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Heart Scene: Paramnesia

By: Tony Mussari

I want to thank you for making this day necessary. 
                                                                   Yogi Berra

Have you ever been in a place that reminds you of something you have experienced in your past?  Have you ever had an experience that causes you to recall vivid memories of an important event in your life?  Have you ever walked into a room only to have your memory stop you cold in your tracks with something that overwhelms you with pleasure, pain and a strange feeling of fear and confusion?

If you have, you know the definition of paramnesia. Those in the know define paramnesia in this way:  “It is the experience of feeling that one has witnessed or experienced a new situation previously… The experience is usually accompanied by a compelling sense of familiarity, and also a sense of eeriness, strangeness, or weirdness.”

Perhaps the most famous use of this term came from one of my childhood heroes, Yogi Berra.  When refering to home runs hit by Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle, Yogi coined this colorful malapropism:

"It's like déjà vu all over again."

On Thursday of this week, I had déjà vu all over again.  It happened for the first time on the second floor of Wilkes-Barre General Hospital.  Kitch and I were on our way to a location shoot with one of the doctors who helped us during our heart scene journey.  We were accompanied by Beverly Harostock. We entered a corridor and then we turned left and before we knew it we were standing outside the Cardiac Catheterization lab. The warning light at the entrance to the room signaled a caution.

X-Ray in Use.

The lab was empty and it was illuminated by indirect lighting. When I looked into the lab from the hallway through the open door, my mind replayed a scene that took place during the first week of June.
I remember it well.

I was wheeled into this room on a gurney, and I could see, hear, and feel the rush of activity as nurses and attendants finished cleaning the lab. I remembered the sense of apprehension and worry.  I could hear the banter between the people in the room. 

During my initial visit, I was mildly sedated, but I remember checking out the room with as much concentration as I could muster.

On this day, with total comprehension, I stared at the layout of the room and the technology.  It appeared much smaller that I had imagined. Of particular notice and importance were the monitors that recorded the outcome of the test that would force a dark colored dye through my circulatory system and into my heart so that the doctors could determine the extent of the blockage.

One thing I missed during my first trip was the control room that looked very much like a control room in a television studio.  As I snapped some pictures, I thought to myself how ironic. Turnaround is fair play.

Our stay on the second floor came to an end at about 12:30 and we were off to another special place in the hospital. This time we were accompanied by Dr. Michael Harostock, but first there was an important stop for a change of clothing.

To be quite honest, I wasn’t thinking about the work at hand as I quickly traded my dungarees and my Windsor Park Stories shirt for hospital blues, booties and surgical cap that would help to keep the place we were visiting sterile.

We joined Kitch who looked wonderful in her new outfit, and before I could think we entered a small room and then a door opened. It was a moment I will never forget.

Under the huge overhead lights that looked like miniature space ships in flight and surrounded by machines, tubes and technology that looked like the battleship Enterprise, there nestled in the center of it all was the place that supported the body of a 65 year old man with four blocked arteries.

The motionless body frozen by deep anesthesia on June 12 was mine. It was one of the most incredible experiences of my life.

As I stood motionless, staring at the room, I thought to myself, I was here.  I was on that table. I was struggling to survive as a team of competent, knowledgeable, miracle workers did what they knew how to do to fix my heart and give me a second chance at life.

For them it was a procedure they had done hundreds of times before. For me it was a miracle. I am the beneficiary of their skill and caring. I lived with the help of a heart lung machine that is one of a select few in the United States.

Dave Burak described this marvelous Medtronic Performer CPB with precision, clarity and enthusiasm.  Burak, an intelligent and charming young man, spent four years of his life learning to master this wonderful machine that guaranteed, in my case, that I would lose no blood during my surgery.

Later Joe Zimak, the person who operated the Medtronic Performer during my operation, helped me to better understand what happened that day.

I was filled with a sense of awe and gratitude that I will never be able to express in words.  Our language has no words to do this feeling justice.

When Joe finished his visit, we were joined by Judy Maxwell.  She is a person of great charm and dignity.  She is a woman of great accomplishment.  She was a part of the team that started the cardiac unit at Wilkes-Barre General Hospital more than two decades ago. She knows the unit, the personnel, the procedures and the history of the place.

When I asked her about her contribution, she told me that all she wanted to do was her best.
It was obvious to me that she and the team of people who worked here over the years did their best to give those who visited here involuntarily the kind of care that added quality years to their lives.

At the end of each interview when I was alone in the room with only Kitch as my companion, my eyes locked on a particular device as I speculated when and how it was used during my operation. I thought about the activity in the room, the conversation and the sense of urgency. I thought about the doctors and the nurses who were part of the team that gave me life.

Then something happened that is more than special. The door opened and the man who held my heart in his hands sat down to talk with us about the events of the day that changed my life for the better in so many important ways.

As I talked with Dr. Michael Harostock, I thought about his kindness.  I marveled at his discipline.  I was inspired by his goodness, and I was deeply touched by his humility and his humanness.

If truth be told, more than once I looked at his hands, and I thought of them surrounding my heart as he moved with the dexterity of a concert pianist through the various steps of the procedure that saved my life.

Our conversation ended with a comment that brought a smile to his face. On the day I left the hospital, he asked me what I thought about my experience.

Without hesitation I answered, ”It was the most important learning experience of my life.”

He smiled again when he heard these words.

On this day the words took on a new and much more refined meaning. Here I was dressed in scrubs, my wife at my side, and we were together in the room with the surgeon who made this moment possible.

It will never get any better for us.

Yogi Berra was right: "I want to thank you for making this day necessary."

 

Please provide feedback to tmussari@aol.com