Heart Warrior: The Part Where We Survive It
- 6 days ago
- 8 min read
Looking back on the last month, life has been a bit crazy; prepping for Tucker’s surgery, squeezing in a knee scope for myself (because why not add a little spice), shipping the other kids off for spring break, and trying to pretend work could just…pause…in early spring. I can finally say I’m damn grateful to be on the other side of it.
And honestly? The anticipation leading up to surgery was just as brutal as the five hours during it. Different flavor of awful, same punch to the gut.
We sat in that waiting room trying to distract ourselves while my brother Ryan did his best to keep things light and not think about what was going on in the operating room. Meanwhile, in the back of all of our brains, we were trying really hard not to think about the fact that Tucker’s heart was on bypass. Which, for the record, I didn’t fully understand until way too late in the game. Maybe for the best.
If you don’t know what that means, cool, neither did I. It means a machine is working as your kid's heart, so the surgeons can fix it. His heart was basically…offline…for about 45 minutes.
Yeah.
Nope.
Hard pass.
Don’t think about it.
So instead, we sat there refreshing our phones like psychos, waiting for that update that he was through that part. Time moved like a broken clock—slow, painful, and borderline offensive.
We scrolled through social media posts and texts from all of you. Our people, wearing Heart Warrior hats and shirts, showed up for Tucker in the best way. Reminding us we weren’t sitting in that room alone, even if it felt like it.
While we were waiting impatiently, we heard from Auntie Shelley that a local radio station had heard Tucker's story! Our friend, Kristen, who works at the station (KIQX), was wearing the Heart Warrior shirt, and the DJ asked what it was about. Being a small community, where we live, he was intrigued by the story of Tucker and his journey. He dedicated an hour on surgery day to “Songs for Tucker.” We listened to Jake at KIQX, 101.3 in Durango, with tears in our eyes, knowing we had so many people behind us and thinking about us through this.
The music requested were songs about grit, strength, love, all the things we were clinging to in that moment. Our community showed up in a way that still knocks the wind out of me. People called in that we didn’t know, but had gone through their own hardship and shared their strength. Just…so amazed and heartfelt by our community.
And then finally—we got the word. He was off bypass. It wasn’t over, but at least his heart was beating again. Think about that, his heart beating again. Fuck. On second thought, don’t think about that.
Five hours. Open heart surgery. And it was a success.
I’m not going to get into the surgical play-by-play (if you want that, message me and we can go full Grey’s Anatomy together). What I do want to talk about is how unbelievably incredible the Children’s Hospital of Colorado and the Ronald McDonald House are, because they carried us in ways I didn’t even know we’d need.
Children’s is this weird mix of amazing and heartbreaking. It’s the best place you never want to have to go. Every hallway reminds you how many kids are fighting battles way bigger than they should have to. But it’s also exactly where you want to be when it’s your kid.
We met a kiddo on our “tour of the hospital”/pre-op day who had a full heart transplant. A new heart! Poor kiddo was Tucker’s age. Thankful.
The doctors, nurses, support staff- top to bottom- they’re just…next level. They don’t just treat your child, they take care of you, too.
We learned a lot while we were there. Some useful, some hilarious, some slightly unhinged, but here is what we brought with us and what we wished we had.
Bring your own stuff. Real soap, shampoo, lotion—because hospital toiletries will humble you real fast.
We stayed in Tucker’s room the whole time, by choice, not requirement. If you go that route, bring anything that makes that parent “bed” feel less like a medieval punishment device. Blankets, pillows…honestly, an egg carton wouldn’t be the worst idea. Those hospital blankets? Basically, paper towels with commitment issues.
Keep your kid busy: video games, books, fidgets, whatever works, because idle time is the enemy. And shoutout to Sharon, our hospital program coordinator, who went above and beyond. She gave us a full tour, brought Tucker gifts, pointed us to the Family Resource Room, and somehow made an un-homey place feel a little more like home.
Pro tip: the Family Resource Room has a private shower and a massage chair—aka a chance for a much-needed parent reset. The only catch? Timing. Make sure nothing big is happening with your kiddo before you sneak away. I finally got my moment, sat down, and completely broke down in full cry mode. Five minutes later, I get the call: Tucker’s chest tubes were coming out in 15. So it was a quick shower, pull it together, and right back to his side to hold his hand.
If you can, take advantage of the private parent rooms. You won’t always get one, but when you do, it’s a dark, quiet space with a real bed and bathroom; basically, luxury in hospital terms. We took turns so we could actually sleep, because in the room, you’re not sleeping. There are constant vitals, nurses coming in, and beeping… so much beeping. You do eventually learn that most of it is just a sensor being dramatic and learn how to quiet the alarm until the nurse comes in.
