When the Surgery Ends, the Neglect Begins
I was admitted to Toronto General Hospital on May 12, 2025, and discharged on May 16. What happened on May 20 was unnecessarily traumatizing—and it completely destabilized me. For weeks afterward, I couldn’t talk about it or even think about it without shaking uncontrollably. The crying and trembling would come on automatically, so I tried to shut it down. I avoided revisiting it until I had no choice but to face it.
That shaking was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—it was next-level trauma for me. I was already in a fragile state when I was sent home on the 16th. I had just undergone major surgery. I was heavily medicated. And I was vulnerable in every way possible.
I had no qualms about going home on day four—they told me I was good to go, so yay. I was happy to leave. The hospital stay this time was a nightmare. I remember lying there, comparing it to jail—but realizing it was worse. You can’t get up. You can barely move. There’s no chance of sleep because someone is constantly poking you, taking your temperature, checking your blood pressure, giving medication, weighing you—around the clock. And in between all that, the beeping never stops. At least in jail, you can sleep.
I dreaded pressing that call button because I never knew who would come through the door—or how pungent that smell on whoever it was would hit me. Some of the nurses were saturated in it, others less so—but that scent made me immediately nauseous. I was relieved to get unhooked and leave that place.
But does that mean I should have been, or truly was, ready to be discharged on day four? Absolutely not.
I say day four because surgery day is considered day zero; day one begins the following morning when you wake up in the ICU. Four days later, I was discharged—enrolled in the so-called Integrated Care Program, a program meant to support patients as they transition from hospital to home and coordinate any necessary home services.
After having a valve replaced, patients are placed on Warfarin—a serious medication used to regulate blood flow and prevent clotting. Warfarin requires precise dosing, as it must keep the patient’s INR (International Normalized Ratio) within a specific, safe range. The correct dose is determined individually, then adjusted and carefully monitored through regular blood tests—typically every few days—until the target INR is achieved and stabilized.
If your INR is too high, your blood clots too slowly, putting you at risk of excessive bleeding or internal hemorrhage. If it’s too low, your blood clots too quickly, increasing the risk of dangerous clots forming in your veins or arteries—which can lead to life-threatening complications.
That’s the medication I’m on. It comes with having a mechanical valve—there is no alternative. Warfarin is the only option. A scary drug, indeed. My Warfarin INR was supposed to be determined and managed as part of the Integrated Care provided by UHN. Well—that didn’t happen.
I spent two to three weeks pushing down what happened, trying to pretend it didn’t happen because I was already trying to process everything else while still carrying the weight of the trauma from the first surgery. And every time I thought about it, it made me feel weak— in a way I’d never experienced before.
I wasn’t able to push it down for long. Once I started to feel a bit stronger, I knew this had to be addressed. It was affecting me mentally—like it was trying to break me. And by staying silent about it, they were succeeding.
I spent several days composing this complaint as I began looking through my Integrated Care Program pamphlet. That’s when I noticed—beyond how terribly they had failed me—an email address listed on page 6 for concerns related to Integrated Care.
It took me two full weeks to write it all out. Reliving what happened brought on the shaking, the crying—it was incredibly difficult to put into words, to say the least.
Once I finished writing it, I asked myself: What’s going to happen between me with my heart condition and UHN after I file this complaint? Am I going to put myself at risk? I looked it up—I cannot legally be denied healthcare for filing a complaint with UHN or any other hospital or healthcare provider in Ontario. Sure, it might make things awkward. But after what happened during those three days, they’ve already made it awkward.
I held on to the complaint for a couple of days. I had my six-week follow-up appointment with the surgeon, and I wanted to see her before submitting it—specifically to tell her, once again in person, how grateful I was. I was genuinely thankful to have her experienced hands and precision repair my heart. I said it more than once, because once the complaint was lodged, I didn’t want her to think I was ungrateful. My complaint wasn’t directed at her or my cardiologist—it was aimed at the Integrated Care Team assigned to my case.
This is the formal complaint I submitted—easier for both of us if I lay it out here in full:
Jeannette (Jaye) Sherry
Admitted May 12/25
Discharged May 16/25
To Whom It May Concern:
I had already been discharged and was waiting for my son to pick me up—nearly an hour had passed—when I began to feel unsafe and increasingly anxious. It had been about an hour since my discharge when I asked for my blood pressure to be checked. I felt like it was high—and it was.
Natalie ordered a dose of Warfarin to be taken immediately. I took that, along with Gabapentin, and was sent on my way.
I was handed several pamphlets about Warfarin and integrated care, along with blood requisitions—all while heavily medicated. Information was being thrown at me left and right.
I knew I had to make a follow-up appointment with my family doctor ASAP—this was supposed to happen Tuesday morning. But I was only seven days post-op and still sedated. I forgot.
I received a phone call from a woman at UHN telling me I had to get up and start moving—that I needed to see my family doctor that same day to get blood drawn immediately, and then go downtown to the hospital the following day for an appointment at the Thrombosis Clinic.
I was confused. My mind started spinning. I vaguely remembered something about needing blood work, as I’d been given a requisition. But considering everything that had happened over the past week—and the fact that I was still heavily medicated—I had forgotten, until she called.
