Hospital Diaries: Cardiac Catheterisation

Friday, October 4

I feel strangely nervous, almost afraid to break the news to Emanuela. We decided to wait for the weekend, so we could tell her about the upcoming hospitalization during the day. I don't want to tell her late in the afternoon, after school, or in the evening before she goes to sleep. I want to give her a chance to think, ask questions, and come to terms with it.

She's a big girl now, almost seven years old. She understands more, and she thinks more too. I can always see it on her face - the expression that isn't fear or worry but a pause to think. She narrows her eyes just a little, so subtly no one else might notice, but I know my girl. Then she looks to the side, focusing on something far away. That's when I know she's deep in thought, and I have to stop talking and wait for her to come back.

As I lay in bed, ready to end the day, I feel a bit anxious. I wonder what she'll think when we tell her - about the hospitalization, the needle pokes, and that she'll be put to sleep again because this time she needs cardiac catheterization*.

Saturday, October 5

We kept it calm. The family had breakfast together, talking about the week ahead. I waited for the right moment to bring up the hospitalization. I broke the news with as few words as possible, saying: "As of Wednesday, Daddy will be home with your little sister, and I'll be going with you to the hospital for a few days."

"Will there be poking and needles," she asked immediately.

"Yes," I said, frowning. "I'm afraid so."

She was upset, understandably. She narrowed her eyes and looked through me. A moment passed before she returned to the table and shifted focus: "Will I be allowed to watch the Number-blocks songs?" And that's my girl! Finding the good in the bad. The rest of the day, she asked about the number of cartoons she could watch, the games we'd play in the hospital playroom, and the food we'd order as if savoring meals would help us digest our emotions too.

We spent the weekend emphasizing the good and left the bad to be dealt with as it came.

Monday, October 8

First thing Monday morning, as soon as we arrived at school, Emanuela ran to her teacher and proudly announced that she wouldn't be in class on Thursday because she'd be going to the hospital.

It almost seems like she's looking forward to it. I understand her focus on the positives, but I'm worried she's ignoring the negatives a bit too much. By now, I've mentioned the blood drawing, inserting a cannula, receiving sleep medicine, and doctors wearing scrubs and masks a few times. She's not fazed. I expect it'll blow up at some point.

I officially informed the school about her upcoming absence via email.

Tuesday, October 9

A friend asked if I'm stressed. To my surprise, I had to stop and think. Maybe, like Emanuela, I've been ignoring the negatives too.

Strangely, yes, I am nervous. But not about the procedure itself. Honestly, I'm not taking catheterisation too seriously. It's not that it isn't, in fact, serious, but we've been through so much worse: multiple planned open-heart surgeries, unexpected life-saving procedures, resuscitation, ECMO, complications... It's hard to get worked up about a tube inserted through a tiny hole in the groin when I know she'll be awake soon after and home the next day.

Still, I felt uneasy. Mostly because of the thought - what will they find? But also, what if they don't find anything? I caught myself almost hoping they'd find something - so they could fix it, and we could have a moment of relief. Because if they fix something now, what are the chances that something new would surprise us again, soon? On the other hand, if they don't find anything, I'll be relieved but also on edge, waiting for "the next thing." Because something always comes.

I know how this sounds. It's textbook mental spiraling. But trust me, it has much more sense in my head, than it does written down. It's hard to explain unless you've been trained, like we have, by life's curveballs.

Wednesday, October 10

I spent the morning packing - essentials and my hospital hacks. I love that I've written everything down, so I don't have to think too much or fear forgetting something. We don't have a village of support.

In between packing, I ate my emotions away.

I picked Emanuela up after lunch at school, and we checked into the hospital at 2 PM. The rest of the day was spent trying to do blood work and insert the intravenous (IV) line.

During the drive, I explained to her again that the hardest part would be the poking and the needle. She understood. With a bit of worry, she said, "Okay." I repeated that once we were done, she could watch cartoons and play as much as she wanted.

It didn't work.

The nurse applied patches with local anesthetic on two possible spots for the cannula. Once Emanuela's skin was numb, they tried to prep her for the blood work, but all hell broke loose. We tried talking, distracting, entertaining, but eventually, we gave up.

Half an hour later, after she calmed down, a nurse brought her a sedative syrup. Emanuela took it reluctantly, knowing it was a trick to get her "stabbed." Less than an hour later, she was under the influence - laughing at herself, barely able to sit up.

"I'm brave! I can do this. It'll be over quickly. I'm ready," she said with glassy eyes, a crooked smile, her head swaying. Like a fun little drunk, she pressed the red button and called the nurse.

"I'm not ready," she declared non-convincingly as the nurse entered. I laughed through my heartbreak.

Later, when the doctor came in for an echocardiogram** (ECHO), Emanuela saw the colors on the screen and called out: "Oh my God! My heart is on fire! Help! It will burn!" She was entertaining everyone while I used laughter to suppress the sadness building inside me.

Even sedated, she fought the blood work. It was impossible for the nurse to do anything without hurting her, so we gave up. Again.

As the panic left Emanuela's body and she began to return, able to hear the love and comfort I was whispering into her ear, the adults in the room tried to figure out the alternative.

