Thirty-eight years ago, on Friday 7th February 1975, I had the operation to repair my heart defect, Tetralogy of Fallot.
I was seven years old and I would celebrate my eighth birthday a few days after the operation.
Life had been difficult for a few years before this - I couldn't walk or run very far, got tired very easily and had to stay in at break times at school. Even apparently non-physical activities were prohibited - for example, in my primary school class, as we learned about recording measurements, I wasn't allowed to see how long I could hold my breath for. Which doesn't seem like much, but it was another instance of my exclusion from the "normal life" that my friends led.
I remember arriving at the hospital, Harefield Hospital in Middlesex, and being given a bed in the children's ward. Every time someone who looked like a doctor or nurse approached the bed, I started to cry and hugged my Mum, until it turned out that one of these people was there to find out what school work I was doing in my class and to provide me with exactly the same workbooks, so that I didn't fall too far behind with my education! It seemed so odd at the time to have those workbooks, so far away from home - yet it was strangely comforting.
The day before the operation I remember meeting the surgeon, Professor Sir Magdi Yacoub (although that wasn't his title at that time), and noticing how large his hands were, which seemed unusual for someone who was about to perform such intricate surgery.
On the day of the surgery, the preparation started early in the morning and I must have gone down to surgery soon after the breakfast that I wasn't allowed to have. I was asked to "talk into the Magic Telephone" and that was the last that I recall of that day.
My first impressions after waking up following surgery were firstly that I was incredibly thirsty, that my throat was sore and why was I in a plastic tent!? The plastic tent was an oxygen tent, which felt really sweaty and uncomfortable. I was cross that I couldn't have more than a sip of squash every half an hour (I don't recall the exact times, but whatever it was, it seemed incredibly unreasonable to me, when I really wanted a drink).
On the Monday morning, I woke up in a different room - probably in a High Dependency Unit (HDU), whereas the first time I woke it was in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). I had breakfast and then I was given an injection in my leg. It was very unpleasant, but fortunately at that time I didn't realise that these injections would be a regular thing over the next few days. I know now that those injections were probably of Heparin (or similar) to prevent blood clots forming following my surgery.
My next memory of that day is of walking down the corridor to meet my Mum as she came to visit me, which must've been some sight for her, so soon after my surgery. We then returned to the main ward, where I remained for a further two and a half weeks. I have no recall of being in any pain at all - within a few days I could wander around the ward - and of course I had my school work to distract me.
The heparin injections continued twice a day - one day I was well enough to hide in the locked bathroom for a while, but the injection was unavoidable. On the Wednesday of that first week it was my eighth birthday and we had a party in the children's ward. I had a lot of presents, but one of the things I remember most of all was a Get Well Card signed by the whole of my class at school. I also remember that my cousins had sent an "Osmond's World" magazine for me to read, which was even better than the Barbie doll I got for my birthday!
As
CHD Awareness Week starts today, I am happy to share my memories of such a very important day in my life.
In many ways, 7th February 1975 was when I began to live the life of a "normal" child.