I asked her, “Why am I going downtown tomorrow?” Her answer: “Because you have an appointment.” I said, “Okay, but why am I going to this clinic? What is the appointment for?” I genuinely wanted to understand what this was about. I had no idea what a Thrombosis Clinic was—and I wasn’t in any condition to start Googling it.
She responded, hastily and rudely: “Because Natalie referred you to the Thrombosis Clinic.” She danced around my question, gave me a time—3 p.m.—told me to be there tomorrow, and then hung up.
It was 10 a.m. I was home alone. My son had gone to work. I started to panic. Then I pulled myself together—as much as I could. I was terrified to leave the house alone. I was only seven days out of surgery, still mentally foggy, and had just come through not only another major surgery, but two years of physical and emotional trauma since my first open-heart operation.
I live with agoraphobia, generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), and enochlophobia. Still, I managed to call my doctor’s office and book an appointment that afternoon. There was a lab there as well, so I figured I could get both done.
I reached out to three different people—friends—to see if they could come with me. No one was available. And as much as I was afraid to leave my home alone for the first time—I hadn’t even stepped outside since coming home—I was even more afraid of what the medication I was on might do to me. I’d been warned repeatedly in the hospital about how dangerous it was. I also now have a foreign object in my body, one that I can physically hear.
So, as sedated as I was—on morphine and lorazepam—barely one week out of open-heart surgery, I put my big girl pants on and called a cab.
I was trying to stay calm, taking deep breaths, but my anxiety was already starting to take over. When the cab arrived and the second my foot hit the ground outside, I knew this was a big mistake. I felt unsafe. I felt scared.
Still, I went to the clinic anyway—headed up to the blood lab first, hoping they could take me quickly so I could see my family doctor, get my stitches out, and get back to bed.
But it didn’t go like that.
The line at the lab was 15 to 20 people deep. After everything I’d been through—after the trauma of my last open-heart surgery two years ago—I’ve developed several psychological challenges, as I mentioned earlier.
I got off the elevator and saw the crowd of people lined up in the hallway. Immediately, I felt lightheaded and dizzy. I thought I was going to pass out.
I approached the front desk and handed over my requisition. I assumed—given I was fresh out of open-heart surgery, with an 8–10-inch healing wound on my chest—that I’d be seen right away. I was not. I was told I’d have to wait an hour—or come back tomorrow.
I started panicking. I left the requisition there, grabbed my health card, and went downstairs to my family doctor. As I was checking in, trying to explain that I’d just had heart surgery and wasn’t feeling well, my doctor overheard me from the back and told me to come on in.
She wasn’t sure why I was there—she had no paperwork. And at that point, I wasn’t sure either. I said, “I don’t know why I’m here. All I know is I was told to see you ASAP.” I was disoriented.
Then I remembered—Oh right, you’re supposed to take out my stitches.
But she didn’t even know I had stitches. She asked where, and I showed her. She said, “Okay, no problem. Let me get a kit.”
I felt like I was going to collapse, so I laid down on the examination table while she went to grab the supplies. That’s when I completely broke down. I started bawling—shaking uncontrollably. I was terrified to be there alone. I couldn’t understand why I was sitting in a doctor’s office instead of resting at home, in my bed, healing. And I still had to get back home alone.
My doctor asked me what was wrong, and I told her I didn’t want to go back upstairs. I didn’t feel safe. I was shaking in a way I’d never experienced before. Even the way I cried—it felt different. Deeper. I was terrified. I knew I should not have been there.
She said she would take me back upstairs herself—and if they still wouldn’t take my blood, she would bring me back down and do it herself.
Thankfully, my requisition was ready. The lab was still packed—people spilling out into the hallway. I was not well. Not at all. The woman at the lab was very curt. She quickly drew my blood, slapped a cotton ball on my arm, taped it, and sent me on my way.
I called a cab and waited outside—still dizzy, still lightheaded, and desperate to get home. While I was sitting there, one of the girls I’d reached out to earlier finally called me back. She couldn’t make the appointment, but I asked if she could meet me at my building and help me into my apartment.
Before I could even ask anyone for help, the cab driver called—he was lost. I switched lines to give him directions. That’s when I looked down at the white sleeve of my hoodie. It was soaked with hot blood.
There was so much going on. I was shaking, trying to focus on just getting home. I was out on the street, completely disoriented and dizzy. I didn’t think to hold pressure on the spot—and the lab tech hadn’t told me to. This is heavy-duty blood thinner medication. It was new to me. I forgot. And no one reminded me to press and hold for five minutes.
I had no kleenex—just a small fanny pack with my health card and keys in it. I had to sop up the blood with my sweatpants. And right then, the cab pulled up. I made my way over—practically crawling at this point, seeing spots everywhere.
I made it home—with blood everywhere. I sat down, held the wound, and cried. I cried, and I cried. Then I stripped off my blood-soaked clothes and tossed them into the sink.
I went to bed, still shaking. This shaking was new—it wasn’t anxiety. It was something else. And it lasted for days. Considering everything I’ve been through in the past two years—I’d never experienced anything like it before.
