My 'Bobby-Box' overfloweth

Near as I can tell, there are six or seven different pills currently in use throughout the day and night. Depending on the hour, I'm either being revved up, put in neutral, fast reverse, or quietly asleep.

There's the latest anti-inflammatory pill and ointment to make my leg incision a prettier sight. Let's see: A pill to prevent stomach upset, pain pills (love 'em), sleeping pills (need 'em), a daily nitro patch. There's more -- a yellow one, a small red one, a long white one -- by now, you should get the picture.

Currently, all prescriptions are packed tightly together, in a lone 'Bobby-Box.' Cometh the time then, cometh the solution, as this story line might require some background.

Back in our early courting days, Patty was introduced to my long time friend and later Best Man, 'Uncle-Bob.' I forget the exact date, but this nickname has stuck by him over the decades in many friendly quarters. During his work-cycle, Bob made and shipped those plastic half-pint strawberry boxes across the country, we all see in the grocery stands each berry season. Hence the name 'Bobby-Box,' in our household vocabulary.

They're quickly disposable, thanks to the marvels of plastic injection-molding. But we think they are great storage containers to organize your small hardware or kitchen stuff. You can use them singularly, clip them together. Or in this new use, easily corral all prescription pills together in an orderly fashion.

Bob, tell me there isn't a larger pint size version on the market somewhere, as I'm now considering buying shares in the local pharmacy chain.

Shaving day

The status quo has no more status at our house.

I'm not sure when the tipping point occurred -- likely, earlier this week viewing the advance movie promos for Santa 3 -- but shaving day happened right after a long hot shower this morning.

Earlier, I heard there are four great periods in the life of a man; the one where he believes in Santa Claus, the one where he no longer believes in Santa Claus, the one where he is Santa Claus, and finally the one where he looks more and more like Santa Claus.

I'm now at that special Fourth Period. Changes are needed.

The good news is, I have always used my right hand when using scissors, my left hand for shaving. The object therefore, was to hack as much white mane off as possible without snipping any flesh from the subject area. This was also as good a time as ever, to exercise the use of my left hand again with a razor, all the while not tiring myself out standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

Normally, guys run their blade over a steady face, applying various strokes and pressures along the way. In this case, the exercise was in reverse, but a shave, nonetheless. Today, I had to steady my two hands around the razor's handle and repeatedly move my face back and forth past the stationary blade. Don't try it, unless forced to.

What a plethora of facial choices! I can trim a full beard and be in some form of dapper disguise, have sideburns, an artsy goatee, a full moustache, a silly Hitler, or just lop it all off.

In the end, I tried them all, knowing what the end-exercise was to be. My old self.

Sideways

We were warned earlier about a Sideways Week, which is not unlike a long dance -- one ahead, two back, three sideways. It's only Friday, but Week Three has all the hallmarks of being a leading candidate for my first Sideways Week.

For those who have not experienced a Sideways Week, it's not so much as being blind-sided by an intentional sucker punch; as it is perhaps treading for all its worth in the deep end of the kiddie red plastic ball area, you see at many IKEA entranceways.

By week's end, you really haven't got much to show for your rallying efforts.

A continued fluid build-up in my left foot from last Saturday evening has become a reoccuring concern. Progresses we can both handle, but these life-challenges are definitely uncharted territory. After several hours rest in the Emergency Room, the swelling sort of went away. The prognosis seemed to be either too much exercise, or too little movement. We all concluded at the time, that it might have been the result of too much walking and climbing stairs, too soon. At best, we chalked the evening scare up to a one-off event.

I've been extremely tired all week since the remaining staples were extracted from my chest and leg on Monday. My body seems to be telling me to rest and sleep, which has been the case for most of the week day hours. I'm reminded from a new friend on the coast, 'slow and steady wins the race. There'll be plenty of time to hunt tigers and win marathons.' Too true, I think. Let's keep those new running shoes in their box, for a while longer.

Whatever, this listless state has resulted in both overall less exercise and a daily return of an uncomfortable fluid-filled build up again in my foot. As they say, this is not what the Doctor ordered.

Today, there's a bulge swelling halfway down my leg incision. These are new and unexpected healing and expansion forces in play, and one major staple job you wouldn't want to go pop-in-the-night!

