Columnist Scott Dickensheets: One man’s operation is another’s self-reflection

Scott Dickensheets

Tuesday, Feb. 10, 1998 | 8:59 a.m.

I DON'T imagine anyone looks good right out of emergency quadruple-bypass heart surgery, so I had no way of knowing at a glance how well my father-in-law had weathered the procedure. I saw him shortly afterward, unconscious and looking drained in his post-op bed, a machine breathing for him, vital fluids gurgling in the tubes that seemed to sprout everywhere from him. There were hoses and wires galore, rarely a good sign. On the other hand, he was alive, always a good sign.

It was eerie seeing him there, pin-cushioned like that and gooned on anesthesia; my image of him is built on impressions of sturdiness: Since I'm a tool weenie, he's spent a lot of time at our various houses, fixing plumbing and cars and major appliances. You're never prepared to see a loved one like this.

He had just emerged from the crux moments of a very tense and difficult few days. The problem had come on suddenly, as these things tend to, chest pains and hospitalization Tuesday, tests Wednesday (diagnosis: two completely blocked arteries, two just badly clogged), fear and trembling Thursday and then, early Friday, the knife. Beforehand, he referred to the operation as "a Roto-Rooter job," and you could gauge the level of his nervousness by the number of bad jokes he told.

The laughter was gone by Friday morning. "He could die," my wife groaned in the hours preceding surgery. Although I make a living with words, I never know what to say in such circumstances. "No he won't" and "Don't think that way" hardly seem adequate. So I try instead to be a steady presence, taking care of the kids, providing a shoulder.

I resisted seeing myself in that bed, even though I'd had my own go-round with chest pains last year. At times my heart clanked like an old tractor engine and numbness crept down my left arm. That worried me a bit, that left arm. I'd read that it's a bad sign. Still, I ignored it, both from a stupid macho determination not to see the doctor and because of my reverse-hypochondriac theory: The more worrisome my condition seems, the theory goes, the less serious it actually is. It's proven true many times, notably with the searing headaches I self-diagnosed as a brain tumor but which an MRI revealed to be searing headaches.

At last, though, my wife shoved me into a doctor's office. The upshot: I have a condition called benign something or other -- doctor talk for an extra heartbeat here and there. Being benign, it poses very little threat. My theory held again.

So I'm OK, whereas my father-in-law was not. But I don't have a lifetime guarantee. Hardy codgers like George Burns may credit their longevity to red meat, fine wine and a daily cigar, but for guys like me, that's undoubtedly a dangerous prescription. For years I subscribed to the red-meat part of it -- never did develop a taste for wine or cigars -- eating many a defiant hamburger and figuring I'd worry about it at 65. Of course, that was a lot easier at 26 than it is at 36, more than halfway there, and I keep waiting for the ghosts of cheeseburgers past to catch up. I order turkeyburgers when I can these days.

Meanwhile, my father-in-law is mending very well. Most of the tubes are out and he's up and around, showing off his scar; an unobstructed flow of blood to the heart has been good for him. Family life is returning to normal. It'll be good to have him back, and not just because that bathroom drain keeps clogging.