As soon as my Raven was born she did not cry, even though it has been via c-section and the umbilical cord was wrapped all over her neck. She strained to open her eyes, staring around the room with her hands cupped near her face, quietly observing her new world. She would always be that way like she grew into a sweet, soft spoken little girl, just who needed time to warm up to new situations, and prefer watch people than join them. She was always smaller than average barely hitting the five percentile range at the doctor’s business and, while most happy when she was singing or simply dancing alone, she was painfully shy everywhere as well. Everything, however , would change after she underwent coronary heart surgery.
Raven had a loud heart murmur out of day one and saw her first cardiologist before your lover was two weeks old. She was diagnosed with pulmonary stenosis, a condition that slowed the flow of blood from her cardiovascular system to her lungs due to a thickening of her pulmonary on top of and seemingly explained her murmur. While a bit concern, the defect was mild, requiring annual visits just about every summer, with a possibility of surgery in the future.
By age three Raven was my little sleeping beauty. Perpetually drained, slow, and sluggish, my little girl could only are able to find small bouts of energy throughout the day, but was frequently complaining about being tired, no matter how much she rested. For the duration of her annual appointment at Children’s Hospital in Seattle, her new cardiologist (her earlier one had retired) gave us some heavy, shocking news that would as well explain her fatigue: the good news was that Raven’s pulmonary stenosis was now trivial at best and no longer important; the bad news was that a large hole was found on the backside of her heart via the routine sonogram. This girl had a condition called Atrial Septal Defect (ASD), the part of the wall separating the upper chambers of the heart, referred to as atria, is missing, allowing oxygenated blood from the quit atrium into the right atrium, mixing with oxygen-poor blood stream, and increasing the amount flowing to the lungs, which didn’t allow adequate oxygen to reach her other organs. That it was concluded that Raven had had the condition since birth, producing her loud swishing murmur and, possibly, her small appetite and sleepiness. Get more info about Roberto Casula
The gap in the wall ended up being big, but the surgeon wanted to try a minimally invasive surgical procedure called cardiac catheterization, whereby a device would be guided by having a vein in her groin up to her heart and also secured on the wall. Our hope was that the pin was small enough to allow rims for the device to seize onto. If this young procedure (20 years) did not operate or if the hole was too big, open heart medical procedures would be our only option to close it, a frightful yet well documented highly invasive surgery with half a century of success, but with the biggest risk out of the two procedures of infection, blood loss, and death. I had a misfortune feeling.
The day before Raven’s scheduled heart catheterization, she developed a high fever (103) and the surgery had to be rescheduled for September, five days before the first day of pre-school. My seven year old son, Lucius, was distracted by using second grade on the day his sister went to Seattle Child’s Hospital for what was supposed to be an overnight stay. Just after two hours of waiting to hear about Raven, the exact surgeon sat me down and gently explained the things i had been fearing: Raven’s hole was nearly the size of the heart and a small camera that had been guided through a catheter in her vein and to her heart revealed virtually no rims for the device to grab onto. She would need to have opened heart surgery, which included bypass, where her heart might be drained of its blood and stopped while the girl was artificially kept alive, and a piece of her pericardium (sac that the heart sits in) was cut out along with sewn over the hole in her heart. I knew until this was a necessary surgery that would give my daughter an even better quality of life, but it was, non-etheless, a hard truth to devour.