Two summers ago, I took a trip to Italy. I wasn’t feeling like myself, and I knew there had to be something wrong with my health. Upon arriving home, the news came. This is where my series begins. I was informed that I had about 70 percent regurgitation on the mitral valve of my heart, which meant the valve was leaking blood abnormally. Surgery was inevitable for this 44-year-old. Local doctors said I could wait and just replace the valve, but I’d have a life-long dependence on Coumadin, the blood thinner that so many are already dependent on. Experts across the country advised me differently. They reported that I had 1-to-3 months to get the repair surgery done, or the damage would be too far-gone to be fixed.
Da Vinci’s Francesca represents my uncertainty at this time. I didn’t quite know what the right answer was. If I chose to get the surgery, I’d have to do it immediately, and there was no guarantee that it would be a success. If I chose not to get the surgery, my life would be at risk. The faulty valve could blow at any time, bleeding out into my lungs. They call it drowning in your blood. I didn’t want to be a ticking time bomb. In the end, I decided to have the repair surgery. November 8th, 2006 was scheduled as the day of my surgery. Kisses were given and then off to California I went. Still in denial, I brought papers to the hospital to work on while I was recovering.The day of surgery, after regaining consciousness, I thought I was dead. I lay there with the ventilator breathing for me because my lungs were not strong enough to take over yet. My younger sister was sitting in the room with me. I snapped a pen on a clipboard to get her attention. I tried to write her a message, but found I could not move my hand to form the letters that I wanted to write. It took me a while to realize that I had made it through the surgery, and that this was not the welcoming committee to some other place. It wasn’t until 9 months later that the memories of this day actually surfaced as whole pictures. Vomiting attacks while on the respitory ventilator put me at risk for a heart attack just after surgery. I now see these images like scenes from a movie instead of visual slivers of glass shooting at me randomly.
Van Gogh’s Francesca represents the day after open-heart surgery. The image of Van Gogh was a self-portrait he made shortly after attempting suicide. The look in his eyes mirrored mine. I knew that deep feeling of despair and was moved to study the depression of other artists as well. My “Modigliani, Van Gogh and Lautrec Blues” series evolved as a result of my inquisitions.
Matisse’s Francesca symbolizes my stripped body and shows the many marks of entry and violation that occurred daily at the hospital. Needles of Heparin were inserted into my stomach. IVs protruded from the topside of my hands, wrists, shoulders and everywhere else they could be inserted. After a while some veins would collapse, scar and say, “NO MORE!” On top of that, I was subjected to many painful procedures. There was the TransEsophageal Echo, or TEE procedure, in which you must swallow a tube as thick as a magic marker. Then you relax for an hour while they guide this tube up and down your throat taking photos of your heart along the way. Another procedure involves threading jumper cables directly into your heart after surgery. As thick as dental floss, they just hung from my chest. They are a necessity though because 1 out of 5 people have problems with their heart rhythms after surgery. What they don’t tell you though is that they come in a few days after the surgery and literally YANK the wires through your skin. You feel the string YANK at your heart. I asked many questions after that and would no longer allow anyone to touch me without fully explaining to me what he or she was going to do. I asked, “Does it hurt?” They responded, “It’s just a little uncomfortable.” I would then ask if anyone had ever received drugs for the pain before. They responded that some people were given an injection of Morphine. Once I heard that answer I honestly responded with, “Fucking A, are you kidding? Get the morphine!” Then we would proceed.
Pollock’s Francesca represents my fear of hemorrhaging after my Coumadin dose was raised to 20 milligrams a day. My body was resistant, and national experts were contacted on the matter. The local doctors I was dealing with had never given anyone over 12 milligrams a day, but they really had no choice. My numbers were not improving. I had suffered 3 mini strokes, one in my left eye and two in my left arm. There was no other option but to increase my dosage. I asked Roz, my roommate, to check me every night when she got up to use the bathroom. I instructed her to check my eyes and nose for any hemorrhaging just in case the nurses had missed it. Need I say more…?
