wednesday night, Nov. 14, his oxygen level crashed like a bad ride on the stock market, falling into the low 40s.

Surgery was scheduled for Nov. 20.

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That Tuesday dawned cold, bright and smelling of fall. Karen -- who had been discharged just a couple of days before -- made a rare appearance home. She tried keeping herself busy, but the pain from surgery and the fact she was frightened beyond all reason did nothing for her.

Neither of us slept Monday night.

By Tuesday morning, we were both a tense bundle of frayed nerves.

We arrived at the hospital early to visit Zach before his operation. He opened his eyes and smiled.

Karen cried. She trembled as I held her hand.

At 11:30 a.m. we made the longest walk of our lives; we left our newborn son in the third floor surgery at the University of Oklahoma Children's Hospital.

Once again, we were told "everything would be OK."

Surrounded by relatives and friends, we spent the next few hours in a waiting room just down the hall. Debbie, the bubbly, cheerful nurse assisting Dr. Marko Turina and Dr. Peter Pastuszko -- incredible surgeons with last names I still haven't figured out how to pronounce -- reassured us, even telling us that she, herself had the same surgery decades ago.

Debbie was a bright spot on an otherwise dark and gloomy day.

She doesn't know it, but I drew a great deal of strength from her during that time; her smile, her energy and her concern spilled over on all of us.

She kept us sane.

Before she took Zach, she promised to call us three times: when the surgery started, when they were about halfway through and once the surgery was over.

We left Zach in Debbie's care and sat numb in the surgery waiting room.

Time slowed to a crawl. Around me people made chit-chat and talked about everything but the reality of the situation. Finally, we gave up and went down to the first floor cafeteria to eat.

Debbie's first call came just as we started our meal.

"We've started and everything is going fine. Zach didn't even cry when he was prepped," she said.

I watched the tears roll down Karen's face. Neither of us wanted to imagine what was happening at that exact moment.

By the time we'd returned to the waiting room, Debbie called again -- the doctors were more than halfway through, she said. Again, she told us things were going well.

Shortly after that, Debbie made her final call, "he came through it wonderfully," she said. "He'll be fine."

My family offered a quiet prayer of thanks and when he heard the news Ethan, my oldest son, said he felt like an "8-ton chain" had been lifted off his back.

The world began its return to normal.

Several minutes later Dr. Marko, one of the two surgeons who operated on Zach, came to the waiting room. He told us how smoothly the surgery went.

My father told him he was a blessing from God.

The doctor, who seemed unaccustomed to praise, stammered his thanks and then left. Others slowly drifted out of the room. Karen sighed deeply and held my hand.

Zach's recovery had begun.

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In the Jewish faith, they call it wresting with God.

It's that point in our lives, when we humans get pissed off enough about our earthly situation, that we get angry.

Real angry.

We get so angry that sometimes, we have a one-sided argument with our Creator.

Or, we wrestle with God.

I guess I have yet to realize the folly of this act. It doesn't do a whole lot of good to shout at the most powerful being in the universe.

Nonetheless, God and I locked horns one evening in the parking garage at the hospital, a couple of days after Zach's surgery.

And, for the record, let's just say I did all the shouting.

The long hours of fear, the months of anguish, the pain, the frustration, the joy and every emotion in between, all collided into loud collection of shouts, screams, curses and rants.

Yeah, I was mad.

I threw a fit and, and in no uncertain terms, let God know just how unhappy I was with his operation of the universe at that moment in time.

And I wasn't too concerned about lightning bolts.

I was defending my family.

Something I told God he hadn't done very well.

In fact, I told him I thought it was pretty mean to try and teach me any type of lesson using a newborn baby that my wife and I had longed for.

"Besides," I shouted at the top of the parking garage. "It's not fair to have to have surgery right after your birthday. Where in the hell did that idea come from?"

It was an intense, emotional discussion.

But as I yelled, God listened.

Funny, though, after 10 minutes of venting most of the negative emotion trapped inside me, I didn't feel any better.

