My father now walks around with six miniscule pieces of titanium lodged inside the once-clogged arteries of his 68-year-old heart.
Last Wednesday, my dad was wheeled inside an operating room with a barrage of flat screens and a giant revolving x-ray. It was a scene straight out of Grey's Anatomy, minus the perennially heartbroken surgeons—I hope!
It was a procedure that took the better of three hours with the surgeons expertly maneuvering what to me looked like a very, very long piece of string pierced through my father's right thigh weaving through his veins until finally reaching the dark cavern of his heart.
My father was awake throughout the whole procedure. Every so often, I'd see him talking to one of the doctors. At one point, I thought he was grimacing in pain. But it turned out that he was just feeling a little antsy because he's not supposed to move his right leg.
From the black and white screen, everything seemed safe and sound and secure. But the day before, one of my best friends Dr. A had told me that the procedure was a delicate one. And so, I did the only thing I could, I prayed.
After weaving six stents into his arteries, some longer than the others, the doctors were finally satisfied, and gave the OK sign that everything was going to be fine.
A couple of minutes later, my father was back in his room, still feeling a little groggy, but already with a tinge more color on his profile.
My father has six miniscule pieces of titanium lodged inside the arteries of his heart, clearing the way for blood to weave in and out of its chambers, slowly but quite surely becoming part of his own flesh and blood, hopefully enabling him to enjoy a longer life.