La La How The Life Goes On

The Everlasting Heart Stopper

Posted on: January 19, 2011

Today Baby Sister had a cardiac echo and something called a “wire study.”  She has these little wires coming out of her stomach area that are attached to her heart inside. They were placed there so that her heart could be defibrillated directly should it have stopped at any point this past week.  Because she was having all the pvc’s they did the wire study today before they felt comfortable allowing her to come home (hopefully tomorrow!).

And here is where I and super talented cardiologists part ways.  As they were prepping Baby Sister for the procedures (anesthesia, etc) the cardiologist started explaining the procedure in detail so that we could sign the consent form.  I appreciate the legalities of this step in the process; I understand the desperate importance of all being on the same page regarding Things Done To My Child.  I get it.  But may I suggest, for the less-litigious among us, an abbreviated version of the consent form?  Especially for those of us who really do choose to believe that our children’s hearts are actually powered by little elves riding stationary bicycles, much like oompa-loompas?  How else can I avoid hearing the doctor tell me she is going to attempt to put my child in cardiac arrest and perhaps make her heart stop–just, you know, to check that her heart won’t actually go into cardiac arrest and stop.  Here’s a better idea, good doctor.  You go ahead and electrically shock my child’s heart, see if you can gin up some arrhythmias.  And how about you don’t tell me all those details that make me want to vomit my lunch up from nervousness?  Because I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: some things laypeople should never see nor hear.  Bone marrow aspiration?  You go on with your bad self and just leave me out of the visuals.  Chest tube insertion?  Have at it.  Away from me.  Extubation?  Do I even need to address this?  Wire Studies? Hell hell hell hell NO!

So you go ahead and do your shmancy cardiology thing, and I’ll sit myself in the waiting room picturing those adorable oompa-loompas  cranking the gears on my child’s heart while you look on and sing Pure Imagination to encourage them.  Because all this talk of “electrical impulses” and “SA nodes” and “ventricular bigeminy” just messes with my head.  So please, for the future, just tell me that the oompa-loompas had a giant beer bash and now you have to give them all little teeny tiny ibuprofens for the the hangover.  THAT explanation I can handle.


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