HR chimps in the zoo

I'm not sure today, why I'm thinking of this past August hospital occurrence. Well, maybe I do. I hope everything went fine, without a hitch.

There are only a few good rules to remember when you visit your H: Listen to your mom and wear clean knickers. Don't forget to bring along a good book. Above all else, remember the ebb and flow of your new hospital attire. There can often be much to view, as you carelessly stroll by. And always be prompt for your long awaited specialist appointment.

You soon find out though, that health specialists are a busy new breed, who sometimes can't always work to appointed time lines -- especially, when it comes to your appointment.

As I remember, such was the occasion back in the late summer period, as I patiently waited for an introductory meeting with my new Cardiac Doc. It was a hot, sticky August afternoon. Nothing, it seemed -- the air-conditioning and my heart, in particular -- was functioning properly that day.

Waiting uncomfortably in hospital corridors with your expanding bag of pills and new paperwork, can usually give you time to inwardly reflect about past events, that likely brought you to these crossroads in the first place. If you're of that particular ilk, then this is your great opportunity to look forward in Zen silence, at nothing more than fading lime green paint across the hallway.

Ummmmmmm.

Or what the hell, take this equal opportunity to chat up your nearby sick neighbour, who also seems to be inflicted with a similar bout of specialist delay. Given half the chance, I'm usually a Door Number Two kinda guy.

It's time then for me to now introduce you to a somewhat aging gent of my era, whom we'll call Ron (not his real name.)

Ron looked to be in his late-fifties, former mid-management stuff, the beaten down end-product of more than one white collar downsizing. Today, stress seems to ooze from all pores. He's now relegated to intermittent contract work. It soon became obvious, Ron was in a quiet slow-burn mode, with cause. Who could have blamed him?

Apparently, he was earlier driven from his place of employment with chest pains to the same emergency area as myself, four floors below us both. The next day, his boss suggested he take whatever time off to recover. Nice touch. A week later, he finds out that he's been docked one-and-a-half days of pay for not being at work!

It just got better. He reported, that he and his boss were even long time friends, which these days must place a whole new strain on the term: master-slave relationship.

I'm supportive of course, but inwardly gobsmacked. It's not always about the money. Surely, it can't be, between friends. But I'd be wrong in his case. He seemed more than a little disoriented, angry, anxious, yet strangely proud. Of relevance, he was now an unemployed contract worker, trying hard to still be positive about uncertain times ahead. Any concept of a happy early retirement, was the last thing on his mind that sweltering afternoon.

I think Ron was just glad for the opportunity to talk to someone of his age. In the waiting process, I quietly became a good listener, nodded frequently, and said to myself: This guy really deserves a brand new pump. And a break.

It's simply incredulous in 2006, that there are such well-intentioned employers abound, who still drag their HR knuckles, and think like chimps. Can you ever wonder these days, why it takes so long to see your cardiac specialist?

Unfortunately, I couldn't commiserate any longer. It was finally my turn to see The-Man.

I hope they looked after you OK, Ron. Maybe, we'll meet again soon in rehab.

Thank you, one and all...

I'm not a word- smith by any means, but I have found it quite therapeutic to write down my feelings at what- ever the pain or joy du jour, during these past seven weeks. You've all been good sports. Thank you for being so kind and patient with me, while I've built up a written scrapbook during this healing period. And in the process, got a little of my strength back.

I'd like to take this quick opportunity to also wish my American colleagues down the line, a bountiful Thanksgiving weekend. I believe that geography made us neighbours, adversity made us allies, economics made us partners, and history made us friends. Enjoy this special time my friends, but hold the gravy, please.

And for next year? In my mind, Spring is the time for rebirth and resurrection. When primitive man screamed and beat the ground with bones and sticks, they called it 'the dawning of a new age.' When modern man does the same thing looking for errant camouflaged balls with iron clubs, they call it 'golf.' Ah, progress.

One intention next year, is to play more quality golf, especially with old friends. A golfer, like a sailor without a boat, should always keep his friendships in constant repair.

I'm also now starting to think it might be proper to spend more time with our cats than our internet service provider, more time with our friends than our furry duo, and more time with our significant other than with our friends -- reserving of course, the right to adjust these ratios in accordance with widely accepted policies regarding unexpected friends knocking on the front door, the odd wine tasting, art viewing, or any new HBO series of Dexter, Deadwood or The Brotherhood.