Nobody tells you that the second surgery is worse. That the pain is ten times worse. Not one person on my Integrated Care Team—except for Natalie—even knew I’d had this exact same surgery just two years ago.
There was no compassion. No one would listen as I tried to explain my situation—over and over again. Nobody wanted to hear it.
I gathered all the paperwork from the hospital, looking for Natalie’s number. I remembered her pointing it out to me.
I called—no answer. No voicemail.
I started texting her. I was completely disoriented and overwhelmed. I told her:
That was a mistake. I’m not well. I’ve got a lot of issues since my last surgery, as I’ve told you. I don’t feel safe. I don’t want to leave my house for the next six weeks until I’m well. I DO NOT FEEL SAFE.
I also told her I would not be attending the Thrombosis Clinic appointment scheduled for 3 p.m. the next day.
Natalie responded, saying okay and she would sort it out in the morning.
I literally had to take a Lorazepam while writing this. My blood pressure is 123/79, and my heart rate is 95. I checked—and once again, I was shaking the same way I had been that day. I can’t even talk about this without shaking. I know trembling—but this... this is different. It’s new. And it’s still here.
That day was quite possibly the worst day of my adult life. I cried myself to sleep that night—flat on my back, stiff as a board, in pain. I couldn’t even curl up.
The next day, I messaged Natalie again and apologized for my erratic behaviour. I tried, once more, to explain that I have lingering issues from my first surgery. She was very sweet—called me back and asked what she could do to make me feel better.
I told her the truth: I didn’t want to leave my house for at least six weeks—not until I was properly healed. Because I never had a chance to heal properly the first time. I was already traumatized from that first surgery, and now—unnecessarily—traumatized again by what happened on Tuesday.
That phone call from the woman at UHN completely disturbed me. It scared me. It escalated into one of the most unsafe, bloody, and disoriented experiences of my life.
The last time I came home from surgery, I had a nurse who visited every other day for almost six weeks to check on my wound and help me monitor everything. All I wanted now was someone to come to my home once or twice a week—or however often was needed—to take my blood while I recovered. Until I was strong enough to go out again. There was already a nurse scheduled to check on me—I was simply asking for this to be added.
Natalie said okay. That was Tuesday afternoon. But on Wednesday and Thursday, I was harassed—repeatedly—by four different people from UHN. Fourteen calls in total.
One of them—the same woman from the Thrombosis Clinic—called me back on Wednesday. She gave me attitude for missing my appointment. I tried to explain that I had already spoken with Natalie that morning. I told her I wouldn’t be coming in for any appointments because of my mental and physical condition. But instead of acknowledging that, she yelled at me—for missing the appointment.
I was simply trying to get my blood test results from the day before—so I’d know the correct dosage of Warfarin to take that evening. She cut me off, told me to call my family doctor, and then she hung up on me. Again. It was between 4:30 and 5:00 p.m. I couldn’t get in touch with my family doctor.
Then someone from Integrated Care called, asking me what was going on with the Warfarin and the bloodwork. She had no idea. Neither did I. I told her everything, all I got back was “Oh dear.”
Between Tuesday morning and Thursday evening, I was contacted by multiple people: a pharmacist, the woman from the Thrombosis Clinic, someone named Virrosa, someone named Mook, and a social worker. And not one of them knew what was going on.
The woman from the Thrombosis Clinic hung up on me. I had nowhere to turn. Desperate, I logged into UHN and found the number listed for the appointment. I called it. It went to voicemail. I left a message: “Oh my God, you just hung up on me.”
A woman called me back—from another cardiac surgeon’s office, Dr. Rao’s. I answered and asked, “Did you just hang up on me?” She told me no—it wasn’t her. But she took the time to listen.
It was obvious by the sound of my voice that something was wrong. I explained the situation: I didn’t know what dosage of Warfarin to take that night. And I was scared. She asked who my cardiac surgeon was. I told her. She advised me to email my cardiac surgeon immediately and explain everything that was happening.
So I did. In tears, I sent my surgeon and her assistant a very detailed email outlining this entire mess—how I was feeling, how I had no idea what dosage to take, and that I didn’t know where else to turn.
I ended the email with three words: Please help me.
To this day—no one has replied.
Eventually, someone else from the Thrombosis Clinic called me. His name was Mook. He actually tried to help. He gave me my dosage details and took the time to explain what the Thrombosis Clinic was—because even at that point, I still had no clue.
He also told me the entire intake process could’ve been done over the phone. I never needed to go downtown at all. He had the patience to listen. He asked if I still wanted the intake appointment. “No,” I said. I explained—again—that I didn’t want to go anywhere in person. I didn’t want to leave my home or my bed for the next six weeks. Because I have issues. And no one respected that.
If only that first woman from the Thrombosis Clinic had been capable of answering my questions—or even just listening—most, if not all, of this could’ve been avoided. Instead, for three full days after I went to the blood lab—including that Tuesday—I was bombarded with call after call after call. Everyone asking me the same thing: What’s going on?
