Removing the Chest Tubes
About 3 or 4 days after the transplant surgery a fit, sturdy man with short hair the color of steel wool wearing sky blue scrubs came into my room and introduced himself. He was an RN and there for a specific purpose. He had an air of confidence that told me whatever he was there for he had done a thousand times. After introductions he casually lifted one foot and set it on the metal bed frame and bent over resting one forearm on his raised knee and leaned in.
Remember, I was still half whacked out on meds and dazed and confused. This is what I can remember.
He told me he was there to remove my chest tubes. I had no idea what he was talking about. I knew that underneath the bandages on my chest it was mysterious, lumpy and a little sore. For whatever reason when he said, “chest tubes”, my mind went to something like “test tubes”. It was hard for me to envision exactly what was under there and I intentionally hadn’t looked yet. Were there test tubes?
This man casually told me that it would be quick and that in his experience some people have said that it feels like getting your guts torn out and that others have said it was no big deal. I blinked twice and asked him to say that again, because I still wasn’t comprehending everything. Did my buddies put him up to this? Is this a cruel prank? While he was talking, he was gently removing my bandages on my chest. He kept right on going and said it will be fast and he would do it on the count of 3. One. Two. Yank. Done!
He was right. He was very fast. Before I could think too much about it, his fists wrapped around the tubes and he pulled and they were out. Some sting for sure, but not as bad a sneeze had been. It was over in an instant.
As soon as he pulled the hoses out, I heard a distinct glug glug glug in my chest. The notes rising a tad on each gurgle. Very much like the sound made by a freshly uncorked bottle of wine pouring its first glass. I have no idea why it made that sound or the biology behind that, but I heard what I heard. When I looked down at my chest after that I saw what can only be described two nostrils in my upper abdomen just below the sternotomy scar. Big ass holes. And they looked wet.
In reality, each hole was a little larger than the diameter of a pencil eraser. He put a fresh bandage over my new nostrils, and we chatted for a bit about things. He had been with the medical center for 35 years. I really liked him. From the second I saw him I had good feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing. He had that unique blend of confidence and not taking himself too seriously.
I went to bed that night wearing a tee shirt and a sweatshirt, both brought from home. I had modified the sweatshirt by slitting the sleeves to accommodate my PICC line. In the middle of the night, I became aware that my whole torso was soaking wet. The fluid that was leaking out of my new nostrils had completely soaked through the bandage. It also saturated the tee shirt and the sweatshirt. The sheets were even a little wet. Not all blood. It was a pinkish mixture of a little blood and whatever else was inside of me trying to get out. It startled me. Nurse!
A nurse brought me a fresh bandage only this one was very thick. It looked something that might be used in combat. I put on a fresh a tee shirt, and a fresh sweatshirt and climbed back in bed, careful not to use my hand or my arms.
Later that morning upon waking I noticed the same blowout. Bandage, tee shirt, sweatshirt, and sheets, all soaked through. With the bandage off, I could literally stand with a towel positioned just under these holes, press on my tummy a bit, and watch fluid seeping out of these holes onto a towel. On the third day it stopped. Bam. I guess it was done. My transplant team was intrigued but not alarmed. I got the impression it was not all normal. Everyone is different. But no redness. They said they would keep an eye on it.
For a long time, a few weeks, I thought these holes would never heal. They were too big. I could not see the bottom. And they were always a little shiny with fluid, not unlike a slightly runny nose. I was told they would heal from the inside out. It was a hard prediction to accept.
Of course, the experts were right. A few weeks later I had two little scabs and today you be hard pressed to even find them. Lauren and I used to laugh because my mid-section had 3 inch scars under both clavicles, one from the removal of my CRTD and the other from the ECMO device. I had the long slightly crooked vertical scar on my chest and then the two nostrils. All I needed was a jagged smile under my belly and it would have looked like a face carved into a pumpkin by a kindergartner.
Next I will explain some aspects of managing the rest of my time in the medical center prior to discharge.
My Heart Transplant Journey 
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