Lately, this has been a good period of time to evaluate priorities and pick my stress for the coming year. The upshot: Likely revisiting tai-chi in January. Later, I also expect more intense sailing into the wind, and during the lazier days, do maybe two motivated knots in a quiet breeze. No more. I can say as an ex Type-A racing sailboat skipper, it will be nice in those dog-days-of-Summer, to plan to come in second for a change! And finally, launch a few private journeys later in '07.

Be well, all, 'till then.

Week Seven: Rehab Phase commences

Everybody has a heart story they're bursting to tell, bless 'em.

I've lost count on the number of times good neighbours and buds, who have tried to relate about one of their friends, who has a friend; or who knows somebody, who all report this week's recovery will be better than the last. It's tempting to sip their sweet cool-aid.

Mostly, this has been true. There's no doubt in my case, I've advanced great strides between where I was six weeks ago; to where I am now, even though I've been all over the recovery terrain these past 10 days.

What I found out recently, is that life-operations of this scope can be traumatic, that impact differently on each recovering patient. Expect good, bad and sideways weeks, which may bring on unforeseen healing delays, bouts of sadness or depression. The wellness counselor at our introductory Rehab Program earlier in the week, says potential setbacks of these sorts are quite normal. The big takeaway was finding out, for example, the subtle differences between exhaustion and depression. This is good to know. I feel most stress and anxiety scenarios have by and large, by-passed our house.

For no reason lately, I have felt exhausted after limited activity. I didn't want to drive. Walking has been sporadic and only for short distances. Often, a cocktail of daily drugs, leave a metallic after-taste. Understandably, I haven't even wanted a glass of wine, which some friends who know me well, might consider this type of a reaction to be early grounds for heresy. These responses were unexpected through major portions of Week Six, until quite recently. It could have been the continued overcast November weather. Whatever, I was completely unmotivated to any form of physical activity and most social interaction. I don't know why this bout arrived or when it left, but I think this phase is now behind me. 'Bout time, too.

There's also good news to report. Let me tell you more about the "Hearts In Motion" cardiac rehabilitation program, that is made available to all by-pass and angiogram out-patients within our community. What a dedicated bunch! Their assembled team is complete with an on-site physician, registered nurses, kinesi- ologist / exercise specialist, dietitian, social worker, pharmacist and physiotherapist.

I've two more morning introductory sessions to complete before the end of the month. By that time, there will be no more excuses, for any further heart train wrecks over the horizon. Their goal is to simply provide us with support in creating lifestyle modifications needed to reduce heart hazards and improve our quality of life.

I'm hopefully going to learn a lot of simple, straight forward stuff: what to expect during the healing process; how to reduce cholesterol levels and blood pressure, effective and safe exercise programs, prepare for a return to healthy lifestyle changes. And to start sweating alongside new friends in similar circumstance.

There's more news of a sort to report. I'm now begrudgingly stuck at minus-seven on the weight scale (a minor miracle it seems, with Christmas season fast approaching. The perfect weight storm awaits.) This was not totally unexpected. It may be an excellent time to chat up the dietitian, with an end-goal to tip minus-twenty before Spring.

On a slightly more serious vein, there should be more of us in our intro discussion group, than there are. Our class has about 15 persons -- several are angiogram out-patients, the rest of us are by-pass grads. One chap is in his late 40's. I'm next on the age scale. The balance are all seriously northward of 70 years -- in class, and on the main floor beating up the aerobic machines. Do the math. Our local hospital churns over 20 beds every ten days, or so, on the by-pass side. And I can attest, the angiogram folk are a busy group, too. My sense is, you need to have a determined will to want to place this recovery stage behind you. More importantly, you need a full time able caregiver, especially in the early recovery weeks. I'd like to quietly revisit this area early in the new year. Hopefully I'm wrong, but this seems to be an area not dwelled upon by many specialists within the cardiac recovery industry. Somewhere between hospital discharge and Rehab, the cardiac recovery system seems flawed.