But I didn’t know what was going on. I’m the patient. I was fresh out of open-heart surgery. Medicated. Traumatized—for the second time. I wanted to know what was going on too. I kept answering, hoping someone would have a solution, or at least a straight answer. Instead, it was relentless. Full-on harassment.
Normally, I don’t answer my phone. I keep it on silent. My phone doesn’t summon me—I check it when I’m free and able. But this was about my heart, and it wouldn’t stop ringing. Of course I’m answering.
Fourteen calls in total over three days. Check the logs. I did. I was tormented. All I wanted to do was rest. Heal. But instead, they induced emotional trauma—under the guise of “medical care.”
And all it would’ve taken was just one person—one member of that so-called “team”—to take initiative. To step up. To communicate. To do what your own patient guide says Integrated Care is supposed to do. Any one of them could have sorted it out and told the others. If that had happened, I would’ve been spared the agony. The harassment. The trauma.
I was just seven days out of my second open-heart surgery in two years. And I couldn’t rest. I couldn’t recover. From Tuesday to Friday, I was a complete mess. I cried. I shook. I was disoriented. Alone. And I had no answers—just this echoing question in my head: What the hell is going on?
It wasn’t until Thursday evening, around 7 p.m., that I finally got a lifeline: My family doctor called. She told me she was taking over from here. She would handle my Warfarin dosage and all blood retrieval going forward.
And all I could think was: What happened to the nurse who was supposed to come to my house? What happened to the care plan that was supposed to be made for me and my unique needs?
Someone dropped the ball. And thank God my family doctor was there to pick it up. She saw me break down that Tuesday. She’s seen what I’ve been through these past two years. And now—my very busy family doctor, who’s been treating me for 18 years—was coming to my home.
Why? Because UHN failed to:
Identify the support services I needed after discharge—nurses, therapists, social workers, and others
Communicate clearly with me and assess my aftercare properly
Manage home care services
Create a care plan based on my unique medical and psychological needs
Nobody listened. Nobody heard me. And it took me two more days just to stop shaking. To calm down. To even begin to process what had happened. I was mentally distraught.
From that Friday forward, for several weeks, my family doctor came to my house—twice a week at first, then weekly—to monitor my Warfarin levels. No one at UHN wanted to listen. No one cared. No one acknowledged that I was not physically, mentally, or emotionally able to be running around the city one week after having my chest cracked open. Again—I wasn’t capable of doing it. And I shouldn’t have been expected to. Honestly, I still don’t know why that was expected of me..
I’m Jeannette (Jaye) Sherry by the way. I was born with a rare congenital condition—Quadracuspid Aortic Valve. Two years ago I was blindsided with the news that I needed open-heart surgery.
That’s when my childhood and teenage PTSD—stuff I didn’t even know I had—came barreling to the surface. It made itself known. Loud and clear. So there I was, trying to wrap my head around a failing heart—and now I also had to face the trauma I’d buried deep. All at once.
When I woke up from that surgery in 2023—after almost dying—I wasn’t the same. I was in a full-blown state of psychosis. I was running on autopilot for at least six months. My subconscious took over. I wasn’t fully here.
Six weeks later, at my follow-up appointment, I found out something that cracked me wide open again: The surgery had done nothing. It was a complete fail. Aside from ripping me apart mentally and psychologically.
My heart was still regurgitating at the exact same level it had been before. The valve they were supposed to replace? Still needed replacing. Which is what I thought they were doing the first time. Instead, I had to do it again. All of it. I spiralled.
I went home—alone, supposed to be healing. But it wasn’t healing. It was open-heart surgery—not a wisdom tooth. And I wasn’t okay.
In the state I was in? I didn’t rest. I started painting walls. Doing yard work. Cleaning the house like a maniac. It was me… but it wasn’t me. I had no business doing any of that. But I was alone. Completely alone. Dazed. Confused. Dissociated.
And then—six months later—I finally came around. Mentally. Psychologically. And when I did… I didn’t know who the hell I was. I’d lost my identity. Lost my business. Lost my soul.
I spent the next 18 months trying to figure it out. Why this happened to me. Who I was. What was left of me. Gathering all the scattered pieces. Trying to put myself back together— Mentally. Emotionally. Psychologically.
And then it hit me. All that stuff I was doing right after surgery— The overuse of my arms. The physical strain. The movement. The trauma. The fact that I was still alive at all. And that’s when it happened. That’s when Enochlophobia and Agoraphobia landed—Hard.
Not right after surgery. But 18 months later. When the dust settled. When I was finally conscious again. My body wanted to shield itself. My soul wanted to protect what was left of me.
At the exact two-year mark—while I was still healing and carrying the weight of the first surgery—the entire process was repeated. I was absolutely terrified. They cracked my chest open again. They stopped my heart. Swapped out the valve. Restarted it. And reassembled me. They wired and sewed me up—not once, but twice within two years. And I can’t even begin to explain what it feels like to have faced mortality twice.
All I wanted was to go home and heal for six weeks in my bed. Because this time, I didn’t wake up in psychosis. This time, I was fully present. I was there for all of it. And then came the chaos.