I saw a new Doc this morning. As expected, I'm now the proud recipient of further scraps of prescriptions to curb any leg infection and further swelling. As well, another quick trip to the hospital rounded out the day -- this time an ultrasound on my leg for potential blood clotting.

Thankfully, all is well.

For Gary: Even I think it might not be prudent to hold the meds for the nourishing comfort of a glass of red wine. So, that nice Bordeaux planned to be uncorked this Sunday, is now on hold for another 10 days, until the latest round of pills have taken their course. Be patient, my friend. All other earlier promised activities in this area are now slotted back further into November, too. It's worth the wait.

Advancements and adjustments

This is the start of Week Three, 14 days since The-Day. Overall, there have been considerable advancements and adjustments.

Little do we realize, but we've been performing daily tasks all of our life by rote, often with both eyes closed. Without any thought, we place either our left foot or our right foot first into our pant legs or socks every morning, pull up, and then repeat the process with our other leg. We shave, brush our hair, eat pizza or clean our teeth with the same hand always, and so on.

When asked by hospital staff on operation day, what hand do you write with -- in my case, the right hand -- then all vein harvesting was done from my other arm and leg. I'm ambidextrous, but mostly use my left hand.

Oops.

This has resulted in learning to brush my teeth and other daily health and life tasks with my opposite (mostly unused right) hand. Try it sometime. It's like starting life all over again, akin to possibly some of the daily challenges a stroke victim might undergo in an early rehab stage. This morning with minor adjustments and grunting, I slowly went back to using my left hand to brush my teeth. Small advancements are at play here.

It's also been two weeks since any attempt at shaving. I've long since left behind the Wolf Blitzer CNN 3 day stubble. At this pace, I'll soon be a welcome candidate as some Mall Santa starting a short term assignment late next month. My neck IV incision has healed nicely, so I'm running out of excuses in this department. Sometime later this week, I'll revisit my face with a pair of shearing scissors and a sharp blade, but not yet.

It wasn't a chore learning to climb steps at the hospital, as they have 10 on each floor for you to try out and master before discharge. I've now got into a unique swaying gait of climbing and descending our two short flights of stairs at home. I come down the stairs sideways, clasping my trusty red pillow across my chest area, the other hand lightly sliding up or down the stair rail for balance. It's not a pretty site to watch, but effective nonetheless.

From things you-likely-don't-need-to-know dept: With a catheter removed, patients are quickly encouraged to use the hospital washroom facilities. It's about 12 baby steps -- sometimes with assistance -- from my bed to the washroom. As the day goes, somedays, this is a journey. Each toilet is equipped with what looks like an inverted kid's cowboy hat, with the brim straddled across the seating area -- an apparatus that apparently allows staff to check the quality/quantity of your urine. Whatever. In the early days, this chore can take some delicate navigating, with either a unsteady frontal approach (not recommended, twice), or a more challenging turn around, and slow squat down in the general area. The latter approach has all of the delicate movements similar to perhaps watching a NASA craft mate with the Soviet space station -- less of course, using any fancy electronics for guidance and dockage purposes. That exercise seemed so Herculean the first few times, less than a fortnight ago. Fortunately, we don't require a standby cleaning staff these days.

If there's a minor upside here to report, my weight is already at minus-two. Translated, that's 2 pounds less than when I entered the hospital. My goal is to plateau out somewhere around minus-fifteen - or about where I used to weigh some 2 decades ago. Can't promise anything more than that, so we'll see.

There is some mobility. I must now be looking and sounding less like a recent stroke victim -- the sort who had long since ceased to have anything relevant to say about life -- than a cardiac out-patient. A small example: This week, the morning shower is becoming a much easier event. A major problem still is the confidence and ability to fully dry myself off and dress afterwards. This still takes two persons and some planning. Hopefully, a few days out from now, this small challenge can be conquered, now that the staples are gone.

One-half of the staples were removed, before hospital discharge. Yesterday, the remaining half were extracted from my chest area and left leg from knee to ankle -- likely a 100 in total. For the curious, they're a classic U design, more industrial size thickness than their office counterpart, about a half-inch in length in each direction. They're nasty little buggers, but quite effective when enough are used.