I drove home, alone that night, emotionally drained.

Around 3 a.m. I awoke. Lying in bed, with the house quiet, I apologized. I walked to the living room and sat on the couch and this time, much more reverently, told God how scared I really was.

"I'm not used to this," I told him. "I'm not strong enough. I won't make it."

The room stayed quiet.

There were no lightning bolts.

But, thankfully, God accepted my apology.

In fact, somewhere, between the time of that argument and my late night benediction, God let me know he was still on my side.

But he didn't do it Cecil B. DeMille style.

There were no angels or classical music.

Still, I knew, just the same. I began to see God in all the little things surrounding Zach and funny, weird events that I still can't explain:

He reminded me that me and my family were loved by sending a gentle caring friend to the hospital to pray and talk with Karen.

He made me remember that somehow we managed to hook up with the two best pediatric surgeons in the country.

It wasn't just luck that the other doctors were top notch and the nurses who took care of Zach brought their "A" game.

I still can't explain how Dr. Ward -- Zach's cardiaologist -- is the same Dr. Ward who treated the son of my best friend almost 20 years ago.

And, no, its not an accident that Zach was strong enough to withstand his surgery without any problems.

Yeah, we had help.

Even though it wasn't in the Old Testament style, God was there. And Karen and I felt the love of others and a simple, reassuring peace.

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Zach's recovery has been quick.

In fact, his doctors said he made remarkable progress.

And, somewhere, deep in my heart, I heard a soft gentle voice tell me things would be OK.

This time I knew it.

By last Thursday, my little boy was cheerful, hungry and healing. Slowly all the lines, IVs and tubes were removed from his body.

My two older brothers visited the hospital over the weekend and Zach was in rare form. He flirted with my sisters-in-law and, while my oldest brother talked to him, Zach softly reached out and held onto his finger.

For the first time in years, I saw my big brother cry.

By Saturday, the nurses were telling me what a charmer Zach was. His mother spent hours by his bed feeding him, holding him close, and seeking to recapture those first days she missed.

I watched Zach snuggle next to Karen, wiggle close to her breasts, then fall asleep peacefully in her arms.

The world was normal.

And the weekend passed quickly.

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Monday, Zach came home.

Sure, his second surgery is just six months away, but half a year is a lifetime for us right now. Granted, we'll have to watch him closely and do everything in our power to keep him healthy and strong, but this whole process; from the moment we discovered his heart problem until this very day, has been a lesson.

A lesson designed by God, but taught by Zach.

Even when he was at his lowest, he would nestle next to his mother. He would seek the comfort of her arms and the softness of her touch. There, he found peace.

And watching them, so did I.

Zach also taught me a lesson in patience.

He does things at this own speed, reminding me that sometimes, it's better to take your time, because the results are worth the extra effort.

He also reaffairmed my faith in God and humanity.

Across this state, hundreds of people -- many known to me but many others strangers -- have all prayed for my child.

Friends and co-workers at this newspaper and dozens at Karen's school have given up their own comforts and set their lives aside to help us. They offered to run errands, bring food and were willing to do whatever was asked.

Dozens called daily just wanting to know if we needed anything or if they could help.

My family gathered together and surrounded us with a love and support that would humble even the biggest cynic.

My niece, Shannon, became an impromptu taxi taking my parents everywhere and even cooking Karen and I Thanksgiving dinner. Our children embraced their brother with a pure, gentle love which still amazes me.

And all the while, the newest Carter took his surgery in stride, smiled and slept and, frequently, burped.

In a time when it's easy to write off humanity and the often displayed stupidity of the human race, feeling the warmth and love of family and friends has pumped new life into my very tired, aching spirit.

All those hearts, beating in unison, have connected with us -- reminding Karen, myself and our children that we are not alone in the universe and that there is something out there, greater than ourselves.

Over the past few weeks, I've become amazed by the power of the heart.

Amazed by its strength and resilience.

A lesson taught to me by a tiny red-headed boy who's own heart may be the strongest I've ever known.