December 18, 1986

Thursday morning at 6:30 we said our brief, encouraging good-byes. Dad managed a weak smile, gave a thumbs-up sign, and the elevator doors closed.
We stood, four grown children and a mother, in a still-quiet University of Arizona Medical Center hall and watched the doors slide shut. We had been apprised of the risks of the operation. The heart, wounded years ago by rheumatic fever, was enlarged. A valve was not functioning properly. Most likely, a metallic valve would need to be implanted to replace the defect. He's not a young man anymore. Certainly the risks are not to be taken lightly.
What must dad be thinking as the door slides us from his vision? He is barely dressed in a hospital-issue gown, lying on a gurney being pushed by the volunteer aide who woke him early and shaved his chest, stomach, and thighs. Now he feels the unsettling drop of the elevator taking him to the operating room.
He, too, knows the risk. He, more keenly than anyone, knows how permanent could be the closing of the doors. What dad thought that morning is known only to him. I'd like to think he thought about the good time-the summer vacations, the Christmas mornings, the summer baseball games, the grandchildren in his lap.
But he didn't have much time to think that morning before the anesthesiologist did his job. We, standing on the other side of the door, were the ones cursed with thought. This should have been said. That should have been made clear. We were there when the doors closed, but was that a strong enough statement? Shouldn't we have told him how important he is to us? How much we love him?
For dad Thursday morning was a short, induced snooze. For us in the waiting room it was interminable. Attempts to lose time in magazine articles or television programs were unsuccessful. The risks. The risks were always there, blurring the print, pushing the television out of focus.
And then Dr. Jack Copeland strolled into the waiting room. Dr. Copeland, nationally recognized for his heart research, had the night before transplanted a healthy heart into a Navajo Indian man. In the span of 48 hours he would repair major damage to five hearts. And after each operation he would walk into the waiting room, as if he were a mere mortal, and inform the family of the outcome.
Dad's heart was strong, he said. The valve was reparable and so no replacement was necessary. He'll be fine and should be back on his feet in a few days.
Later we would learn more of the specifics of the operation-how the heart was lifted from his chest and repaired, how it was shocked back to life, how the trauma of the operation combined with the medicine causes amnesia and ICU psychosis. We would learn about the pain and anxiety of recovery.
But we would also feel a steady, strong heart beat. And we would talk about the future.
In this season celebrated for the gift of a Son, four children Thursday afternoon celebrated the gift of a father.... ~T.Stucky