Before May 6th, 1953, there was a word for a person whose heart was not beating, and whose lungs contained little to no air.
"Dead" is what they called it.
That was just a bit more than a decade before I was born.
By that definition, July 9th, 2013 was quite literally the first day of the rest of my life.
That morning, at my request, my heart was stopped, my lungs collapsed, that same heart was cut open, my mitral valve was modified, and then the heart was stitched back together, with an additional teflon ring and metal clip contained therein.1
It still dumbfounds me that I am able to sit here and type this.
This morning, my wife greeted me with “Happy Heart Start Day!”.
I’m a pretty lucky one-year-old.
Having my breastbone sawn in half, then wired and clamped back together, was one of the less traumatic things to happen to me that day. ↩