In Good Hands
Sit with me for a minute, will you, and let me tell you about a dream I had that wasn't really just a dream at all.
First, I have to give you the back story. We were driving through Salt Lake City when Aaron's phone rang. It was a friend from work who had a connection to a PA who worked with an electrophysiologist--a cardiologist who specializes in heart rhythm disorders--who could fit me in for an appointment fast. We were desperate and accepted the next available opening. With that we had inadvertently agreed to see the very doctor who had treated me 25 years earlier. I had not liked him then--we'll just say his bedside manner was lacking--and, sadly, we found we did not like him still. Nevertheless, within a month he made the diagnosis of ARVC, placed an ICD, and referred me to an interventional cardiologist for follow-up care. Over the next two months, Aaron and I both had misgivings; we were both waking up in the middle of the night feeling like I needed to change providers.
At this time, I was being cared for at IMC in Murray, Utah. Our insurance covered most of the services there, but somethings had to be referred to other providers--a pain in the neck. There were other things as well. There had been a hospital admission where my doctors could not be reached, there were test results never delivered to us, and, in general, we felt a lack of urgency surrounding my care. We made the switch to the University of Utah--a decision that made our insurance very happy, but left us unsure.
That's when I had the dream. The one where I was in an empty banquet hall with windows overlooking the city. It was just my family and me when in walked Russell M. Nelson, then president of the LDS church and former renowned heart surgeon and researcher, and his wife. He sat next to me on a padded window seat, placed his hand on my knee and said, "We are aware of what's going on and you are in good hands."
That was it. That was the entirety of the dream. But I woke feeling warmly comforted.
Fast forward a few months and several traumatic events and I found myself waiting for a heart transplant. At that time there were three surgeons at the U performing heart transplants. Your surgeon on the day of your surgery was the luck of the draw. As such, they try to have a consult with at least one, if not all three of the surgeons while you wait for your surgery. I met Dr. Selzman during a particularly grueling two-week admission following a VT storm--an episode of uncontrolled ventricular tachycardia. I was informed I'd be listed for a transplant and then subsequently bombarded with a battery of tests required before listing. I consulted with so many specialists, residents, med students, fellows, technicians, social workers, nurses, the list goes on, that his face was just another one of so many that I barely remember the meeting.
I met another surgeon, Dr. Goodwin, during the following 18 months of my listing. He was friendly, quiet, and seemed confident and passionate about his work. Aaron and I felt that we were, in deed, in good hands.
Then, December 14th, 2023, the call finally came. "Fiauna, we have a heart for you. Are you ready?"
Nothing can prepare you for that call. No matter how many times you've rehearsed it in your head. No matter how many checklists you've crossed off, how many bags you've packed, or how many prayers you've said. When that call comes, you are struck speechless. We made phone calls, gathered our family, had a small Christmas gift exchange--because we had no idea what life might possibly look like on the other side of this day--and headed up the hospital.
During the prep for surgery, which was scheduled for the early hours of December 15th, the staff at the hospital kept telling us how lucky we were because Dr. Selzman was on call that night. Their words were lost on me because by this point I wasn't feeling great; anxiety was taking over and I felt dizzy, nauseous, and weak. I was all too aware that at some point in the next few hours a surgeon I had barely met one time was going to cut into my chest and remove the most vital of organs--my heart--and if things didn't go well. . .
I was also all too aware that for some family somewhere--and I didn't know how near or far that family was--this was the worst night of their lives.
At one point, as the anesthesia team was inserting an arterial line into my arm, my blood pressure started dropping dramatically. I felt myself beginning to lose consciousness. All I could do in that moment was pray silently, "Heavenly Father, please hold me."
I have no recollection of this happening, but Aaron says Dr. Selzman walked into the room and calmly said, "Oh, I know how to fix this," and then he wheeled me off to the operating room.
It wasn't until later, after recovery, while walking the halls of the cardiology unit that I saw the plaque on the wall.
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| Dr. Craig H. Selzman and Pres. Russell M. Nelson |
Then Dr. Selzman shared what it meant to him to be appointed to this professorship. He related that four days earlier, after a long day in the operating room, he discovered that one of his patients needed to go back to surgery. He was tired and disappointed, knowing he would have to spend another night in the hospital.
This evening, Dr. Selzman had a life-changing conversation with himself. In the moment, he thought: “On Friday, I will be appointed to a professorship named after Dr. Nelson. He was always known as someone who kept his emotions in check, treated everyone with respect, and never lost his temper. Now that my name will be linked with his, I need to try to be more like him.” Dr. Selzman was already a very considerate surgeon. But he wanted to become even better.In the past, his surgical team might have been aware of his fatigue and frustration because he may have let it show in his manner and tone of voice. But in the operating room that night, Dr. Selzman made a conscientious effort to be especially supportive and understanding of his team. He felt it made a difference and resolved to continue trying to be more like Dr. Nelson.
It's been almost two years since my transplant, and more than a year and a half since my last follow-up visit with Dr. Selzman. There's this odd intimacy one feels, a connection, to their surgeon--especially one who has held their heart in their hands. My life depended on Dr. Selzman's skill. We are all so glad he prevailed. But I do have to say that there's a weird sort of vacancy left behind when that relationship ends. Like, how can such a monumental day for our family be just another day for him and his staff? And, yet, that's exactly how it feels.
When I visit the clinic, have a procedure, a surgery, a hospital admission, or an appointment, I usually come away feeling like a number. Not like a human. And certainly not like my story matters. This isn't an uncommon experience in the patient community. (Now, before you get upset, healthcare workers--I see you. I was once a healthcare worker myself. I know what it's like: the long hours, the lack of support, the relatively low wages.) When I don't feel seen or valued, I have difficulty advocating for myself. And self-advocacy matters. Feeling safe and feeling like you matter is an important factor in good outcomes in healthcare.
Then came Elder Renlund's conference talk. Before the talk but after the surgery, I had learned about the professional award Dr. Selzman had received. I had accepted that he had learned maybe some clinical information, maybe some surgical technique, things my lay mind wouldn't understand. And I knew that the award provided some sort of financial benefit. That was all nice, that made me feel good--that in and of itself felt miraculous enough. But when I heard the lessons he learned about character, calm, and respect from "Dr. Nelson," well, that changed everything.
I felt seen. I felt safe. Then I understood that the dream I'd had wasn't just meant to calm my mind or confirm a choice I'd made. While it definitely helped, it wasn't solely just to ease my anxiety during a crisis or while I waited for a transplant.
In that moment I felt loved by a Father in Heaven who knows all things and prepares a way. He was holding me just as I had asked--from the start. I was in the very best of hands.
His hand is in all things. If you can't see it, look for it. What you look for, you will find.
And that is my story of a dream that really wasn't just a dream after all.
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