No, Not Now

The Pulse of Life

March 14, 2012. The pre-operation ward at Royal Victoria Hospital was quiet, the fluorescent lights casting a dull glow over the room. It was 7:30 p.m. I slowly settled into an armchair, looking out at the skyscrapers of downtown Montreal. My sons, Mark, Vittorio, and Kevin, were with me. We sat together, talking, avoiding the heavier topics. No discussions about the risks, no deep dives into medical details, just normal conversation, as if this were any other gathering. In twelve hours, I was scheduled to have open-heart surgery.

They allowed one person to stay overnight with me. Vittorio stayed behind, settling onto the small cot beside my hospital bed. He had made the trip from Toronto and decided to stay the night.

I went through the routine preparations, taking a long shower with the antiseptic chlorhexidine soap they had given me. It was clinical, methodical, one more step toward the inevitable. I was ready for the double bypass surgery. A necessary operation to avoid the worst.

My long-time friend Angelo and his wife, Michelle, took us out for supper the evening before. What did I choose? Sushi! Is it my favorite food? Not really, but I love sushi, and the peaceful atmosphere of Mikado restaurant felt just perfect for this moment. In reality, I didn’t go for my favorite food on purpose, somehow, I just didn’t want it to feel like a ‘last’ meal." We chatted, laughed, and sipped on some sake, I felt confident, maybe even a bit in denial. Angelo and I always laughed; we found humor in everything. That night was no different. We wanted to make it just another fun evening, pretending there was no danger ahead, convincing ourselves there would be many more nights like this to come.

At 10:30 p.m., as I was trying to catch some sleep, my surgeon, Dr. Kevin Lachapelle, unexpectedly walked into the room. I looked at him, surprised.

“Doctor, what are you doing here at this hour?” I asked. “You have a life-threatening surgery to perform at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Please, get a good night’s sleep. I need you fully alert.”

He smiled, exchanged a few reassuring words, and left.

The Morning Of

The night was long and restless. My mind spun in endless loops, Why? What now? What if? I couldn’t quite grasp how I had ended up here, though deep down, I could think of a few reasons. But for every possible cause, there was a contradiction. Maybe I hadn’t exercised enough? But I had run a full marathon just five years ago. Maybe it was my diet? Although I enjoyed good food, I was never into bad food. I knew plenty of people who lived on junk food, drank, and smoked without a single issue. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the stress. Perhaps...

At 7:00 a.m., a gentle, middle-aged nurse arrived.

“Good morning, Mr. Masecchia. How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay?”

She shaved the surgical areas, my chest, arms, and legs for the vein grafts, cleaned me up, and helped me into a hospital gown. Vittorio and I shared a quiet goodbye before she wheeled me toward the operating room.

A sense of detachment from the rest of the world overcame me. It felt like entering a dark tunnel where I could see neither beside me nor in front of me.

Just outside the OR doors, she stopped. A young woman in a white hospital coat leaned over me, her voice calm and steady. It took me a moment to realize she was the anesthesiologist.

I was nervous but had no choice but to surrender. This was out of my hands now.

Let go, I told myself. Just let go and have faith. There’s nothing I can do at this stage.

My life was in the hands of Dr. Lachapelle and his team. I knew what was coming, my heart and lungs would be stopped, replaced by machines, and then, hopefully, brought back to life. I understood the risks. Would my fixed heart restart and keep beating once they reconnected everything? Would I wake up? Would I still be me? My mind spiraled with wild thoughts. Was I done? Would I feel like a car with a broken motor? I had read that one-third of heart surgery patients experience deep depression afterward. Would I be among them, or would I be one of the lucky ones?

At 57, there was still too much left unfinished, too many loose ends, too many words unsaid. I can’t go now. Please, God. If I must leave, then let me come back, somehow, in some way. Maybe in someone else, maybe just as a whisper in the wind. But not now. No, not now. I had spent a lifetime thinking there would always be more time. More moments. More chances. There are things I still need to set right, things I cannot leave unfinished.

She inserted a syringe into my IV line.

“I’m going to have you count for me,” she said.

I started. “One… two… three… four… five…”

That’s all I remember.

I never reached six.

Complete Darkness

Then, in what felt like seconds, I opened my eyes. At first, there was only a void, complete nothingness. Time had vanished, as if I had simply ceased to exist. I had been gone, truly gone, for eight hours.

Is this what dying is like? I wondered. If so, then there is nothing on the other side, just an absence, a silence beyond comprehension. Strangely, the thought wasn’t frightening. It was just… empty.

The first thing I saw was my fiancée, Isolina, standing over me, her face gentle and reassuring.

“It’s over,” she said. “It all went well.”

I was in intensive care, tubes and wires attached to my body like I was going to space.

I blinked, taking it in. Around me were Mark, Kevin, and Vittorio, with my brothers and sisters

Dr. Lachapelle made his way through the room.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I took a slow breath, feeling the weight of everything settle into place.

“Alive,” I said.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He smiled. “Don’t thank me, you’re the hero, not me.”

And so, I closed my eyes, exhaling deeply. No, not now. Not yet.