What becomes of the broken-hearted?

Nothing puts a downer on a Saturday night quite like finding out you have ten years to live. Okay, finding out you have mere weeks before you shuffle off this mortal coil might be a tad more alarming but, still, who wants to spend their weekend contemplating their mortality? Not me, that’s for sure, and yet I did.

If you’ve read my earlier posts, you’ll be aware that I was recently diagnosed with a dragging bore of a heart condition called Mitral Valve Stenosis (with added Aortic Regurgitation for good measure). While I was pregnant this condition debilitated me to such an extent that I was unable to walk from the sofa to the loo without fighting for breath and coughing up blood. Delightful. Post diagnosis, and thanks to one measly little tablet a day, I am symptom-free. No breathlessness, no palpitations, no bloody sputum. So far, so healthy.

So why the histrionic opening sentence? Well, the thing is, I need to have an aortic valve replacement. This is a matter of when rather than if. The last five months of relatively good health, amplified in no small part by the presence of the redoubtable little Raffles, have lulled me into a false sense of security. I feel healthy. So healthy that I postponed my recent Transoeseophageal Echocardiogram (TOE – unpleasant camera swallowing) and CT Scan. My consultant didn’t seem unduly worried and rescheduled a follow-up appointment for March 2015. Urgent? Hardly.

Sadly, my blissful ignorance couldn’t last forever. Last Saturday, while spending a typically hedonistic weekend reading brilliant political memoirs I was sent lolloping back to earth with a resounding thud. Without giving anything away, I encountered someone with exactly the same condition as mine. Exactly, right down to the cause: childhood rheumatic fever. The ball was steadily rolling now. What harm would a little innocent Googling do? Answer: A HUGE AMOUNT. I discovered that the prognosis for Mitral Valve Stenosis post-surgery was ten years. That, as far as I could find, was the best possible scenario, too. I also learned that “around 1 in 50 people who undergo this type of surgery die from complications either during or shortly after surgery.” That last beacon of light was on the NHS website so it has to be right, right?

An hysterical Saturday night (highlights include piercing banshee-like screaming punctuated with mournful wails of “I’m going to die young!”) was followed by an uncharacteristically reflective Sunday morning. I revisited the fount of my woe, Google. Searching “Mitral Valve Stenosis Prognosis UK” (I find this last part oddly crucial), I saw the results were far less overwrought than the previous night’s. Mind you, I did avoid the Ten Years To Live If You’re Lucky (And You Definitely WON’T Be) quack-site like the plague. Sure, there was no denying the severity of my condition but there were also very definite reasons to be cheerful.

Would my consultant have asked if I was planning to have more children if she expected me to pop my clogs before they were in primary school? I may not be one of life’s blithe optimists (not a pessimist either, more an occasionally peevish centrist) but I don’t think she would have. That, by the way, is easily the most annoying thing about this dodgy ticker of mine. The fact that I need to undergo heart surgery before I have another child is a right royal pain in the arse. I know I should count my blessings and be content with my lot. I honestly couldn’t be happier with my little firebrand but maybe if she was a bit less superdeeduper I wouldn’t be so eager to see what a Raffles II would be like.

Let’s end things on a more uplifting note. In the days that have followed My Saturday of Anguish and Misery, I’ve become a lot more sanguine about the whole thing. I suppose I’ve even accepted it now. I’m not going to cancel any more appointments. I’m not going to ignore the fact that I’ll be having major surgery sometime in the future but nor am I going to fret about it either. What’s the point? I’m luckier than a hefty proportion of the population. Plus, I’ve started doing yoga. In the space of four days I’ve metamorphosed from a frenzied ball of nervous energy into the very quintessence of spiritual serenity. Well, almost. I’m definitely more at ease with myself, that’s for sure. I’m not going anywhere.

What becomes of the broken-hearted? They get better.

Me, now. I’m a very quick learner.

Enjoy! x