AS GOOD AS NEWBarbara Walters in the library of her New York City apartment.

No, I will not show you my scar. But I will tell you that it goes from the middle of my breastbone to just below my breasts. It is barely noticeable. With makeup I can wear a plunging neckline, and if I were prone to wearing a bikini—which I am not—I could. My operation was called open-heart surgery, which sounds very frightening. More than half a million open-heart surgeries are performed every year in this country, but the very description seems so terrifying that many people, afraid that they might have to undergo it, avoid even having an annual checkup. They are making a terrible mistake. Heart disease is the No. 1 killer of men, but what most people don’t know is that it is also the No. 1 killer of women. The thing is, with coronary heart disease, the symptoms are somewhat different for men than for women. Men usually experience pain in the chest and down the left arm. With women, it is more subtle—shortness of breath or nausea. It may therefore be helpful if I tell you about my experience, scar and all.

My surgery was to replace my aortic valve, one of the four valves of the heart, which was getting increasingly narrow. That meant that blood was having a hard time getting out of the heart—not a good thing. If you happen to like scary films, here’s the ghoulish part. Your heart is located in the center of your chest, and the surgeon saws through your breastbone to reach it, using a sort of crowbar to spread the chest open. For a short period of time, he actually holds your heart in his hand, though it is still attached to your body. (My heart was stopped for 30 minutes, and for more than an hour I was on a heart-lung machine, which takes over the pumping action of your heart.) Then the doctor replaces the aortic valve with one from a pig or a cow. In my case, it came from a cow. (I was happy when I learned that. A pig valve wouldn’t be kosher.) Now the blood can flow easily again, and you are as good as new—maybe even better.

Here’s the great news. You are not allowed to go to the dentist for at least three months after the surgery, because bacteria from your teeth can travel to your heart and cause an infection. No dentist. Also, no vigorous exercise for weeks. You experience great fatigue. No one raises an eyebrow if you take a nap every day. Finally, open-heart surgery sounds so awful that everyone worries about you, and what with the phone calls, the notes, and the flowers—all extolling your virtues and letting you know how wonderful you are—you feel as if you were reading your obituary. That’s the good news. The bad news is that, even though the operation is relatively routine, there is still a 1-to-2-percent chance that you won’t make it. Someone actually could wind up reading your obituary.

I was diagnosed in October 2009 by a superb cardiologist named David Blumenthal. I didn’t go for a second opinion—I went for four. I just couldn’t believe that I needed this surgery. I had never missed a day of work because of ill health. Plus, I had heard of a much less invasive technique that was being tested experimentally but had not yet been approved by the F.D.A. Maybe if I just waited a year or so, until the technique was less experimental, it could be done on me. But all the doctors I saw agreed that I should probably have the surgery within a year. They determined this primarily with a test called an echocardiogram, which is different from the standard cardiogram doctors give you when you go for your annual checkup. (If you don’t go for an annual checkup, you are a dope.) The echocardiogram uses ultrasound beams, and you can actually watch it and hear your blood whooshing around. At that point, I didn’t know a valve from a kidney. Arteries, I sort of knew, were like veins, carrying blood from the heart. A clogged artery could require bypass surgery. Depending on how many clogged arteries you had, you might need a single, double, triple, or even quadruple bypass. My arteries were clear. It was my pesky aortic valve that was causing the concern. Strange, because I had none of the symptoms I have described.

Permit me to digress. When the weather is mild, I often walk from the east side of Central Park across to the west side, where the studio for my television show is. I maintain a pretty good pace with two pals, Bryant Renfroe, my longtime hairstylist, and Lori Klein, my makeup artist. We always climb the flights of stairs at the Bethesda Fountain. In the spring of this year, a couple of times after this climb, I said to my pals, “Do you feel any pressure on your chest? Not out of breath, but pressure.” Each said “Nope.” The next time I talked to Dr. Blumenthal, I casually mentioned this pressure. “That is not good news,” he said. It was a sign that the valve was closing. Still, I felt no urgency, but I thought that perhaps I should visit the surgeon who would actually perform the operation. Dr. Craig Smith, the chief of cardiothoracic surgery at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, is one of the most renowned doctors in the field. He had performed open-heart surgery on President Clinton and Mike Nichols. I talked to both of them, when we chanced to meet, and they swore by him. As it turned out, Dr. Blumenthal was not on the staff of Columbia Presbyterian, so I had to find a doctor who was. I was referred to another superb cardiologist, Dr. Jerry Gliklich. He also advised surgery, and soon. By then it was April. Strangely, I had no fear. It was as if all this were happening to someone else. Yet I re-did my will.

