Here's What Happened 3

A few weeks passed, a few months passed, with nothing but one surgery in October to remove a clot at the internal end of a cannula (which is the medical term for tube, as far as I can tell) to break up the monotony of vital signs and blood draws. I had friends visit occasionally, some of the usual suspects from my college years, family, and even my neighbor from back in NJ.

On November 13th, one of my favorite doctors came in the room at about 8pm, just as the bf and I were settling in to eat chicken wings and watch tv. A donor was identified and I was first on the list for the heart. They had overdosed on heroin and had been declared braindead on life support for a week. The heart was considered "high-risk" due to the intravenous drug use of the donor, but as far as they could externally tell it was fine. Their blood tested negative for HIV and hepatitis. If they found something wrong once it was taken of the donor they wouldn't use it. She gave me about 30 minutes to decide if I wanted to take it.

When I first listed myself, I thought I wouldn't take a high-risk heart. I figured I would have enough to worry about post-transplant without wondering what kind of shady shit the donor was into. Once presented with it as a reality, however, I couldn't deny the fact that I wanted them to slap that thing in me so I could get the hell home. I talked with my boyfriend, brother, and cousin before the doctor came back and I told her I would take it. Then I called my parents and told them I was getting a heart, leaving out the part about the heroin.

I went down to the OR at around 4am on the 14th and was woken back up on the 16th. In between, they lowered my sedation enough that I could ask if they had taken out the BiVAD by signing the letters V-A-D repeatedly. My bf says that once he told me it was gone I smiled like Stevie Wonder and passed out.
The recovery from the heart transplant was much easier than the VAD surgery. Once they yanked out all the excess IVs and drain tubes I was ready to go. It took them an awful long time to figure out my pain medications, but the worst part about that was trying to remember how I had described it to the previous doctors so that my stories would line up and they wouldn't think I was lying. If I never have to quantify pain on a scale of 1-10 again it'll be too soon.

The time I spent in the "stepdown unit" after getting out of the ICU were the worst weeks I had in the hospital. The nurses didn't seem to know about or care about my medications- I had to ask for them every day (I take my twice-a-day pills at 9am and 9pm every single day, but that somehow escaped the care team). They were also very slow to respond to the call bell, so it serves them right that they had to clean a lot of piss off the floor.
Not to mention the following conversation that happened at least once a day-
Me: So can I get my pills? I'm due for some stuff
Nurse: Ok, so it looks like, uhhhh... looks like... yeah... okay. So do you want the senna and colace?
Me: No. I don't need them.
Nurse: You don't want the colace?
Me: No, I don't need them.
Nurse: ...
Me: I haven't taken colace in weeks. I've had diarrhea for like 2 days. I don't need a stool softener.
Nurse: Well...okayyyy

They finally sprung me on December 2nd, after a frustrating and confusing several days around Thanksgiving where they told me I could leave, then that I couldn't leave, then that they didn't release over the weekend, then that they did, then that I couldn't go anyway since my bloodwork wasn't perfect. November 29th, the day they initially guessed for my release, was the only day I really felt like giving up- I hadn't been sleeping since leaving the ICU because they weren't giving me a sleeping pill they way they had every single night in the ICU (I dare you to try and sleep in a hospital without one), every emotion I had been feeling since the surgery was attributed to the steroids (apparently pissing yourself because nobody would come help you walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night 2 weeks after your heart transplant surgery is no reason to be upset), and I was plain old homesick.
I was so nervous when transport came up with the wheelchair because I heard stories about people who were called back up from the pickup area due to labwork coming in with the "wrong" results. Lucky me I was packed into the backseat of my car and driven home with a bounty of liberated hospital supplies in tow.