Pro tip: call after 9 pm the night before to request a private room. You leave a message and find out the next afternoon if you got one. ICU families tend to have better odds. At Children’s Hospital of CO, call (720) 777-6053
Use the fridge. Eat real food when you can. Your body will thank you after day three of cafeteria roulette.
Lean on your nurses. Ask questions. Advocate. Praise the good ones, because they deserve it. And for the love of all things holy, don’t pull the emergency cord in the bathroom unless you really mean it. Ask us how we know.
Explore what’s available, because there’s a lot. Bingo through the Seacrest Studio, goodie bags, activities, and the Tween Room, which Tucker basically considered his personal Disneyland once he could finally get up and move. That place was pure motivation.
The Cardiac floor even hosted a lunch for parents, simple stuff like salads and sandwiches, but it meant more than you’d think. They also handed out goodie bags for heart moms like me, filled with little things that somehow made you feel a whole lot less alone.
Also, be there for your kiddo. Like, really there. Help them sit up, walk, and go to the bathroom. Hold their hand. Kiss their forehead. (Turns out I have my mom’s built-in thermometer skill—nailed it every time.) You’re their safe place in a situation that’s scary as hell.
Be a part of “rounds”. Yes, it’s just like the Pitt when the docs go around and talk about each patient like they aren’t listening. Listen. Ask questions. And don’t be afraid to speak up. If something feels off, say something. If you’re not ready to leave, say it. You know your kid.
When it’s time to leave, bring a cart, because somehow you arrived with one bag and are now moving out like you’ve lived there for months. Between the gifts, toys, snacks, and everything your kiddo accumulates, it adds up fast. Also, take anything that’s been opened or used; they will toss it anyway. Restock your first aid kit while you’re at it. Probably not officially encouraged, but shit… paid for it.
Walking out of the hospital felt like a mix between a victory lap and a slightly unhinged jailbreak. One minute you’ve got a full team of professionals keeping your kid alive, and the next they’re like, “Alright, you’re good; drive safe!” Excuse me…we’re in charge now?? We rolled out with a ridiculous amount of stuff, a kid fresh off open heart surgery, and a confidence level that felt wildly undeserved. No monitors, no backup, just us and a stack of instructions like, “don’t screw this up.”
Equal parts relief, gratitude, and holy shit…they really just let us leave.
Then there’s the Ronald McDonald House.
Before all of this, I had heard of it, but I didn’t get it. Not until we walked through those doors.
It’s not just a place to stay. It’s a full-on exhale.
We got connected through the Durango Derailers, who helped get the ball rolling, and the hospital staff made sure we were taken care of the whole way through. We stayed before surgery and after, until we were cleared to finally head home.
Meals made by volunteers (and no, not McDonald’s), a warm bed, your own space, a kitchen, a playroom, a laundry room, and support everywhere you turn.
Vouchers for things like the aquarium or zoo, if you need to escape for a minute and pretend life is normal.
It’s a home when you’re very far from yours. Everyone there has a story. A place to talk to other families going through their own journey.
And the best part? It took one massive weight off our shoulders during a time when everything already felt heavy.
We’re almost 5 weeks out, trying to catch up in work, life, and everything in between. Tucker is already trying to negotiate his way back into full-contact life like he didn’t just have his chest opened up and put back together. The kid feels good, too good, which is both the biggest blessing and the most stressful plot twist.
He was out there casually juggling a soccer ball like, “I think I’m ready,” and I’m like…you are absolutely not ready, sir. Your sternum is still in its “please don’t do anything stupid” era. The hard part isn’t getting him moving; it’s reining him in. Constant reminders that this is temporary.
Eight weeks. That’s it. Eight weeks to lay low, heal right, and not undo what a whole team of surgeons just worked their asses off to fix. We are beyond thankful he feels this good—but also, I did not survive that waiting room just for you to go full send too early. Sit down.
T-minus 24 days and counting to be "cleared". Still waiting to learn what that means.
If I had to wrap all of this up into something that makes sense, it’s this:
This whole experience was hard. Like, really hard. The kind of hard that rearranges you a little.
But we didn’t do it alone.
We had the best medical team we could have asked for. We had a place to land when we needed it most. Our family by our side. And we had a community that showed up in ways I’ll never fully be able to put into words.
Tucker may be the Heart Warrior—but he’s surrounded by an army.
And now that we’re on the other side of it, we’re carrying a whole lot of gratitude…a little bit of trauma…and a deep appreciation for every single person who helped us get through it.
Also, next time life offers up a five-hour surgery and a knee scope in the same month?
I’m gonna go ahead and decline.
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