I asked my daughter, Jackie, who lives in Maine and ventures to New York only when we miss each other too much, to come for a visit. I walked her through my apartment and said, “If anything happens to me, you can sell the apartment and everything in it at auction, but if there are things you want, you should think about them now, and I will make sure they are put aside.” Jackie wanted nothing except for a few mementos. Before she went back to Maine, however, she said that she wanted to be with me for the surgery. Although I had told almost no one, and was still fighting the prospect, the idea of death was floating around me. I had one comforting thought: if I died during the operation, I wouldn’t know it.

I soon learned about the operation. The surgery normally takes three to five hours. The 72 hours following surgery are the time for greatest concern. There is fear of a stroke, bleeding, lung failure, or other complications. The recovery rate is usually one to three months. Some people experience great pain. I remember Mike Nichols telling me, with a grin, that the best part of his bypass was the drugs. Other people who had had similar operations told me that I could expect to be depressed. I might not be myself for six months. All in all, open-heart surgery sounded as scary as hell.

By now it was almost summer. If you could help it, I was told, never go into a hospital in July, because the residents change and you are likely to be attended by newcomers. However, if I waited and had the surgery at the beginning of August, I probably couldn’t be back at work until October, which was late for the new TV series. May or June was it, but May turned out to be a particularly crazy, busy time. There was hardly a week when I wasn’t giving or receiving an award, starting May 10, when I was to present a lifetime-achievement award to Charlie Rose. Meanwhile, Dr. Gliklich was becoming more and more concerned about the pressure in my chest. He gave me another test, an angiogram—a sort of X-ray of blood vessels—and announced that he didn’t want me to walk through the park anymore or exert myself. He frowned when I begged, “Can’t I wait until June to have the operation?” He replied, “Possibly.” I asked, “Well, what’s the downside of waiting?” He told me, “There’s a small risk of sudden death.”

That was Wednesday, April 28. Dropping dead did not seem to be an option. “When is Dr. Smith free to do the surgery?,” I asked. Wednesday, May 12, I was told—two weeks away.

On Sunday, May 9, I made phone calls to David Westin, the president of ABC News; Bill Geddie, my co—executive producer on The View; Monique Medina, my assistant at ABC; and Joyce Ashley, my oldest friend, who is like a sister. (I have no sisters or brothers.) My only other confidants were two devoted members of my business and household, George Pineda, my wonderful “chief of staff,” and Icodel Tomlinson, my lovable housekeeper. The three of us have been together for more than 20 years. I also called Jackie and told her it was time to come to New York.

On Monday, May 10, at 11 A.M., I took my place at the table with the ladies of The View: Whoopi Goldberg, Joy Behar, Elisabeth Hasselbeck, and Sherri Shepherd. I had an announcement to make. Although I am very fond of these women, I had told them nothing about the operation. I had thought that I could keep my surgery a secret. Then I realized that the news would probably leak out, and that that would be worse than simply admitting what I was facing.

Once on the air, I said to the viewers, “Later this week I am going to have surgery to replace one faulty heart valve.” I went on to say, with what I hoped was a cheery face, “Lots of people have done this. I have known of this condition for a while now, and my doctors and I have decided that this is the best time to do the surgery. Since the summer is coming up, I can take a nice vacation.”