That rude woman from the Thrombosis Clinic—The one who wouldn’t explain what my appointment was for. The one who yelled at me the next day because I missed it. The one who insisted on making another in-person appointment without listening to a single thing I was trying to say—The one who hung up on me.
That was completely uncalled for. Who talks to a patient—fresh out of surgery, not in a fully coherent state—like that?
That Tuesday, the moment I got home from the blood lab, I texted Natalie. I told her I wasn’t going to the Thrombosis Clinic. Not that day. Not for six weeks. Not anywhere until I was healed—physically and mentally. I made myself very clear. And yet… nothing.
No communication. No coordination. Just me, left hanging in the wind.
I should’ve been resting. I should’ve been recovering. But instead, I was fielding harassment from multiple people at UHN—Each one expecting me to do the work they should’ve been coordinating. Each one asking me what was going on. I wasn’t even getting answers about something as basic—and critical—as my Warfarin dosage. Not until Mook finally called me on Wednesday evening. Still— nobody picked up the ball.
It felt like I’d just been given this beautiful, life-saving surgery—like a second chance—And then I was shoved out the door and into the street to fend for myself.
It was heartless. Disorienting. Unacceptable. My discharge was grossly mishandled, at best.
And I keep thinking: What if I had left the hospital before getting that dose of Warfarin? That was the plan. I was technically discharged an hour or two before I actually left—and before I received that dose.
What if I hadn’t been able to control the violent shaking that overtook me after Tuesday’s disaster? What if my blood pressure had spiked? What if my heart rate had gone haywire—just six days post-op? I could’ve ended up right back in Emergency because of all of this.
That was one of the scariest times of my life—and it was entirely preventable. And here’s what haunts me: If this had happened after my first surgery in 2023—when I woke up in psychosis and couldn’t even recognize myself—I don’t think I would’ve survived it. I say that honestly. I was not okay then. That chaos would’ve broken me.
But back then, my discharge was organized. The surgery was a complete bust, and I had an infected wound along with other complications—Yet a nurse still came to my home two to three times a week for weeks. It was calm. It was clear. It was care.
This time? It was a circus. And not the kind with order and performers—This was a three-ring circus with no ringmaster, and my life was in the center ring.
All it would’ve taken was one person. One person on that team to step up, take charge, inform the others, and give me what I needed to heal. That’s what a team does, isn’t it? Work together?
This wasn’t teamwork. This was passing the buck. Nobody wanted to own it. Nobody wanted to sort me out. Instead, I got call after call after call—each one hoping I had the answers. Expecting me to coordinate my own care while I was still recovering from major open-heart surgery.
Me—the patient—was expected to play middleman between professionals who should’ve been communicating with each other.
By Thursday evening, I was done. Done with the questions, the voicemails, the silence, the torment. Until Mook called. He had some answers. He finally explained something. Unfortunately, he also got the brunt of my frustration—because I had reached my limit.
Please don’t get me wrong: I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful for the surgery. I don’t take that lightly.
But this is Canada. **UHN—Toronto General—**is the number one hospital in the country.
Not some Third World country where they crack your chest open, stop your heart, and then throw you out onto the street a few days later.
That’s exactly how I felt: discarded and disregarded.
And to top it all off, me—the heavily medicated patient, fresh out of major open-heart surgery— was made out to be the villain by the woman from the Thrombosis Clinic. Gaslighting at its finest. It was just more trauma piled on top of the trauma I already carry.
I’m still taken aback by how all of this was handled. It’s honestly unbelievable.
Toronto General Hospital—touted as the number one hospital in Canada—needs to know exactly how I was mishandled and discarded. A change needs to be made. I want the system to fix this. To organize. To delegate properly. To either build a better discharge plan—or take a hard look at tightening the one already in place.
Especially for open-heart patients being sent home just days after surgery…Only to be harassed by a bunch of disconnected, disorganized staff while they’re in bed trying to heal.
I didn’t just fall through the cracks. These were gaping holes. And somebody dropped the ball.
The kicker? Nobody on that team even knew I’d had a second open-heart surgery—just two damn years ago. Not one of them knew. And nobody would listen when I tried to tell them that I was—Traumatized. Still carrying the weight of it. PTSD. GAD. BPD.
Stricken with agoraphobia and enochlophobia. Severely scarred by that first surgery—Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. And the team that was appointed to support me? They didn’t have a damn clue.
How do I know? I asked. The last woman who called me from UHN Integrated Care was checking in about my pain. I told her it was worse this time. She went silent. I said, “You do know I had this exact surgery before, right? Just two years ago.” Her reply? “No, I didn’t know that.”
Why? Why would someone assigned to check on my well-being have no idea about the hell I’d already been through— especially when this was a redo, just two years out from my first open-heart surgery?
I asked that girl, Virossa, and at least one other person who called me if I could be set up with the Cardiac Rehab program at WCH. None of them even knew what it was. Each one said they’d “look into it.” And I’m willing to bet—right now—that none of them followed through. I doubt they even know that program exists.
Because if they did? It would’ve been organized. Or at the very least, acknowledged. But it wasn’t. Not even a word.