Miro’s Francesca was painted to signify the weeks following my second discharge. So far there were no new complications. Finally, I was able to go home. That night I tucked my 6-year-old in for the first time in a long time. Little did I know that I would be ordered back to the hospital that very night. I suffered Ventricular Tachycardia, which meant my heart was pounding at 183 beats for every 11 rhythms. Most people would either have flat-lined with a 20-minute window of opportunity to be saved, or they would have died immediately. My athletic body was able to sustain the serious rhythm, but my mental psyche could not. This was the start of a severe, “not wanting to live any longer” stage in my life. My beautiful, loving 20 -year-old took over for me during this time. She parented her 6-year-old sister and me. I wouldn’t leave my apartment. I wouldn’t drive or shower. Even the thoughts of my girls were not strong enough to make me want to live.
Picasso’s Francesca started when my phobia of snakes everywhere started. Shadows would make me jump, and any sudden contact, noise or movement would make me scream in sheer terror. I went into intensive outpatient depression therapy and cardio rehabilitation. Over time the emotional pain grew. My mind started to fragment and disassociate. This continued so I finally agreed to start taking antidepressants for the first time in my life. By late summer I started noticing my lack of personal hygiene and began to do something about it. Getting out of the house, driving by myself and venturing out to limited events helped to improve my mindset, but I still felt like my mental health was cracking.
Toulouse-Lautrec’s Francesca was when I started suffering severe pains that made me panic and lash out. I started getting tattoos to alleviate the pain I felt. At the time, I wanted to stick a knife into my stomach. Knowing that that was not rational, I started getting my 20-year-old daughter to take me to get tattoos. My sisters, Marie and Gwen, took my 6-year-old daughter to stay with them for about 2 weeks. I decided it would be the perfect time for me to admit myself to a mental hospital for a complete breakdown. I aggressively practiced my Soka Gakkai International Buddhism, a practice that promotes a positive transformation in the depth’s of an individual’s life. I learned this method the summer prior in Italy. Through this I fought the trauma and health obstacles that Lautrec had also suffered from.
Just before that I was researching Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I had been diagnosed with it after a brief, but violent relationship. I asked my cardio doctor to find me a specialist for PTSD.
Dali’s Francesca was the blessed day I met Martha, my PTSD specialist and psychologist. I called her saying that I needed to be admitted because I wanted to hurt myself again. She talked to me about Body Memory Flashbacks, which is a theory that suggests that the body, not just the brain, is capable of storing memories from traumatic events. Symptoms include flashbacks, emotional responses, pain, or other sensations, generally associated with certain triggers. What she was explaining to me was in fact what I was experiencing. I researched on the Internet and accepted a prescription for a tranquillizer. I needed to calm my violent reactions when a flashback was occurring. I spent the next few weeks recovering memories from my entire childhood that I had buried and never remembered before. The first 12 years of my life had been pretty much a blur. I couldn’t remember my house, my bedroom and not much of anything else. I just accepted that as the way it was. I did remember thinking that our father might kill us at any time, and I remembered praying as a small child for God to take him when he beat up our mother. I realized at this time what I was trying to outrun and it had caught up with me. Dali’s image spoke to me because I needed to numb myself when these raging emotions first arrived. My bedroom appeared in my mind’s eye. It was eccentrically painted and decorated, as my mother was an artist too. It’s sad to think that only now, at 45, can I remember this. The next step in the process was to enter into Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) for hypnotic treatment. This procedure is used to resolve symptoms resulting from a traumatic event. Themes of violence and trauma I had experienced throughout my life were first grouped together. Next we found the associations between these traumas and then related them with entirely new meanings.
This leads to the last piece in my series, Modigliani’s Francesca. I have been struggling with this for some time. It is apparent to me now that I need to manage my complex PTSD seriously and cautiously. Flashbacks still come. I have to identify that that is what they are and assess any current danger. Usually, I remove myself from any traffic or street corner and breathe when they occur. Smelling a cotton ball with perfume, popping strong mint candies into my mouth and pinching myself are good ways to get grounded and centered. I have to realize I am where I am and not back in the dangerous situation. If my emotional pains continue strong enough, then I get myself home to tell someone and take my tranquilizer while doing so. I can suffer after an event for several days so most likely I cancel any appointments that I have and use the time to rest. The white tornado, as I have been called, is not only changing, but evolving as well. I believe that in sharing my story I will be able to inspire others to face their fears with professional help. In parting, I will go forward on a part-time basis, as that is all I can handle right now.
I will not fight my memories anymore, but accept them for what they are. I hope my art will move you as such. The end.
Written by Francesca Owens October 17, 2007,
Edited by Alex Batka
University of Missouri, School of Journalism
