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My Open Heart Surgery: How It Still Affects Me

My Open Heart Surgery Story

About two years ago, I was chatting with a plastic surgeon back in San Francisco, who noticed this little line peeking out of my sweater. “What is that?” she asked me. “Oh that’s my scar,” I replied, lifting up the bottom half of my top to reveal what looks like a second belly button and my actual belly button, “It goes all the way down.” “You know,” she says to me, looking closely at the line, “I could easily do a little procedure so you don’t have to see it anymore.”

“Absolutely not,” I tell her, “My scar is my favorite thing about me.”

When I was a baby, I had a very dramatic open heart surgery which I was not supposed to survive. I was 6 pounds at 6 months and none of the doctors thought I was going to make it. Growing up, I was raised with Winnie The Pooh and Babar stories, along with the tale of how my mother had to feed me with a bird feeder and track the ounces with a little notebook she had. I wasn’t allowed to crawl since the doctors had to saw my ribs to get to my heart and the healing was such a process they didn’t want the risk of me falling on my chest. My favorite part of the story was that they put a little patch on my baby heart so that the muscle would grow over. 

About two years ago, I was chatting with a plastic surgeon back in San Francisco, who noticed this little line peeking out of my sweater. “What is that?” she asked me. “Oh that’s my scar,” I replied, lifting up the bottom half of my top to reveal what looks like a second belly button and my actual belly button, “It goes all the way down.” “You know,” she says to me, looking closely at the line, “I could easily do a little procedure so you don’t have to see it anymore.”

“Absolutely not,” I tell her, “My scar is my favorite thing about me.”

When I was a baby, I had a very dramatic open heart surgery which I was not supposed to survive. I was 6 pounds at 6 months and none of the doctors thought I was going to make it. Growing up, I was raised with Winnie The Pooh and Babar stories, along with the tale of how my mother had to feed me with a bird feeder and track the ounces with a little notebook she had. I wasn’t allowed to crawl since the doctors had to saw my ribs to get to my heart and the healing was such a process they didn’t want the risk of me falling on my chest. My favorite part of the story was that they put a little patch on my baby heart so that the muscle would grow over. 

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