A   routine visit to the doctor for a sinus infection set off a series of events I could not have imagined or foreseen. I had no warning signs. 
I am writing this in the hope my experience will give courage and hope to others who find themselves in the same position. To give them the strength to get through the darkest days. They will pass.
I'm not special. Just one of many who have gone through a similar experience. 
When the doctor finished listening to my chest he told me I had a heart murmur. This was news to me. He recommended I have an echocardiogram. 
Even as I was having the echo test I had no idea what would evolve. When the cardiologist  told me I needed open heart surgery immediately to replace my aortic heart valve, I went into shock. Severe aortic stenosis. A bicuspid valve with two leaves instead of the normal three. This was a congenital heart condition that had never been picked up. I had no symptoms but instead of the normal 3.5cm valve opening, mine was only 0.6. Dangerous and life-threatening. I was a walking time bomb.
I was tired, but who wouldn't be caring for three grandchildren under three years of age? Even though I exercised regularly, puffing my way up steep hills had seemed to be a normal physical response. 
Still in shock and denial, I set about finding the best cardiologist and surgeon in Perth. After speaking with trusted doctors and medical specialists two names were at the top of my list -  cardiologist Professor David Playford and surgeon Dr Rob Larbalestier. Both confirmed my worst fear. Surgery was needed and no time should be wasted.
My final visit to the cardiologist before surgery resulted in me being admitted  early with surgery brought forward. I was as prepared as I could be, even though I had no idea of the enormity of open heart surgery. 
I knew I was in good hands and staff at the Mount Hospital all seemed to regard my surgeon as a "rock star". He even had the nickname "Golden Hands".
The only time I had been to hospital was for the birth of my two children. I took no medications, didn't drink much alcohol and lived a  healthy life.
 Being prepared for major surgery was surreal. I put my faith in God and looked out the window praying that by the same time next week I would be looking out at the same view as the sun rose. I was expecting to spend two days in intensive care before another five to seven days on the cardiology ward in recovery.
Things did not go to plan.
My aortic valve was replaced and the surgeon told my husband everything had gone well. It was a Saturday morning. The surgeon left to go shopping. 
Two hours later he was called back  because I had started bleeding. There was a massive blood transfusion. They operated  again and another valve was inserted. My husband received the news that I hadn't suffered any brain damage. The surgeon told him that I'd given him grey hairs. It was his first complication after 1200 successful similar operations. Some 12 hours later I was back in intensive care.
And here's where my story really begins, because without the beautiful souls who work in that area, I would not have survived. Physically or emotionally. One angel stands out. Her name was Shree and I will never forget her voice, her words or her gentle touch. Her encouragement and her desire to maintain my dignity under the most awful circumstances. Shree was my angel.
"Please don't worry," she said. "We are here to help you. Don't worry about a thing. It's not good for your heart. Please don't cry. I am here."
When I said I wasn't prepared for the enormity of open heart surgery, it's probably because no one could be prepared for it. Reading the material given before admission cannot give you an insight into the excruciating pain you are about to endure. Doctors and hospital staff constantly tell you heart surgery is very emotional. You will be depressed. You will cry. It is your heart which has been in their hands. Literally.
I spent five days in ICU and when I was back on the ward  suffering all sorts of pain and fear my surgeon said to me, "Your heart didn't like being in my big paws".
You will also be told that everyone is different. Some people recover more quickly than others. In my case, having two operations didn't help. My cardiologist said my recovery would be slower than first thought.
 F irst, there is the pain in the sternum. Your breastbone has been cut through. Then your ribs have been folded back. "Like a chicken," someone said to me. Your lungs have collapsed. You will have to learn to breathe again. Something you once took for granted is now a challenge. 
I want to share what happens in the first stages of recovery because there were so many times I was petrified I would not live through it. All I could think of was my family who needed me so much, my beautiful friends and everyone I wanted to see again.  I was so grateful to be alive.
This gratitude got me through. This great love for those so close to me. The will to live which we hear about so often but can only understand when we've experienced the prospect of death.
The first time I looked in a mirror six days after surgery, I was horrified. I did not recognise my own reflection. It was not just the shocking wound on my chest. Not the many tubes coming from my neck, nostrils, chest and stomach. It was something else. Something I can't even define. I felt as if I'd lost myself. This was the start of a long road back. There were tears, fear and unrelenting pain. There was  overwhelming tiredness.  I was told I would have good days and bad days. Just as I would feel some progress, I would be pulled back into the abyss, leaving me feeling helpless and scared.
In that first week I experienced a common occurrence for those who undergo this surgery. Strange dreams. My first dreams were in technicolour. Glorious, hallucinogenic-like scenarios. There were parties in beautiful gardens and glittering fairy forests. My friends were there. We were deliriously happy. Dancing and laughing. 
And then the nightmares. Horrific dreams with wild beasts. Helplessness. Ugliness and fear. They passed eventually.
I could not turn over in bed. I could not lay on my side. I could not even move up the bed. The pain was too great. Thank God for the nursing staff.  Some, such as Shree, remain in my thoughts and heart. They don't even realise the greatness of their acts. The selflessness in caring for strangers. These are the people who should be respected.
Then there are the milestones after open heart surgery - your first shower unaided, your first steps. Finally being able to walk the corridor of the cardiac ward saying hello to your peers with a knowing nod. A shared bond. We are the survivors. We bear the same scar. 
In my mind I wanted to walk again, to be strong and healthy. But my body wasn't always in sync. A feeling of failure engulfed me. Some days it would have been easy to let go and float away on the river of tears inside of me.
Heatpacks became my best friends. The pain in my back was sometimes so great I felt I could not endure it. Something as simple as heat made it bearable. I brought in my own doonas. One for below me and one to cover me. So much softer and lighter than the hospital blankets. A real comfort in a time when comfort was needed.
I spent three weeks in hospital before returning home in time for Christmas. This was not our usual Christmas with the traditional trappings of hot roast dinner, lavishly set table and over-indulgence. Just a simple affair with seafood and lots of love.
Something I'd taken for granted my whole life was not possible during the early days of recovery. I couldn't cook. Lifting anything in or out of the oven wasn't possible. Lifting my precious grandchildren was also not possible for the first few months.
But I could give instructions and with the help of others, family meals soon returned to normal. It was the one thing I really enjoyed. New recipes became a nightly affair. Cooking was something of a saviour. As was walking around the house. Up and down the hall, around the kitchen and out to the back door.  Then, tentative walks to the letterbox and one wondrous day, I  walked to the end of our street. Physio exercises are also part of my daily routine.
After six weeks, my surgeon gave me the all clear to drive. What an amazing feeling that was. Not having to be dependent on others. My first furtive trips to the shop were like winning a luxury trip to Tahiti. The freedom was delicious. But these were only straight road trips with no tricky parking involved. My chest was still very tender. That pain took about 10 weeks to subside, and as I write at 11 weeks into recovery, it can still flare up if I overdo it.
Finally, joyfully, I got off all the horrible medication. I was grateful it kept me alive during those fragile weeks of recovery, but so happy to be free of it.
I still have strange sensations at times. Still have pain flare up for no apparent reason. These are the moments of doubt. But then I remind myself of how far I've come. It is a miracle. I look forward to a full recovery. To returning to normal life with a greater zest than ever.
The scar, which was the least of my worries, has healed nicely. It's still quite raw, but I'm told that by next summer it will just be a white line.
 A small price to pay for the gift of life. The gift of being with my loved ones. The opportunity to make a contribution. To be creative. To hopefully somehow make a difference. 
 I was petrified I would not live through it.