The lone tender spot is at the bottom section of my leg incision, when the Saturday night admitting nurse accidentally dropped a bottle of pills on my incision. This forced a couple of staples further into my lower leg and ankle area, where there is mostly bone. This was no time to quickly experience the sharp end of Newton's gravitational equation. Big owies, plus a few unprintable adjectives. Quite a muffled few, actually, between streaming tears. My arm and leg is a little tender this morning, but dressing was definitely smoother and faster.

As you can see, most of me is well under way in the healing department. I try not to look at my chest area, unless necessary. The left arm is still ugly to look at and swollen at times. When leaving the hospital it was the size of Popeye's forearm and a deep mauve in colour. This week, it has turned yellow-ochre, as has my right wrist from IV insertions. You shouldda seen how bad the other guy in the fight looked!!

Patty will be home for the balance of this week, then she has to go back to work. We've got about 5 days to get all shower and dressing issues resolved. Tomorrow, I start to do the entire event by myself.

Consciousness can often be called, that annoying time between naps. Indeed, as last week was very tiring. Last week, I definitely required to set aside an hour on the sofa before lunch and about 1-2 hours most afternoons. This has now been shortened to about a long afternoon nap, lasting no more than 2 hours.

There have been moments this week that were simply over- whelming. I'm not seeing any visitors as yet, although family and friends relate over the phone, to keep the dialogue chatty and nervously upbeat, that I sound fine. It's often a period to put on brave fronts, but I still don't feel fine inside. The chest and leg area pain are often intense, just before pain pill time. I'm trying to make a conscious effort to cut down on the narcotic dependency of these little lovelies, but quickly realise, this is a silly concept. A high-low pain pill cycle is followed by a good, light buzz. And more sleep. Keep 'em coming, for now. It was easier to just take a slow deep phone breath, pause; and reply that life has simply changed for a while, not ended.

We always love a spontaneous event, if it involves a quick car getaway. No such luck here so far in the car back seat, trundled up behind my heart pillow and safety harness. I can fly again and get access to the car later in November, barring no unforeseen set- backs. We also haven't had a backgammon game with lunch or dinner since coming home, either. This needs addressing, even if I have to throw a few games to start the process! (She will likely hold back a few pain pills for that last comment. Just kidding.)

So, I have some health back and more mobility. Given the span of only one week at home, there have been momentous small life-advancements here to report, with only a few adjustments along the way.

I knew how I felt and looked two weeks ago. Not a pretty sight. At the time, it was a given that I'd scare all the little villagers down in the valley. Much progress since then, in small increments, even though the villagers should still stay away until after Halloween.

Quiet Wahoo's And Hugs therefore all around to the support players and prayers.

Saturday night at the Emerg

Recovery can often be charted more as zig-zag, rather than in a straight line. Such was the case, late on Saturday evening.

The Leafs had just lost their hockey game in a shootout. It's time. I'm soon ready for a bucket of pills prior to bedtime.

But something's not right with my left foot. It's swelling up like an overcooked sausage. I've no movement nor feeling in my foot at all. Visually, there's no ankle left -- one big toe, and four little toes, now all as one.

Fortunately (I think), an Ontario Government health agency has a 24/7 phone-in emergency service, for such occasions. The friendly counsellor suggests to Patty, that this new event might be a scenario of potential blood clotting. Get to the Emergency Ward of your hospital. Now. These are not comforting words to hear around 11pm on a Saturday night.

You quickly find the Emergency Room on any night, takes on all the appearance of a controlled war-zone. With simple cloth partitions between admitted patients, there are no life-secrets once inside. Trust me. Doctors and key staff speak clearly and loudly here. All parties know their functions, and as a result, quickly dispense burst-decisions with the speed and efficiency of an F1 or NASCAR pit stop. Overall, it's an invasive place with intense purpose, holding little of the noise and drama you can view nightly on mainstream TV. That said, alien monitors, noises and buzzers constantly invade your space inside this 20 some odd bed facility. It can be an extremely lonely place without the company of a loved one at your side. Somehow tonight, I could relate more to the sobbing elderly gentleman behind my curtain, than to the wailing drug induced teenager, all the way down the end of the corridor.