We then went on with the program as usual. I said no more about my surgery. I wrote short notes to my daughter as well as to George, Icodel, and Joyce, to be opened the day after my operation, telling them how much I loved them and what a great life I had enjoyed. I had my hair washed and had a manicure and a pedicure. Monday night, as planned, I presented the award to Charlie Rose. Early Tuesday morning, Jackie arrived. Wednesday morning at 6:30, she and George took me to the hospital. My surgery was performed at nine o’clock. I remember nothing else about that day except waking up in the intensive-care unit with a breathing mask on my face and tubes in my body and giving a thumbs-up sign to my anxious daughter and George, both of whom had been waiting all day for that moment.

The deed was done, and I was alive.

PEOPLE TOLD ME I MIGHT not be myself for six months. Open-heart surgery sounded as scary as hell.

I spent 10 days in the hospital, and everyone was wonderful, but I couldn’t wait to get home—my favorite four-letter word. At first, I was constantly fatigued, and I had trouble walking from my bedroom to the bathroom. But two weeks later I was walking outdoors. One morning I was greeted by the paparazzi. They were amazed that I was walking. The next day I saw my photograph everywhere. Good, I thought, now people will know I’m not curled up in the fetal position.

I received more than 200 telephone messages from friends and fans. New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg called often. Hillary Clinton wrote to me. So did Queen Rania, of Jordan, and Farah Pahlavi, the ex—Empress of Iran. I was very moved when I got personal phone calls from Mrs. Anwar Sadat and Israel’s prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu. (Maybe I can make peace in the Middle East.) Some messages made me smile, including those from David Letterman and Jimmy Kimmel. Woody Allen offered his “small motor skills” to assist my surgeon. Don Imus wrote, “Too bad I don’t still do cocaine. I could send you some.” I even had a nice note from Monica Lewinsky.

I never needed drugs. I was sore where my scar was healing but never in real pain. (The surgical staples dissolve.) I had good days and bad, but I was never depressed, except when it came to the endless flowers. Even though I had asked people not to send flowers, my living room was so full of white orchids that all it needed was a casket in front of the fireplace. I loved the white lilies from Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes and the six dozen coral roses from Plácido Domingo, especially since Plácido was one of the people to whom I was to have presented an award in May. (Oscar de la Renta took my place.) As the bouquets kept coming, all I could think was: Another thank-you note. I wrote five a day for weeks. (Intuitive Oprah sent a beautiful white blanket.)

I heard from people long forgotten and never known. One call was from Andrea Reynolds, the girlfriend of Claus von Bülow when he was on re-trial for the attempted murder of his wife. I had covered that case more than 25 years earlier. Another caller was a woman who said she had gone to college with me 60-some years ago. She wanted to come and visit me.

Don’t get me wrong. I was very touched by their kind concern. It must have been a slow news day when my surgery was announced, because everyone seemed to know I’d had an operation. Elevator operators smiled and took my arm. Truckdrivers shouted, “Hey, Barbara, how ya doin’?” Most people seemed surprised that I looked fine—I think they expected me to be wizened, like something out of Edgar Allan Poe.

I was doing surprisingly well. In less than two months, I was almost totally recovered, and my thoughts were beginning to revolve around my return to work. We had planned to have me make a big entrance when The View began a new season, right after Labor Day. At the end of July, however, Barack Obama decided to appear on the program—the first time ever for a sitting president to be on a daytime talk show. How could I not be on it? So, on July 28, I took my place onstage with my colleagues and led off the interview with the president of the United States. I had never felt better.

Now it was time to take stock of how I felt about the whole experience. The surgery had to have had some meaning for me. I decided that with my new heart it was time for a new attitude, time to do things I had wanted to do for years and not continue doing things I had no serious interest in. No more big dinners just to prove I was invited. No more opera. Ditto for Shakespeare. No more splashy charity events. Send a check instead. The new and happier me.

Still, once in a while, there was the nagging thought: Could I have waited? Dr. Smith remembered my ambivalence, and one day I received a phone call from him. He wanted me to know that he had recently been scheduled to perform an operation on a patient whose condition was similar to mine. Sadly, he said, a week before the surgery the patient had dropped dead.