From ICU to Recovery: Pain, Progress, and Perspective
I spent one night in the intensive care unit. The next morning, I was transferred to a regular hospital room. That was the first time I truly felt the intensity of post-operative pain—when I tried to sit up from the bed and move into a wheelchair. The nurses supported me, guiding each movement, and that’s when I fully realized how many things were still attached to me.
Three large drainage tubes were coming out of my chest, connected to a unit I could hold in one hand. The urinary catheter was still in place. Every movement hurt—but the pain eased once I settled into position.
Back in bed, they gave me a rope fixed to the end of the bed frame. I could use it to pull myself into a sitting position. That first day, I mostly lay down, but by nightfall, I had gained enough strength to sit up and rest at the edge of the bed. I started to walk around the bed. Breathing was uncomfortable. I couldn’t take deep breaths—only shallow ones.
I remember thinking: This is my tenth day in hospital care. And I knew I’d be here at least four or five more before being transferred to a rehabilitation unit, where I’d spend another three weeks. It felt terrifyingly long. The thought of being away from my wife for so many days made me quietly sad.
The next day, they removed the urinary catheter. I was able to start walking short distances—slow, careful steps. My chest felt tight, fragile. Regular walking helped. Bit by bit, my lungs began to open up again. On the third day after surgery, the chest drains were removed. On the fourth, they took out a small wire from my chest—what they called a defibrillation wire, attached directly to my heart.
None of the removals were painful, except for the last drainage tube. That one brought more than discomfort—but it was brief. One deep breath, and it was out.
By the fourth day, I had started using the stairs. One level up, rest a bit, then carry on. It was slow, but it turned out to be crucial.
The day before my planned discharge, I underwent a chest X-ray and a heart ultrasound. The ultrasound was fine. But the X-ray revealed a small air pocket in my lung. The doctors explained that if it didn’t shrink by the next day, I couldn’t be transferred. They’d need to perform another surgery to remove it.
I was devastated. The thought of being cut open again was unbearable.
So I pushed myself. I did even more stair exercises that day, hoping movement would help my lungs re-expand. And when they repeated the X-ray the next morning, there was visible improvement. The air pocket had shrunk. I was given the green light to proceed to rehabilitation.
Day by day, I felt stronger.
It kept me wondering: How fragile is the human body—and yet, how incredibly resilient? Just days ago, a surgeon held my heart in his hands. It was cut open. Repaired. Sewn back together. And here I was, regaining strength with each sunrise.
The human body is unbelievable.
On the sixth day, I was discharged to a rehabilitation hospital.
Why Rehabilitation Matters After CABG
Rehabilitation after coronary artery bypass graft (CABG) surgery is not just a recovery phase—it’s a vital continuation of treatment. The surgery may restore blood flow to the heart, but it also places the body under immense physical stress. Muscles weaken, flexibility diminishes, and even basic movements can feel foreign. Rehabilitation helps rebuild strength, restore mobility, and retrain the body to function safely and efficiently. It also supports lung recovery through breathing exercises and improves circulation through gentle movement. Beyond the physical, rehab offers emotional and psychological support, helping patients regain confidence and independence. Structured rehabilitation reduces the risk of future heart problems and empowers patients to take ownership of their long-term health.
“There Are More Things in Heaven and Earth…”
I have a nephew. He trained as an electrician, but he wanted more—something beyond wires and circuits. He decided to pursue higher education. His father, a very successful business owner, encouraged him to study IT and get a diploma in programming. It seemed like a logical path. But after a year, he left the course. It didn’t satisfy him. Programming wasn’t his calling.
Instead, he felt drawn to healthcare.
He applied to a medical school, and his father wasn’t happy about the decision. But I saw it differently. I believe there’s something deeply respectful—even noble—about dedicating your life to serving and helping others. Everyone should choose work that aligns with their passion, something that brings personal satisfaction and joy. That’s where true fulfillment lives.
I lost touch with him for years. But about a year before my surgery, I heard he was finishing his thesis. He had chosen to become a physiotherapist—and his thesis title? Rehabilitation after CABG surgery.
He was learning a unique technique from a Dutch specialist. Even before securing a full-time job, he was invited to speak at professional events as a guest lecturer. And then, life took another turn.
When he finally got a job, it was at the very same rehabilitation hospital where I was transferred after my surgery.
I was among the second group of patients he ever trained.
What are the odds?
Life is more than we can understand. Sometimes it offers us small nuggets of information—quiet clues—long before we’re able to connect the dots. If we had the sensitivity to interpret these gentle messages, what might we achieve? What paths might we follow?
This goes beyond logic. Beyond coincidence. It touches the edge of something else—something that feels supernatural.
The Birth of BYH Wellness
And so, we arrive at the root of BYH Wellness—the story of origin.
During my time in rehabilitation, alongside physical exercises like walking and stair training, I was also signed up for non-invasive treatments: PEMF therapy, massage, and TENS. These weren’t fringe ideas or mystical experiments—they were part of the hospital’s standard protocol. My nephew, now a trained physiotherapist, and I had long discussions about these therapies. He had studied them in depth, and what we talked about wasn’t theory—it was practice. These treatments were being used daily in rehabilitation hospitals, with documented success across a wide range of conditions.
The hospital specialized in cardiology and musculoskeletal rehabilitation. PEMF therapy was particularly prominent, used to enhance microcirculation, reduce pain, and calm inflammation. Ultrasonic devices were also in use for similar purposes. My nephew mentioned that some hospitals had begun integrating low-level laser therapy, though unfortunately, it wasn’t available at ours.
I was especially intrigued by PEMF and laser therapy. He shared that certain hospitals were conducting pilot studies with laser therapy, showing impressive and undeniable results—particularly in healing Dilated Cardiomyopathy, where the heart muscle becomes thin and stretched, and in post-operative recovery after heart valve replacement. These techniques were still under non-disclosure agreements, not yet publicly published, but the outcomes were remarkable.
Even more astonishing, some trials were exploring laser therapy for Alzheimer’s and dementia—with results that bordered on the extraordinary. Though still in clinical testing, the potential was clear.
That’s when the idea began to take shape.
If these therapies are already being used successfully for over a hundred conditions—and if case studies suggest they may help hundreds more—why aren’t they more accessible? They’re non-invasive, non-addictive, and have no known side effects. They don’t replace conventional medicine, but they complement it in ways that empower healing.
Everyone should have access to that kind of support.
And that was the birth of BYH Wellness.
A space where evidence-based, non-invasive technologies could be made available to those seeking recovery, resilience, and preventative care. A place where healing isn’t just reactive—it’s proactive. Where science and compassion meet.