Three hours later, the swelling seems to have subsided a little. It was a simple case of fluid settling in my foot. Nothing more, thank goodness.

Just heartedly acknowledge the professionalism and dedicated staff inside these cloth partitioned walls. I recommend you whistle a little tune on the way out. And then move your life along. Anywhere but there.

We're home at 3am. No sleeping pill was necessary tonight.

What they probably didn't tell you earlier

There aren't many times in your life when you are given a second chance to wipe the slate clean.

Hip-hop, for tomorrow belongs to no one.

The good news is, you're encouraged to walk the corridors, as soon as humanly possible, after arriving on the recovery ward. I know this is done for sound medical reasons, such as building back your muscle base. But there's really no good way else to also say, "g'wan scram, get outta here!"

The Dutch have a phrase that loosely translates, "A guest, like a fish, stinks on the third day." They're more accommodating in Myanmar, of all places: "Seven days is the length of a guest's life."

While its never really expressed in specific terms, you're expected to be in a recovery phase, that ideally lasts no longer than a week. Put otherwise, there can't be an orderly flow of cardiac by-pass operations scheduled at the front end, if there's no recovery beds and sufficient nursing staff available at the back end. After all, the hospital doesn't get their much deserved gold star on your behalf, until you're officially discharged. Don't believe my mild cynicism, just look at this post operative period, as what the manufacturing sector might: a unionized 'just-in-time' repair and overhaul plant. Nothing more, nothing less.

I never connected these dots at any of our hospital pre-surgery meetings, even though I was always the youngest non-smoking candidate in the room. If one was a gambling person, then one might conclude one's chances were both good to survive the by-pass operation as well as the recovery phase, on-time-on-budget.

It didn't take an aging baby boomer's groggy mind long to soon realize, that most patients - this week anyway - could demographically be those of my aging parents. A goodly number of patients shuffling along the corridor, looked closer to 85 than 65 years old, and according to the main board at the nurse's hub, were already fast approaching a double-digit post-recovery stay. Some were there already. One person had already reached Day 25!

So here's a few layman assumptions from what I observed in my 5 recovery days on the ward, and from a week's recovery now at home:

1. Recovery first, finances second. That said, it's time to review your financials. Every case is different, but there could be a consultative period of up to 90 days, leading up to your operation date. Whatever your timeline, you should take this period to quietly be proactive with your life-affairs. If you're aged and alone (or as an aged couple) and your support/kids are not available upon discharge, then prior source a range of for-profit home support services and contract staff to assist you in the first couple of weeks after discharge, should this be the case. If you find these necessary services to be too expensive, then specifically ask the hospital staff -- either in your pre-op sessions, or in your recovery phase -- for a list of social support services, that may be available in your area. Either way, be clear of your medical and emotional options prior to discharge.

Your survival and mobility in the first couple of weeks is paramount, no matter the costs! My sense is, the odds of your survival lessen greatly, without this layer of support home assistance close by.

2. Rent a shower stool from the Red Cross. It's heavenly. You'll find each planned shower, an excellent time to put your daily exercises to work. More importantly, with all of this enclosed warm mist, it's just a great time to place your thumb over each nostril, and give a good blow! Our little secret. This is no time for a slippery bar of soap to become a lethal weapon, stopping its unplanned trajectory at any recent ankle or leg stitches. For now, try some liquid hand soap.

3. Don't underestimate the importance of listening to your on-site physiotherapist, as I did. Your daily exercises at home might seem exhaustive at first, but so necessary, as your recovery phase continues. With continued practice, you'll also soon be able to inhale those three ball thingies up their plastic chutes, more times than not. Your lungs will thank you for it, later on.

Other hospital professionals that are on hand prior to discharge, might be the timely services of an occupational therapist, dietician, pharmacist, social and pastoral worker. If you have any nagging thoughts or feelings about your future, this is the time to ask questions.

It's never too late to work out, particularly, if you are used to a sedentary lifestyle, the land where I come from. I'm told, I will notice increases in body strength, flexibility, agility and balance after participating in a customized walking and resistance training exercise program. Bring it on! First things first, though. One has to gain one's strengths back, while early in a recovery stage.

