A Heart Carved from Our Story: A Tribute to the Medical Team Who Saved Us

My name is Sylvain Séguin, a self-taught sculptor from Eastern Ontario, Canada. I would like to share the story of a heart — one that began with two open-heart surgeries, a brother and a sister, and eventually became a way of honouring patients, families, and the people who dedicate their lives to cardiovascular care.

This is not only the story of a sculpture. It is the story of why I felt I needed to create it.

In 2014, I learned that I had a bicuspid aortic valve and that one day I would require open-heart surgery.

I was still relatively young and had children at home. Although I was told that the operation might still be years away, knowing that one day my heart would have to be stopped and repaired changed something inside me.

I carried that knowledge — and that fear — for ten years.

On April 4, 2024, the day finally came.

I underwent open-heart surgery at the University of Ottawa Heart Institute, where my aortic valve was replaced with a mechanical valve.

I was fortunate to come home.

Then, just over a year later, our family experienced something remarkable.

On April 25, 2025, my sister, Hélène Séguin, also underwent open-heart surgery at the University of Ottawa Heart Institute.

She was cared for by the same medical team and received the same type of mechanical valve.

A brother and sister.

The same Heart Institute.

The same medical team.

The same type of mechanical valve.

Two open-heart surgeries, just over one year apart.

Today, we both carry those mechanical valves inside our hearts.

But there is another part of this story.

The year 2014 — the same year I learned that open-heart surgery would eventually be part of my future — was also the year I began sculpting.

I am completely self-taught, and I create my work from reclaimed wood and materials. I have always been drawn to the idea that something old, damaged, discarded or forgotten can be given another life and another purpose.

About six months before my operation, my cardiologist told me to prepare because surgery could be coming within a few months. I didn’t have a date yet. That was when I started carving this heart, to keep my mind occupied and help me cope with the wait, without knowing whether I would finish it before my surgery.

I finished the sculpture on March 30, 2024, before my operation on April 4, 2024. At that time, I didn’t know my sister Hélène had the same condition. She only found out after my surgery.

I wanted to create a heart.

Not simply an anatomical heart.

I wanted to create something that could say thank you when words did not seem big enough.

I created the sculpture from reclaimed maple.

While working with the wood, I preserved something that became extremely meaningful to me: the natural centre — the actual heart of the tree — remains within the area representing the human heart.

“The heart of the tree became the heart of the sculpture.”

I also incorporated a representation of the mechanical valve, positioned approximately where my own mechanical valve now sits.

For me, those details brought everything together.

I had taken the heart of a tree and transformed it into a human heart while I waited for my own heart to be given another chance.

But as the sculpture took shape, I realized something.

As I carved, the ideas began to come to me. I thought, “Why make this heart just for me? Why not honour everyone going through difficult times too?”

My experience may have inspired its creation, but there are countless people who have travelled a similar road.

I began thinking about the patients who have entered a heart hospital frightened and uncertain, wondering whether they would return home.

I thought about those who came through their operations and are still here today.

People celebrating another birthday.

Parents watching their children grow.

Grandparents watching their grandchildren grow.

People sitting around a family table, going for a walk, laughing with someone they love, or simply waking up to another ordinary morning.

Those ordinary moments can mean everything when you have once wondered whether you would have the chance to live them again.

This heart honours them.

But there is another part of the story that I could never leave out.

Not everyone gets to come home.

There are patients who fought just as hard, families who hoped just as much, and medical teams who did everything they could, but whose stories ended differently.

I wanted this heart to honour them as well.

It honours those who lost their lives and the families who continue to carry their memory.

They are part of this heart too.

And then there are the people standing on the other side of every patient’s journey.

Before my operation, during my hospitalization and throughout my recovery, I began to understand just how many people are involved in caring for one heart patient.

There are surgeons and cardiologists, but the team is much larger than that.

There are nurses, technicians, therapists, psychologists and many other healthcare professionals and hospital staff.

There are people who prepare a patient before surgery.

People who are there during the operation.

People who watch over us afterward.

People who help us recover physically and emotionally.

And there are people working behind the scenes whom patients may never meet at all.

Some of their names we remember forever.

Some we may never have known.

But every one of them matters.

An operation like mine does not happen because of one person. It takes an entire team.

For a patient and their family, the day of heart surgery can be one of the biggest days of their lives.

For the people working in cardiovascular care, another patient arrives tomorrow.

And then another.

And another.

They carry that responsibility day after day.

After going through this experience, there is something I would want those people to know:

We remember you.

The sculpture is currently on public display at the Casselman Public Library in Eastern Ontario, and a donation to the library is planned for January 2027.

My hope has also been that the sculpture might one day find a home at the University of Ottawa Heart Institute, but nothing has been confirmed with them.

Casselman is where I was born, and my family has deep roots in that community. Having the heart begin its journey there is especially meaningful to me.

But I hope its meaning can travel farther than wherever the sculpture physically stands.

That is one of the reasons I am sharing this story.

The University of Ottawa Heart Institute is marking its 50th anniversary in 2026. When I think about fifty years, I don’t simply think about a number.

I think about the people.

Fifty years of patients walking through those doors.

Fifty years of families waiting.

Fifty years of healthcare professionals showing up to care for the next person who needs them.

There are people who survived and people who did not.

There are families who celebrated and families who grieved.

There are medical professionals who have spent entire careers caring for people they may never see again after they leave the hospital.

Every patient has a name.

Every family has a story.

Every healthcare professional has played a part in someone’s story.

Sylvain and Hélène Séguin are only two names among so many.

I could never carve the name of every patient, every family member, every doctor, every nurse, every technician, every therapist or every person who helped someone through that journey into one piece of wood.

So instead, I carved one heart to honour them all.

That is the meaning behind this sculpture.

And that is why I am sharing its story.

Perhaps someone who reads this has lived through something similar.

Perhaps someone works in healthcare and rarely gets to see what their work means to a patient years later.

Perhaps someone has stood beside a loved one during heart surgery.

Or perhaps someone reading this will simply understand what this heart represents and feel that another person should hear its story.

If that happens, please feel free to pass it along.

Sometimes a story travels simply because one person says to another:

“I think you should see this.”

For now, this heart’s journey is beginning in the community where I was born.

Where that journey eventually leads, I do not know.

What matters most to me is what it represents:

those who survived,
those we lost,
the families who stood beside them,
and the people who dedicated their lives to caring for all of us.

This sculpture began with my own wait for heart surgery.

But it was created with many more people in mind.

One heart, to honour them all.

How it changed my life

Before my heart surgery, I owned a construction company and had worked in roofing for about 36 years. I had built a large clientele and was well known in my community. That work was a big part of my life.

After my surgery, I had to close my company because the work had become too risky for my health, especially with the possibility of injuries. It was hard to leave behind something I had spent so many years building.

My family also had to adjust to these changes. It hasn’t always been easy, and we are still adapting. But life goes on. We keep moving forward and we don’t give up.

When I meet former clients in the community, they often tell me they miss me and the work I used to do for them. They still have kind words for me, and that means a lot.

I had already been sculpting for years, but it has taken a bigger place in my life since my surgery. It keeps me occupied and helps me through the transition I am living today. I have always worked with my hands, and I still need to make things.

My life has changed a lot, but I still have something to give. Through my sculptures, I can share what I have lived and say thank you in my own way.