My situation is beyond unique. Everything that happened in between? I’ve been through hell and back. This wasn’t just a misstep. This was a gross abuse of power. A full-blown experience of medical misconduct. And it’s not something I can just let go.
Ask yourself this: Would this kind of treatment be acceptable for your mother? For your daughter—home alone, just one week after open-heart surgery? Her body freshly cracked in half—being pressured and feared into leaving the house alone? And if it had happened to them… What would you do about it?
I’ve made photocopies of all communication since my discharge for your convenience—UHN notes, text messages with Natalie, and unanswered emails.
I don’t know what you’ve been told about me—beyond the fact that I had open-heart surgery. But there’s a lot more to know.
I’ve been documenting this entire experience—the good, the bad, the ugly, and now, quite possibly, the deeply unjust—on my blog since September 2024:
📎 www.hearttoheartjaye.com
My blog has now evolved into a book. A memoir. Ironically, my second surgery was supposed to be the final chapter. It was shaping up to be a powerful, complete, and beautiful ending—Until Tuesday, May 20, 2025.
That memoir is being edited as we speak—Waiting on its last chapter. And what’s happened since then hasn’t just disrupted my recovery— It has retraumatized me in ways I refuse to stay silent about.
This has not been a simple miscommunication. This has been a gross oversight in care, a breakdown in internal systems, and a deeply harmful experience for someone who was already extremely vulnerable—and transparent about their trauma history. Me.
No one should ever have to face what I went through that day.
To whomever is reading this initially: This is one of those matters that needs to be escalated. You need to tell your supervisor. And they need to tell theirs.
I require a response from a senior representative with the authority to address these failures directly and discuss how this matter will be formally investigated and resolved.
Sincerely,
Jeannette Sherry
So yes—that’s what happened. I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I wanted to push it down, toss it in the bin. I tried. But I don’t have a bin anymore. This needed out. Over the past few weeks, I kept asking myself: Why did that happen?
It wasn’t like that the first time—not at all. Back then, I felt respected, cared for, treated as any cardiac patient recovering from open-heart surgery should be. I was followed up with care, respect and consideration. The integration worked the way it was supposed to.
This time, I felt like I’d had this beautiful, life-saving surgery—one that should have been finished off with a chef’s kiss. Instead, it felt like I was pushed out of a moving car, left scarred and scraped with road rash.
Why would UHN allow that to happen? Especially to a cardiac patient? It was completely traumatizing—on every level—making my already difficult recovery even worse. These past six weeks have been brutal. I’ve been sick, licked down physically, mentally, and emotionally—and this experience played a major role in that, both mentally and emotionally.
After I submitted that complaint, I already knew how it was going to go—but it didn’t matter. I had to get it out there. And sure enough, it went exactly as I expected. I received an email from an entry level Patient Advisor: an apology saying that’s not how they want their patients to feel—a slightly tweaked template response.
I replied and made it clear: “I don’t want to speak with you. This complaint needs to go upstairs.” I gave them the chance to respond before I wrote or published anything. All I wanted was acknowledgment.
A couple of days later, I received yet another templated response from the same staffer at the bottom of the chain. This time, she essentially told me she didn’t care whether I wrote about it or not — and that if I didn’t like her reply, I could contact the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario or seek legal help.
Near the end of 2023, I started wondering how I went into surgery with four valves and came out with a heart functioning as bicuspid. I interpreted that to mean I now only had two valves—and once I came out of the fog, I needed to understand what had happened.
I reached out to my cardiologist’s assistant and asked for a transcript of everything—from the moment I walked in for surgery to the moment I was discharged. She sent it to me. In January 2024, I read it and finally got a clearer understanding of what took place.
The whole time I was in that fog, I was under the impression that he had taken away two valves. But he didn’t. He performed a procedure he believed would work without having to replace the valve. Unfortunately, it didn’t.
Before I understood that—before I had the facts—there were moments in that fog when I thought I should seek legal advice. I didn’t know why this happened. I didn’t understand what had been done to me, or how something like this could even happen.
So I looked up a lawyer—Googled malpractice, whatever came up. I filled out a couple of those forms: Tell us your situation briefly. I did. And right away, I got the same response—No, can’t help you. No again.
But after I read the full transcript of what happened, I let it go. I stopped worrying about it. I figured: He tried. It didn’t work out. That was that. Moving forward. Scratched that off the list—and got back to figuring out who I am.
After this incident with my discharge, I started questioning everything again—the neglect, the misconduct, the so-called Integrated Care that wasn’t there, and the trauma it caused me. Because it did mess me up. And as I started looking into it, I found out that what happened to me—negligence, gross misconduct—they’re valid grounds. And they are liable.
So again, I started looking up lawyers—ones known for handling negligence in hospital discharges specifically. I found a few and filled out two forms. I got a “no” right away from one. The next responded the following day, saying they couldn’t take my case. They added that they couldn’t go into further detail, as it could be misconstrued as legal advice—but they provided the number for the Ontario Law Society so I could seek proper guidance. That was more than I’d gotten before.
So I clicked on that link, opened the form, and filled it out—briefly describing what happened with the discharge. I went through the whole thing and it helped me find someone in my area. I got a phone number, called it, and left a detailed message.