4. A planned exit-strategy is important. There may be a mountain of evidence here to possibly suggest otherwise, but a family caregiver's fitness is directly linked to an orderly patient recovery. This was never stressed to us at any of the preliminary hospital meetings. If possible and if health permits, the caregiver should learn and practice how to get the patient out of bed and up and down from a chair, days or weeks before your operation. Not after surgery. Patient leg muscles should be as strong as possible to allow you to rock forward and lift up from a sitting stance, very early-on in your recovery phase. What I noticed in my lone physiotherapy group session, was a group of aging lady caregivers in full-fright, who likely couldn't carry a regular bag of kitty litter too far, never mind lift up their 175 lb spouse from a bed. Or from the floor.

The post-op services provided by each cardiac hospital may vary. Ask your nurse or social worker on staff, as to whether you can tap into any classes that may prepare for an easy return home. There should be regular sessions offered, in the areas of dietary or nutrition, stress management and a pharmacy overview of medications.

5. Assertive launches and controlled crashes. Again, if health and time permits, then start honing those leg muscles above your knees. You're soon going to find this most useful, when lifting up from a chair or sitting down on a toilet, while in your early recuperative phase. Try these little exercises, soonest. It may work, in your case:

(a) Put a chair beside a guard rail, if you think this is necessary for support. Stand in front of the chair. Back into the chair, until it touches the back of your legs, then slowly descend to the chair with your arms crossed in front of you. Before contact with the chair, you should feel the use of your leg muscles at work, that I'm referring to. Then rock forward and up a little, clutching a small pillow over your chest area, as you try and rise to your earlier position.

(b) Lie flat on the floor on your back, more or less at attention like a soldier, with your arms beside you. Then try and roll over on your nose, while still at attention. I know it sounds silly, but try it, anyway. With this simple exercise well practiced, you should find it easier to later perform the basics of rolling out of your bed.

(c) Use a bed that will allow you to sit on the edge, and at the same time, comfortably have your feet touching the floor. With your two feet grounded, and a pair of good legs, it should be easier for you to rise up with your red pillow in tow. Rock on. After that, the world's your oyster!

The sooner each patient learns how to rise up and sit down from a chair, toilet and their bed, then the sooner they can reclaim their domain!

6. A walk through your house with your kids/caregiver to prevent any future accidents. Are the lights bright enough? Are throw rugs a hazard? Are there fresh batteries in your smoke detectors? Is there a fresh fire extinguisher on each floor and in the garage for quick access? Is it possible for you to rent an electronic medic-alert, a Medicalert bracelet, or purchase Gift Certificates / credits from a local taxi company? I wished I would have thought, to buy a shoe horn with an extra long handle.

7. Network. Surround yourself with strong people. You'll soon need to tap into their energies. Use this period before your operation date to reach out to friends, family, medical staff, support groups. Everyone. You'll soon be on intimate terms with your pharmacist, who can direct you through a flurry of new prescriptions (and describe their side effects.) This is no time for patient / family misinformation. Can your new medical or phar- maceutical people advise and direct you to any recommended websites, strictly for educational purposes? Do you have a current support system in place?

Specifically, do your children know how to contact your doctor, lawyer, banker, church or temple, and neighbours? Certain friends might be willing to help out a bit by taking you shopping, shoveling the sidewalk or mowing the lawn. If not, homework time with your kids (or new caregiver) is about to begin.

8. Keep a weekly journal. The first thing caregivers should write down at the top of each page is, "You can't care for your spouse or loved one, unless you look after yourself first." Later on, patients or caregivers might wish to write your symptoms down longhand, or go to www.blogger.com as you're now viewing, which is a free electronic service to any patients with minimal internet savvy. If not, you'll soon find out how quickly this lead-up to The-Day, and your early recuperative weeks will soon become a forgetful haze, for posterity or medical reasons.

9. You've likely already found out that doctors these days are busy professionals, with few bedside manners. Time is money with this new crowd. You'll soon get passed around beyond your family doctor, on to your cardiologist, your surgeon, post-op community services; and finally, the rehab team. Try and have a short-list of pertinent questions ready in advance of these medical follow-up appointments. And take notes. They may get called away on an emergency, half-way through your long awaited meeting. There are no dumb questions to ask, just dumb answers!