In the meantime though, I've got individual assessments with their Registered Nurse, a Registered Dietitian, a planned upcoming stress test and a Kinesiologist's report for a customized exercise program. Clearly, my pre-Christmas recovery plate is quite full. If I want, their on-site exercise program could take me well into the Summer period of 2007.

Exercise rehab starts two days after Christmas. What a year!

It's a long time since my angiogram day

First, an up-front confession.

In plain terms, I represent that demographic, who is absolutely shite-scared of hospitals, needles, blood, and everything assoc-iated with pain under their big tent. Period. Full stop. There, it had to be said.

You might as well also know: snakes are right up there, neck-and-neck with my inner feelings about most medical facilities.

I don't want to put too fine a point on the subject, but my inner demons might have well as strapped me inside an aluminum cigar shaped craft hurling through the heavens at 500mph, and then break open a few dozen boxes of the world's deadliest snakes in the hold, before arriving at the H. Just to make my day memorable. "Paging Dr. Jackson. Paging Dr. Samuel L. Jackson. Stat."

This fact must have been patently obvious to the admission team of nurses upon arrival. Could it have been that 'deer-in-the-headlights' look I projected throughout the day? I hope so, because the entire team acted professional and understanding to my pathetic needs.

I'm now convinced, angiogram recipients fall into two camps: those keeners, who can't wait to view dye pursing through their veins, on the overhead monitors. I suspect these folk were mainly weaned on Chicago Hope and ER, then graduated to CSI: Every- where and L&O spin-offs/repeats. We mean them no disrespect, but you'd likely find great swaths of this grouping in the front visitor's row of any State sponsored execution, if given half the chance.

And then there's the rest of us -- mostly gentle types from the land of 'Wallace and Gromit' -- in a continual state of smiling fright, who have no intention of seeing a flipping thing more than necessary.
There are no veins in this group, pulsating with amphetamine bravado. It's a busy place today, so wait your turn in silence. Be polite, and let the other nice people in line go-ahead of you. Hop on board. Keep your eyes firmly closed. Occasionally squint afar, to view relaxed technicians behind their glass partition. Babble back on cue, only when prodded. Hold still, all the while big boxes above, whir and zoom in for some sort of video or photo-op. Exhale a little more afterwards, while in recovery. And so my day-in-a-bubble went, just before the Labour Day long weekend.

All the while, we repeatedly tested the fact, that a good steady drip of drugs can become the great equalizer to any one of life's little stress points. Thank you, God.

I have to report, the anxieties and lead-up, were simply horrendous. You were right, Murray. The event was mostly uneventful, as most everybody had repeatedly predicted.

At the end of about an hour session, we all huddled to review go-forward (stent) strategies, or not. One main artery was clearly 99.9% slam-shut. Two others were about 75% and 80% blocked, respectively. In truth, I was functioning at about 15-25%, or so, of where I should have been. A date with angioplasty that day, was not even remotely in the cards. We all agreed, a future cardiac by-pass date was the only option left, and set an approximate operation date for sometime in the middle of October. Whoa, I'm now officially stamped in as an aortocoronary candidate, and plugged into their recovery system.

Either way you cut it, the drama and warm rays of September and October seems such a long time ago.

Why didn't I do this all much sooner? The H Boogey Man, likely.

Week Five: Good company and a toot

All in all, Week Five is nearly finished, with no hiccups to report. The past leg and foot swellings, appear now to be on the wane. The official word is, no more daily bandaging. For sure, I'm also going to miss my rented shower seat from the Red Cross. What a great investment! It's packed up already in the car trunk for an early Monday return. This is all good progress.

Midweek, I had a luncheon visitor. Pal Gary, dropped in at noon sharp on Wednesday, having purchased most of the deadly luncheon sins possible from a nearby deli. I suggested earlier he just bring along two large Timmies, and we'd forage here upon his arrival. Not to be. I'm happy to report, that going half-measure has never been his style. For the record, I had mostly the salads and limited amounts of 'other' reheated goodies. The quick take-away: a veritable feast was enjoyed by all, which clearly proves - notwithstanding the great company - it's time to start seriously getting out more often!