That was Thursday evening, this past Thursday the same day that I got the final email from the patient advisor at UHN after going around in circles and her sending me tweaked templates .
I got a call back from Gary. He is a lawyer working through the Law Society of Ontario for those of you that don’t know what that is, cause I didn’t know what it was, but I do now. If you’ve ever been in the courts, you understand what duty counsel is.
Duty counsel is a lawyer provided to you at no charge. That’s how the Law Society of Ontario works. Sometimes it’s an experienced lawyer from a firm (not just someone fresh out of school), as lawyers and law firms have a duty to volunteer a certain number of hours to the Law Society of Ontario or Legal Aid—whatever the case may be.
I got Gary. Gary is an actual lawyer at a very reputable law firm. I know, because I recognized his name—he was with one of the firms I’d already looked up that specializes in negligence and misconduct related to hospital discharges. I found it ironic: I had submitted that form the day before, and here I was, getting him on the line through the Law Society of Ontario. So I knew what Gary looked like as his picture was on the website’s homepage.
As soon as he called, he asked me for a reference number. I hadn’t even noticed there was a reference number. He said he couldn’t continue the call without it. I thought, fuck. I could just picture him on the other end, foot tapping, wanting to get this over with.
I tried to go back and retrieve it—but it was gone. The session had expired. And I hadn’t clicked the email it to me link.
So as I was talking to Gary, I had a real lawyer on the phone. My phone starts going off somebody’s buzzing at the door. I lose the Lawyer.
But I had his number in my phone because I’d called him earlier. What I didn’t have was the reference number. So I quickly jumped back on the Law Society of Ontario site and filled out another form. I figured maybe I’d get him again—but I didn’t. I got a different name along with a reference number. The reference number wasn’t for Gary, but I didn’t care—I used it anyway. I called Gary back, told him I found it, gave him the number, and we were good to go.
So I started telling Gary about what happened with my discharge—the negligence—and right away, he wanted to know who I wanted to sue. I said, “It’s not about who I want to sue. There’s no surgeon or doctor. This is a situation of negligence that falls on the system—UHN.”
Gary listened, but he wanted to know what happened with the first surgery. So I told him. He seemed more interested in that than the negligence—he wanted to hear the whole story. I ended up telling him everything.
I had 30 minutes with him, and I could tell he was watching the clock—he even said at around 24 minutes, “We’re at about 24 minutes.” Then he added, “Wow. You’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. How old are you?” “53.” “That’s young,” he said. I told him, “I agree—to be going through all this shit.”
I didn’t want to hear someone tell me “I’m sorry”—because it kind of makes me weak. I already know it’s horrible. Hearing it just brings on the tears. So now I was crying, and he’s telling me, at 24 minutes, “We only have 30 minutes.”
As I had told him about the Warfarin—how my dosing, administration, and INR weren’t sorted out after surgery by the very people who orchestrated it—he piped up. “Warfarin? Wow. I know about that drug. I’m not trying to freak you out, but do you know what that drug was originally for? Do you know what they used it for?” I said, “No, Gary. You won’t freak me out.”
“Rat poison,” he said. “It’s rat poison. That’s what they used to use to kill rats—to make them bleed out internally.” Great, thanks Gary. “No, didn’t know that—but I know now.” Then I said, “We’re probably at 30 minutes. I’m sure we’re out of time.”
But now he’s saying, “No, no—don’t worry about it.” I was upset. I was crying, having to tell this fucking story again. And Gary’s like, “You know, I feel so bad for you. I want to help you.” I said, “You feel so bad for me. You want to help me—but you won’t take my case?”
I said, “I’m pretty sure we’re at 30 minutes by now, Gary.” He said, “You know what—listen—First of all, do you have any money?” “No. I don’t have any money. I’ve got nothing. I’ve been sitting around for two years with a defective heart, waiting for another surgery.”
Gary went on to say, “So firstly, you need a contingency lawyer—that’s one. Secondly, you’re going to need a doctor to go over your chart and go against UHN. You’re going to need resources. And those resources cost money. I can tell you, finding anybody willing to go against UHN isn’t going to be easy.” And I said, “Why? Because they’re both fucking teeing off on the golf course together, right—the doctors and the lawyers?!”
He pretty much agreed and said I’d have to find someone out of town—and quite possibly out of the country. He didn’t help me legally, but he did give me information. Besides informing me that my medication is rat poison, he helped me understand why I kept getting the quick no’s—just how stacked the system really is. It confirmed what I already suspected.
Trent came home for the long weekend that evening—while I was on the phone with Gary, crying. Again. There’s Trent, home for just a few days, and he was exposed to my shit. Again. That pissed me off. I closed my door and had myself a good little cry. I felt completely defeated.
Over the past few weeks, I could feel depression creeping in, trying its best to take hold. And I won’t lie—I was getting there. Since I was discharged, I’ve written a few chapters for my book and published three blog posts—mostly to distract myself from the trauma of it all, including that last incident.