10. Surviving. You may not realise it yet, but the hard part is already behind you. And you even slept through the entire main event! Survivors belong to a unique club, with select admission. They're usually driven by a singular vision. They're resolutely defined of purpose. Not unlike most entrepreneurs, they usually start with nothing more than an idea and a belief they can turn a germ of an idea into reality. Surviving should now be your new entrepreneurial life venture (no experience necessary, appar- ently.) You've been given a second chance, to not make the same mistake twice. Think about that for a moment. Take that new baton stick recently handed to you and run with it for as long as humanly possible. Plan B is not even an option for consideration or debate.

Disclaimer: The information contained in this blog site is provided for reference and/or education purposes only. This electronic web information is not intended to be a substitute for a physician’s advice, diagnosis or treatment. The writer assume no responsibility or liability for any inaccuracy or omission of information or from the use of any information or advice in this blog site.

The next best thing, to the next best thing, to great sex...

Giggle as you may, the next best thing, to the next best thing, to great sex (happens around Day Three or Four) is a long warm shower!

They don't mention this blissful state anywhere in the many support publications you're appraised of prior to your operation.

In fact, the last chore you ever want to do again, is shower. For three or four days leading up to The-Day, you have to spend at least a continual one-half hour of intense scrubbing each morning and evening with a surgical brush and antiseptic soap. And then again. And just when you're crossing over from pink to early raw, once more for the last time, until bedtime.

But that was my last week's clean phase. Now, after nearly three days in bed, my hair is matted from bouts of intense sweat and dryness. I'm thankful of course, for the regular towelette facial wipings over a formed chin stubble. There has to be more though, as the rest of me is feeling quite icky. It's time, to start turning thoughts into actions.

It doesn't matter as to whether you're a tub or shower person, the 'aaahs' take on a new special meaning at that first hallowed cleansing.

Angels, all

I was past the tears and good-byes and long hug stage from the Admissions area, although my eyes were still very moist. All surgical consent and release forms were duly signed, which seemed an ideal time from my surgeon's perspective to have these binding documents thrust upon an awaiting patient for quick signature. This didn't seem to be the right time nor occasion to parse a legal contract, clause by clause. Just scribble in the lower right corner. And get on with shaving my legs and chest area.

My earlier angiogram day was simply horrific, full of trepidation and the unknown. Today's visit is potentially much more problem- atic, yet I was very much at ease, almost uncharacteristically fatalistic: I'm either going to wake up and survive this day. Or not. It's clear, that if I don't have the operation, my odds for a sustained survival and a quality of life past remembered, will be somewhere between slim and nil. And Slim never showed up for today's party.

By now, Patty was being directed to the family waiting area, where she would be for the next five or six hours.

It's a short gurney hop down a long corridor and a few swinging doors, from the Admissions area to the cardiac OR section. I don't know why, but along the way, I placed a hand over my heart, in a symbolic attempt to feel it pumping one last time. Couldn't feel a damned thing. A mild drugged and shaved state 'being delivered' will often make you do the silliest of things. Today, was no exception.

This wasn't so much a case of following one's heart, as possibly being hauled along with it, literally, to the garage for an imminent major overhaul. About halfway there, you pass a glassed in area. Outside was turning into a gorgeous sunny Fall day, which I was determined to see more of. At the time, it seemed a good omen.

Events were now moving swiftly. All told, there must have been about a dozen principal and support persons buzzing around my gurney on operation morning. They were all a friendly and task-driven lot. Mostly, I just saw the ceiling and staff coming and going out of a corner of view. To an outsider, there's a controlled air of order and chaos in the room, not unlike looking down on an ant hill. A nurse on my right side was doing her best to put me at ease, while hooking up IV lines to my right hand. Her warm assuring smile, on these occasions, went a long way. Concurrent tag-team enquiries on my left, were being asked as to what hand I used for writing, as my arm veins were gently being tapped and stroked. Big lamps hung above and behind this confident pair. I looked out beyond my two feet, and caught a quick glimpse at my masked surgeon, in an adjoining area.

I didn't realize it at the time, but a cocktail of drugs was already kicking in. Big time.