On that subject, according to the insurance sector; I'm now mobile, once again. It's nice to know, I formally got my wheels back yesterday, having not driven since Thanksgiving Weekend. This may signal progresses of another sort, but the truth is, I really haven't missed the hassles of driving one bit. Without sounding a tad melodramatic, the very thought of a safety air bag exploding from the steering wheel into my chest, gives one slight pause.

I'm sure a month from now, this backseat mode of transport will have simply run out of gas. By that time, it will be the customary hustle-and-bustle like manner of transport. The demands of last-minute Christmas shopping will alone take care of that noble concept. Until then though, I'll still savour the transition.

WE HAD A PLANNED TOOT TODAY to nearby Stratford. For my efforts, I got bundled up in the back seat; a la Miss Daisy, complete with heart pillow and winter attire.

Day outings to rural small-town Ontario have always been special with me. Friendly merchants abound offering up plenty of small town atmosphere, not unlike what you might encounter at an urban Farmer's Market. More often than not, you're chatting directly with a caring owner, rather than an indifferent clerk on minimum wage. With this mind-set, you can zip in and out of boutique or specialty stores to your liking; discuss various cuts of meat with the local butcher; with the baker, who you know has been up since 3am performing magic over their ovens; or area organic gardeners displaying the same care in selling their fresh vegetables or fruit, as they did earlier growing their produce. There's pocketed communities of interest throughout Toronto that also come to mind, such as the Beaches areas in the Eastern part of Hog Town, the downtown area around the St. Lawrence Market, or on both sides of Bayview Avenue in the Leaside area. But for a 'small-town' atmosphere, you'd be hard pressed to beat the main streets of Stratford, Guelph, Oakville or Niagara-On-The-Lake. Even Elora on a sunny day. Whatever your favourite stroll, I heartedly recommend this small business entrepreneurial interaction, as a pleasant antidote to Mall shopping, everywhere. Lord knows, they put in long enough hours, and need the business.

Weather permitting, there's usually ample time for sidewalk-sale book rummaging along the high street, all the while the missus browses inside Bradshaws. We usually find time to enjoy menu reading outside the many funky bistros and backstreet cafes, that dot the inner town core. Depending on the mood or funds, lunch in Stratford is always the real-deal.

AND NOT TO FORGET, a full complement of interesting barista's, who express their craft so well on these special occasions. For out-of-towners, there are two good coffee houses of note, in the downtown core of Stratford. Well, maybe three, if you want to include Tango Coffee Bistro, part of the Mercer Hall Inn located street level, in the old Stratford Beacon-Herald building. My sense is, in the process of trying to find their brand, they've gravitated a new generation of young scruffy looking James Dean wannabes to their site. So this may be your spot, if you require one-stop main street lodging, food, wine, evening entertainment, on the sunny side of the street. You could do worse. Me, I'm just looking for a little diversion and decadence of a caloric kind, on these fond outings. Sputnik's is the smallest (and newest) spot at the far end of the core area, as you're leaving town for Goderich. Most reviewers rave about it, but the place never seemed to be busy on the last two times I stopped there. Pity, for there must have been some- thing special in their beans, on a recent visit. A case of deja-vu was quietly ramping up to full court press level. I couldn't help but overhear from two earnest lovers at the next table, that Sputnik's cramped hooker-red wall papered loo, was seriously being con- sidered for imminent ground level 'mile-high-club' activity. High-noon in Stratford, no less. And me in cardiac recovery, with warm past memories on the subject matter. Sigh. A short walk up the other tourist end of Ontario Street (past Tango) is Balzac's, on the shady side of the main drag. This is important to remember during the warmer months, especially if you need a street side table in the company of your resident pooch (there's always a complimentary serving of fresh water and 'chien-gentil' bickies at the main entrance.) The 'old Tony' can attest, both preferred sites serve excellent specialty coffees and an assortment of wicked pastries. Personally, I prefer a crowd on these occasions. And a slightly bent serving staff -- complete with pepto-pink streaked hair-do's -- rather than being the only person on the dance floor. Balzac's, somehow, never seems to disappoint.

Unfortunately, our local TV weatherman finally gets it right, for all of the wrong reasons: The overcast day can best be described as simply early-stage brutal; typical raw November weekend weather, with blustery rains for which umbrellas are no match. Or, as they might grumble on Prince Edward Island, "It's not a fit day for a fencepost." There's no dilly-dallying this Saturday. Travel plans today require pin-point shopping, with Kleenex close at hand.