There’s been a big pause in all of it because it caught up to me. Once I acknowledged that incident and started composing the complaint—while I was sitting on it—I began second-guessing myself. I stopped wanting to write. I stopped wanting to share my vulnerability. I forgot why I’m here. I felt embarrassed. After everything that’s happened to me, it just keeps going from bad to worse. I kept asking myself: What am I doing? Why is my life like this? The darkness was coming for me—depression.
I wrote in one of my blog posts about open-heart surgery and depression—how 40% of people who undergo open-heart surgery end up depressed. And I get it completely. I haven’t just done the research—I’ve lived it! I’ve experienced the trauma of being on the other side of open-heart surgery—twice. And as traumatizing as both were, each was a different kind of trauma.
I started reflecting on what happened with my discharge—just four days after I left the hospital, technically day eight post-op, day four post-discharge. I thought about everything that unfolded, just seven days after surgery, and I couldn’t help but wonder: If someone else went through what I did—alone, unable to speak about it, without a voice—how could they not fall apart? Maybe that’s part of why it’s 40%. The neglect. The gross mishandling. Maybe that’s why so many patients fall into the darkness. Because it was happening to me.
Cardiac patients are different. Open-heart surgery is life-altering—it’s kind of a big deal. So why are cardiac patients dismissed and treated the way they are? After doing such beautiful, skilled work on a major organ—the heart—why would the patient be disregarded? How can they pour everything into saving a life, into that delicate art, only to abandon the person immediately afterward? It’s like planting and growing a beautiful flower, only to leave it there to wilt. No protection. No after-care.
I sit and think: How many people has this happened to? How many have become a total wreck afterward or completely fallen apart? It feels like the system is designed to break you.
I was at war with myself my entire life—and then, for two years, it turned into a war with the system just to stay alive.
It’s like there’s a force that keeps trying to break me — and I won’t let it. I refuse. The more it comes at me, the more I refuse. I can’t help but wonder what’s waiting around the next corner — because at this point, it always feels like some kind of unkind surprise. Like those old surprise bags for twenty-five cents at the corner store — you never knew what you were getting, but my bag just keeps on giving. Surprise. Swim or sink. I’m a fucking swimmer. I’ll get through it — because that’s what I do. I burn, I pray, and I know everything’s gonna be okay.
But what about the people who don’t know how to swim? The ones who were never taught? The ones with no arms? What happens to them when they’re thrown into this mess, expected to keep their head above water? They sink. They become depressed. They’re ignored. They wither.
So, having major surgery — like heart surgery? I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’ve got a team of your own. You need at least two or three people who are really there for you — and I mean really there, fighting for you — because you’re going to need them. I’m certain this kind of thing just happens, and keeps happening. Sure, the surgery is free. Integrated care is supposed to be too. But they left that part out — like having cardiac surgery twice, back to back, was no big deal.
No one should have to go through the things I’ve been through. I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t have survived it—and I did it alone. And doing it alone, I assure you, made it a million times worse. There was no one to take on the flood of instructions thrown at me as I left the hospital, sedated, just four days after surgery. No one to take me to my appointments. And this time, I actually reached out. I asked for help. I tried. Friends sent hearts, told me I was brave—and then vanished. Survival is inspiring for a moment. Then it becomes inconvenient.
The things I’ve been fighting for my whole life? They’ve all been about survival. When does it end?
I’m constantly searching, hoping, waiting to see the horizon—to feel its rays and all its glory. I have to believe it’s there. I have to believe I’m eventually going to get there. Have to. Because worst case? At least I have one hell of a story to tell. I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach that horizon—but I do know this: I’ll die trying.
I’m not always strong. I’m not always sure things are going to work out. But I have to believe—because I’m still here, and I’m still going. There’s no other way. I don’t know how to give up. I don’t know how not to fight.
Burying trauma is no longer an option for me. There’s no more bin—that shit burned down with all the layers. It wants out, and it comes out as it comes. There’s no more stuffing anything down. Fuck that. Been there, done that. We’re not doing that with my second chance—the second half of my life.
The next step with this misconduct and negligence issue is going to the College of Physicians and Surgeons to submit my concerns—and hope like hell that whoever’s lap it lands on recognizes the scope of damage that’s happening right now and enforces change.
I’d like to say I’m exaggerating — but I’m not. This story is true. It’s raw. And because it’s so raw, so disgusting, there’s no exaggeration needed. This isn’t fiction. This is real life.
I asked for someone’s opinion when I first started my blog. Someone who’s known me their whole life. Someone whose opinion I once valued. I’d never done anything like this before — never shown my vulnerability like that. It was a strange, heavy time for me, and I genuinely wanted her feedback. She scoffed. Said something along the lines of, “Well, I’m reading your journal — so what do you want me to say?”
This is not a journal. This is not a diary. I’m not counting steps or talking about some boy I have a crush on. I’m telling a story — built from experience, shaped with purpose, and packed with truth. This isn’t just my life on paper. It’s something that connects, teaches, and gives you tools. This has structure. This has meaning. This is my legacy. Hopefully you’re paying attention.
This blog is my voice. I won’t be silenced. I’ve got nothing left to lose — and nothing left to hide.
