Unlike many children born with significant health conditions, growing up was easy. I was never really conscious of the fact that my health was an issue, or was even something that needed any extra amount of attention from anyone. Yes, my blue health booklet in primary school was always much thicker than those belonging to my classmates, but I only ever saw that file once a year. Sure, I could not run up and down the football field like the other boys in P.E, but staying put in the opponent’s penalty box meant I scored more goals than most and was always one of the first names to be called in schoolyard picks. And yes, I had a scar running down my chest but I always wore it as a proud battle scar and never once felt like I had to be embarrassed by it, let alone hide it.

In fact, “Tetralogy of Fallot” was never a condition that I felt I had. Instead, it was just something I was supposed to tell people I had. Because that’s what the doctor’s letters said I had and because Mummy insisted that these people needed to be “sounded out”.

Fortunately, I was able to work around my physical limitations such that it never bothered me much nor restricted the things I wanted to do. I was just about skilled enough in the sports I liked such that my lack of stamina never left me at a disadvantage. I developed my talents in other areas; debating, drama and writing, and was good enough in these fields to excel and achieve. If anything, the restrictions on my physical activity meant that I had no choice but to pursue things that I was naturally good at.

It was not until mid 2013, when I was all of 23 years old, that I was finally forced to confront my condition for the first time. As someone who led an active life, was halfway through university and having tons of fun along the way, having to go for heart surgery was definitely not something I thought was going to be something I had to contend with. With excellent surgeons, wonderful doctors, countless prayers by people who loved me and a bit of luck along the way, I was in and out of hospital in six days.

Mission Accomplished. Disaster Averted. Back in Business.

Except that barely six months later, I was back in a hospital bed waiting to go for another open-heart surgery the next morning. Somehow, I developed another condition after the previous surgery and now needed another one. Unfortunately, this time was not as easy as the first. Almost a month in ICU and about five weeks in hospital later, I was finally allowed to go home. Even then, I had barely recovered. Movement was tough, simple tasks were chores and life, as I knew it, was basically at a standstill. Although both mind and body had taken a beating, I was at least comforted by the fact that the worst was by then over. Looking back and trying to recall interesting details to write about, I am reminded that I do not recall much about those several months. There are memorable enough incidents that I can remember but for the most part, everything exists in a chunk that I my mind has labeled “heart surgery, 2014”. This experience is akin to the box buried right at the back of your storeroom- you know its there and you remember rough details about it, but you struggle to remember what exactly it contains.

In the months since, the many people asking me what I take away from this experience and what I learnt from it has forced me to actually give this question some thought. The answer is simple.

The one thing I learnt about myself is that I am capable of immense weakness, yet it is in this immense weakness that you find immense strength. To be honest, I never thought it was possible for me to be as weak as I was in the aftermath of surgery. Perhaps it is a function of having lived a fairly hassle free life and then breezing through the previous operation but I never thought I would have been physically unable to turn my body in bed, to be incapable of eating solid food or to have to learn to walk again after surgery.

The weakness I experienced was unexpected, incomprehensible at the time and hopefully, a once in a lifetime experience. Yet, having gone through all that and now once again leading an active, normal life, I now know there is little that can faze me. Afterall, I’ve been the weakest of weak and at the lowest of lows and managed to somehow pull through. It was not without help; doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, parents, family and friends all played a huge part in helping me along. Maybe there is a bigger lesson here; that we draw strength from the people around us as well.

I was fortunate to have that support system around me, and that is something I will always be grateful for. Yet for those who don’t, the lesson remains the same. You are stronger than you think you are.

Contributed by:
Kumar (CHAPPS members)