This past winter, the owners at Anything Grows packed up everything from what seemed to be a nice location on the main street and relocated nearby to larger digs. Strange, I would have fought to keep my business in the busy tourist area. Their new site on Patrick Street, is slightly out of the way, but still an annual must pre-Christmas stop, now that area gardens have been put to bed for another season. Patty also purchased her Christmas chocolate orders at Rheo Thompson's, in advance of their expected Sunday Christmas Sale horde, planned for tomorrow. I'm advised, if you're a chocoholic, then this is your spot! 'Nuff said. Next was a brisk walk around the Armory with umbrella firmly planted into the drizzly wind, just long enough to reach the back entrance of Balzac's for a much needed warmup and latte. As usual, the mostly eclectic Saturday morning crowd (assorted theatre folk, aging boomers and young professionals with kids in tow) was in high form of seeing and being seen. This morning was a vocal sea of obligatory red poppies in motion, keeping the counter work staff clearly on hustle-speed. Fortunately, we took dibs on the last table and hunkered down with coffees, nourishments, and a handful of Toronto weekend dailies. Good recuperative strategies, I'm told today, from those apparently in the know.

By about 10:50am, the place had thinned out considerably for the local Remembrance Day service being held a few blocks away, down by the Avon river. At the appropriate moment, I blocked out all of the bistro din, as I watched the wall clock hand sweep past 11am. This seemed the perfect opportunity, to quietly reflect on the past, present, and future. Done. Mission accomplished.

Look up. There's a harvest moon tonight

Did I mention earlier, that our planned two week September holiday to France was postponed?

Last May, we spent an unforgettable week in France, taking in as many art venues, and museums as time permitted throughout Paris. Day or night, the City Of Light may belong to the stroller, the idle walker with no purpose, but not for us. Just as visiting museums is essential to understanding Paris, so is grazing in the rarefied atmosphere of the antique stores and many dining establishments at every turn in the road. And the contents behind many pâtisserie windows, that make you want to stuff your face. What is it about the look of the traditional Paris bistro that makes you want to eat food that's hazardous to your health? (Hmmm. This may be another entry). Though they vary in ambiance, these small meat-and-potatoes places always have quality and authentic charm written all over their blackboard menus. Friends always ask where I usually stay in Paris, expecting a reply at the George V level, or similar. This is a great property, and I have unpacked there on more than one occasion. But the truth is, I'd much rather stay at a touristy property, that offers oodles of charm, close to the true Parisian flavour. This year, we wanted to expand on an art theme by spending several days at a small back-alleyway three star property in the thick of the Latin Quarter of Paris. Revisiting nearby Musee d'Orsay, to see many priceless Monet and other Impressionist art originals, with the balance of time taking in Provence, was to consume major portions of our 2006 holiday.


You should all know, there's something about Provence, that absolutely goes straight to the heart -- pardon the unintended pun -- the fragrances of thyme and lavender, the flavours of olives and honey, the views of the azure skies and sun splashed vine-yards. Our planned 'promenade' was to be an exploration designed to savour the Region in small bites (literally) with easy strolls in picturesque towns, hilltop villages and a stunning countryside. We wanted to quietly walk in the footsteps of Cezanne and Van Gogh and enjoy the essential Provence. These passions (and Ireland, which I hope to have an escorted group to next August) are now temporarily on hold until later in '07.

Plan B in the meantime, was a caregiver's surprise announcement of a Thanksgiving getaway at Inn On The Twenty - a small, romantic property in nearby Niagara wine country. Whoo-hoo. Our neighbourly cat sitter was secretly booked. It was a great couple of days away from the home environment, which we both needed. Time together. Time for pause. More time. The long weekend weather was simply glorious, clear and crisp, with a hint of Fall in the air (never mind that three feet of snow got dumped in nearby Buffalo, four days later!) On Sunday night, we both quietly watched in awe, as a bursting orange harvest moon on steroids, slowly rose over the historic town of Jordan. You couldn't help but notice also while in the Region, local vintners working from dawn to dusk harvesting the endless fruits of their labour, which stand in regimented rows on both sides of the back roads throughout the terroir.