The next round of Angels I remember in a very groggy state, started with Nurse F, much later in The-Day, while in the recovery Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU). I was oblivious of family and any other staff for most of this stay, and still too incoherent to quietly recognize the obvious: 'You lucky SOB. You made it!' That quiet congratulatory period from me to me, was later observed over a luncheon jello later in the week. Early on, I was told an inserted respirator tube made it challenging to make anything but small talk. Now, I just had a raw throat, and was already Pavlov dog trained to nod on command. There were tubes to empty my bladder and to drain off any accumulated blood, IV's in my neck and wrist to administer drugs and fluids, strings coming out of the base of my chest and noisy heart monitors somewhere above and behind. Nurse F, became my lifeline for the balance of the day, as she closely monitored all vital functions, when time could have been day, or evening. Or elsewhere. I was so glad, she never seemed to be far away. Nor did I want her ever to leave her shift. I remember mostly a dimly lit area with her small desk at the room entrance, her soft hands on mine when she thought necessary, and always a comforting voice. Nothing much else.

The next morning, I was relocated to the CVICU recovery ward on the 3rd floor. Nurses here work on a 12 hour rotating shift basis. Work days are long on 3 West, with a job description that can best be summed up in a word: Intense.

Nurse R was my first contact with the real world. I never gave it a second thought nor concern, when she wrote every transaction down between ourselves, rather than punching all data into a hand held computer. We often smiled to each other when I mentioned to her that, "a short pencil was better than a long memory." Later in the week, I found out she still had a part-time designation at the hospital. Her eyes are pure. She has a big heart in cardiac patient recovery, and no doubt a long future in nursing. Two thoughts come to mind: Get this lady enrolled full-time, before she's scooped up elsewhere. Secondly, here's an ideal candidate for a mentoring program, if one prevails on-site.

Nurse A must have drawn the short straw and got me for the evening shift on Day One. My vitals apparently were all in a mess and quickly needed aligning. There were many visits to Room 311 before the end of her shift. Saline bags came and went overhead regularly. Extra pills were dispensed. And while in a multi-tasking mode, my fingers quickly became a pin cushion for a succession of ongoing blood samples. Throughout the night, there were many close encounters between her stethoscope and my chest area. This can truly become an intense period, when two people in a busy hospital can be very close. I remember her blonde hair was tightly braided back into a small pony-tail. Her eyes were very intense with little reason to smile. It's a guy-thing, but we had catheter issues that night, which resulted in words between us. Later, I always looked for her in my corridor walks, but we never met again. I wanted to quietly express my profound thanks to her, for getting me through that long sleepless night into Day Two. She likely wouldn't give it a second thought, but I'd also like to take this opportunity to personally apologize to her for my insensi- tivities at the time.

Nurse V was pinch-hitting a colleague out, so I only had her for half a shift before bedtime. You quickly realized, that this lady has held small hearts and large hearts in her lifetime. What a commanding presence! She alone, had a gift of expressing professional detachment with a lot of class, when not your patient. You appreciate this fact more after being away from their collective charge, especially when you consider the ward likely has a fresh turnover of patients every 10 days or so.

Nurse S came into my life twice during the last half of my stay. After several days on the floor, I was on the mend and adapting to their daily routines and schedules. You never felt like seven digits on a computer, while in her space. She provided just the right amount of tough-love when required, e.g. booting unnamed tardy patients out of bed for long corridor walks. There was also a high angel trust factor built up over a short period of time. Nobody but her, was going to extract half of my staples, prior to discharge. Nobody. Make no mistake, there is a professional side to her, but in an earlier life, this was the type of team person you'd always like to have a beer with after a hectic work week. And I say this to all, in the nicest of ways.

The hospital did something else smart, when they put their team together -- no small feat, I'm sure, in what is likely a unionized environment. Some bright light recognized the immense talent of experienced nursing staff coming into their retirement phase, who may not wish to retire as yet. Why not let them de-stress a little, keep their pension and dignity intact and repackage them as cleaners and food dispensers on the ward. What a huge win-win concept with immense value to all stakeholders! One turned out to be a past neighbour, who was a most pleasant surprise and joy to await each morning. Thanks, A.