An hour or so later, anesthesiologist joined us. We tried convincing Emanuela to forget about the needle and that she just needed to do some inhalations. She reluctantly accepted the mask, and once she was relaxed enough, the nurse finally took the blood she needed for the pre-catheterisation tests.

When the sedation wore off, Emanuela looked at her hand and exclaimed proudly: "Hey, I didn't feel it at all!" We laughed some more. I only hope the nurses were right when they assured me she wouldn't remember or be traumatized by any of it. Little do they know...

In the end, they decided not to place the cannula out of fear Emanuela might tear it out once fully awake. They'd do it the next day, under general anesthesia.

Thursday, October 11

Emanuela was the first patient in the Cardiac Catheterisation Laboratory (cath lab), with her catheterisation scheduled for 8 AM.

I woke up around 6:30 AM, trying to catch a moment of silence and get through my morning cup of coffee before the anxiety kicked in. Around 7 AM, I gently woke up Emanuela with a kiss on her cheek. I'd explained the day's plan to her the night before, so she knew it was going to be a tough day. Understandably, she was reluctant to get started.

First, the shower. A nurse brought towels and a special disinfecting soap. Emanuela protested fiercely once she saw the soap was brown. After overcoming the issue with the color, I tried to clean her as quickly as possible. The room was cold, and the hospital gown, leaving her back bare, did little to warm her up.

We expected to be transferred to the cath lab around 7:40 AM. By 8 AM, we were still waiting. With no explanation, the day got delayed. Emanuela used the time to catch up on some schoolwork - her own choice! Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was help her with math, French, and English. But there we were, adding 23 to 30, discussing the difference between e and é, and reading Gran's New Blue Shoes.

An hour later, we were finally taken through hallways and an underground labyrinth to the cath lab. Emanuela said she wasn't afraid, but her face betrayed her. I carried her to the lab table, and she remained brave. Years ago, she would have panicked upon entering an operating theater full of masked and capped people dressed in green. This time, I had prepared her for this look, telling her that these were nice people she didn't need to fear. The large screen in the middle helped too. It displayed an underwater world, and the sight of turtles and manta rays calmly swimming through the blue put me at ease as well.

She cooperated - letting them attach the oximeter, pressure bracelet, and ECG electrodes, which she even wanted to put on her giraffe. The medical team was amazing, playing along. But she didn't want to lie down.

As Emanuela sat on the table, the anaesthesiologist adjusted to her position. Holding Emanuela's back to prevent her from falling once the sedation kicked in, the doctor explained what was going to happen next and placed the mask on my baby girl's face.

"Look at the screen," she said. "Imagine you're going for a dive with these fish. Take a deep breath. You're about to dive. Hold your breath. Hold... and exhale."

She guided her through each breath.

"Good job," the anesthesiologist encouraged as Emanuela's body began to relax. She tried to gently lower her on the table, but Emanuela fought it off with the last bit of strength she had.

"One more breath, honey. Deep inhale...," the doctor continued, and that was it. As Emanuela's head lay gently on the folded towel serving as a pillow, the anesthesiologist turned to me and said, "She's very pretty."

"She takes after her dad," I replied.

We laughed through my heartbreak. Again. And then I said goodbye.

There are many deeply sad things about hospital life, but the most heart-breaking is leaving her behind and returning to an empty room. Her bed - gone. The silence. The feeling of meaningless.

I always plan to use this time to write, read, or do something productive because there are no kids needing my attention... But in reality, I end up staring out the window, trying to numb myself while waiting impatiently to have her back.

Two hours passed. That was the estimated time for the procedure. They should have called by now. Though I know the time they give us is just an approximation, my mind can't help but take it literally. Despite my efforts to stay calm, I can't avoid the fight - a dialogue unfolding in my head.

At 11:12 AM, two hours and 22 minutes after leaving her in the hands of strangers, the call came. All good!

Friday, October 12

So much has changed since the last time we went through this. Emanuela is a big girl now. She talks to her doctors, explaining the way she feels, answering their questions, and entertaining the nurses. And while it fills me with pride, it also breaks my heart to see how well she navigates hospital life. I hate that she's so used to it.

On the last day, just before being discharged, we did all the things she hadn't been able to do after the procedure when she had to lie in bed for six hours to avoid hemorrhaging. We played, ate too many sweets, and watched too many cartoons. She didn't like removing the ECG patches because they pulled at the little hair she has, but she no longer paid attention to the fire-like colors of her heart on the ECHO screen.

The week after...

It took time for all of us to get back to something resembling normal. At first, I had taken it all too lightly, and so the exhaustion hit me hard. By the end of the weekend, I was ill. The fatigue was beyond explanation.

On Tuesday, the school called to say Emanuela was complaining of a headache, so I went to pick her up. She seemed fine, leading me to believe it was psychosomatic. Perhaps she just needed a break from everything. I know I did... We cuddled, talked, and rested, trying to recover.

While life seems to be getting back on track, I know I still need a moment or two... and I can only imagine that Emanuela needs time too.

*Cardiac Catheterisation - a test during which flexible tubes called catheters are inserted into the heart via an artery or vein under X-ray guidance to diagnose and sometimes treat certain heart conditions.

*Echocardiogram - an ultrasound of the heart