A big thank-you to all the OR and support staff on The-Day. And to subsequent Angels on 3 West, especially the ones not clearly remembered in my early recovering days. You know who you are.

A special heart felt thank-you has to also go out to the Telephone Pioneer ladies, wherever you rest your head after a long day.

My new trusty pal of course, is the small red pillow they personally craft, that each heart survivor receives from these good ladies. With literally every move, it quickly becomes your new love, while in this recovery phase. Some time in the near-term, I'd really like to give you each back a 'near and dear' hug for your special gift.

I carry both an unpaid debt of appreciation and a reservoir of deep respect, to the entire team. Bless you all.

Cheers

THERE ARE TIMES when you speak to your travel agent, and the words trip, travel and journey are often intermingled as though they have the same meaning. Yet upon reflection, there is a huge difference between taking a trip and being on a voyage.

We all know that traveling consumes a great deal of energy -- airports and customs, where we stay, what to wear, when to eat, and so on. Being on a journey, however, goes beyond what's on our mind, by sometimes being forced to connect those little dots to what is in it.

You could say that physical travel is not a prerequisite for journeying. Many of us secretly journey each day in the quiet confines of our office space, as we fondly look at the framed pictures of loved ones on our desk. Or let our contemplations briefly wander, while downing our first Saturday morning coffee at the kitchen table.

Little did I appreciate those minute differences, until being dis- charged from hospital, after cardiac by-pass surgery last week.

I've found out lately, that any past accomplishments, mean absolutely diddly. This new journey at home is mostly in rocky uncharted waters, with few navigational aids to get you through the day. Sleep overtakes most of the daytime, and while awake, you wing most of your daytime chores in a zombie-like fashion. If you're lucky and in the right place, you get a smile and a slight course correction from the alert caregiver. In between, you quietly struggle along, adapt as best as possible, and frequently fumble through a pretext of regrouping with the best grace and dignity possible.

I must confess, I've always been representative of that generation slightly in age-denial. Over the years, I have enjoyed being a tour escort extraordinaire, a niche travel marketer, a publisher of glossy lifestyle magazines. My present apprenticeship, is now learning how to become a cardiac recoveree.

We've all journeyed far since the days of Camelot. I think having children changed a lot of that. Along the way, the Me generation became the Wee generation. The generation gap between our parents, became the Gap generation.

Perhaps LIFE magazine's Senior Editor, Robert Friedman, best summed it up in an earlier reflective article, "To the media, we will always be known as the baby boom. But to our babies, now becoming teenagers, going off to university, becoming engaged, having grand-children, we are already history."

Talk about looking back into the future.

This might suggest a past life has been more zig-zag, than straight-line. Not entirely so. Constant has been a life fascination about the culture of wine, appreciating the craft of the wine maker and the pairing of wine with food. Until recently, I really enjoyed con- ducting hands-on wine appreciation and educational courses to intimate gatherings and conferences. It's most gratifying to quietly watch a new generation of informed wine enthusiasts pour some- thing nice into their glass for a change -- in this lifetime, while they're still young!

Since I'm struggling to put a sentence together, and can't drink whatsoever due to heavy medication, this area is all shelved until the new year, earliest.

In spite of all this maelstrom swirling about, I have to believe my life-glass is still half-filled. Cheers!

Simply a dream

We've all seen this movie before.

Look at your left paw, and clench your fist. This is a locomotive. Now look at your right hand, and do the same thing. This could be you or me. Me, for sure. Now let's paint this dream in a matrix like teal wash, for full sinister effect.

Start the flick. The trick here is to race the train over the railway crossing. If you lose, you really lose. It's only a dream, anyway, right? If you beat the odds -- and the chances of survival here, are actually in your favour -- then you wake up. And you get a second chance at life.

This is the start of Week Two with a new heart, and progress to report. After six days in hospital, I'm now home on the mend from that much-needed train wreck called cardiac triple by-pass surgery on Tuesday, October 10, 2006. A little banged up and swollen, but OK.

As one of the orderlies stated on her morning rounds, "Any day you can walk away from a train wreck, Tony, is a good day, eh?" Couldn't agree more.

On other fronts, my thanks for your quiet thoughts and prayers, that apparently came from many different quarters. Very much appreciated from this new side of life.