I'm rethinking these nice thoughts -- a moon later, as they say in the old Western movies -- looking skyward from our living room bay window. Tonight, there's that harvest moon, once again. So many good things have happened in the past month. Merci, beaucoup (got to practice where I'd like to go back to next year.)

Appraisal and Evaluation

There is a natural tendency at life's mid-point, to engage in a process of appraisal and evaluation.

It's now the first week of November. I've been in this 'new' life-phase for about a month. Whether I like it or not, business life as I once knew it, is now pretty much on hold. There's the stupid old work-ethic side of me that's a little chuffed. Projects for the first half of next year are on hold, yet the saner side of me says, my recovery phase trumps all else. It's the inner voice that finally wins out, and says to take advantage of this sit around, and sigh the half year away. Cash flow rethinks will have to be a New Year's priority. Not now.

Officially, I've retired a couple of times before boomers even started to think about their golden years. Friends express this to me in terms, that I represent a 'maturing' group who believe that retirement should be more of a process, rather than an event. I'm comfortable in that skin, with no intentions of going quietly into that good night.

It seems clear at this juncture, that life breaks out into three areas when you cross the fifty-five year threshhold, or so: a long work career, followed by part time work and a relatively short period of idleness. In my case, the lines often are blurred with purpose, as I go between the first and second columns, in spite of a recent health regroup. God forbid, I get body slammed into the third column.

For those who know and understand me, you should easily grasp the thrust of my feelings. In spite of some lingering anxieties, chasing a victory is still a lot more engaging and exhilarating, than sitting at home staring at the trophy.

Earlier in the year, I planned to revisit the travel sector, which served me well in the past. About now, I was to launch four or five private journeys throughout 2007: Small group, luxury tours with a sense of purpose, for clients who may prefer a slower and more intimate view of the landscape -- be that cultural immersion, soft adventure or of an eco-nature. Not to be, yet. We'll just have to push back those planned Winter and Spring group departures, to the Summer period, and beyond. There'll be ample time before year-end to revisit the entire travel project. But not right now.

The whiplash of suddenly having to slow down seems to have had consequences. For example, I still clearly remember saying to myself, "Who the blazes are you, and what have you done to my good friend, Tony?" In his place, there was now plenty of 'old-man' shuffling around more than should be, rather than a normal quick pace. Intermittent circulation challenges, that started in my right foot after the angiogram in mid-August, branched out to behind both of my knees when least expected. I took more Advil in August and September for low-grade headaches, than ever before. Was this a side-effect of my new prescribed blockers? Dunno. I even had to take a spritz or two of nitroglycerine in the middle of the night. This was also a first, after lugging around an unopened vial of nitro for over eight years. Regular sleep patterns were turned upside-down, which resulted in a sleeping pill prescription for the first time. In a lighter vein, I wasn't aware until quite recently, there were so many well intentioned ministries, kitchen-aid hypsters and scantily clad singles purring from hot tubs -- all wishing to improve my life before sunrise. As a result I zapped more early morning TV news events and infomercials, than was necessary. And found the occasion to rest more in the afternoon, due to these 3AM time-shifts.

By September, each week became a little harder than the last, to rekindle a prior established work ethic of vigour and purpose. I didn't expect this slowdown. My body seemed to be hunkering down on all fronts, adjusting much like Mother Nature must do, preparing her subjects for hibernation.

Looking back over the last half of Summer, I can't believe how fast a quality of life I used to experience, had slipped away -- simply gone, in less than two months!

I thought about the 'evaluation' part of this equation a lot more, after 'angina' once again crept back into my vocabulary. Believe me, angina is a word that can really make any aging boomer in health-denial, reassess their lifestyle.

You soon notice, an unofficial pecking order is quietly in play within 'heart circles' complete with a shifting set of priorities and timelines to be reckoned with. Officially, I was tagged as a future cardiac by-pass candidate to be actioned on somewhere down the line, not yet deemed serious enough to be in a life-threatening state. As we entered into the dog days of summer, I took that differentiation as slightly encouraging, as I waited my turn. I remember quietly thinking over the Labour Day weekend, that hopefully in my case, they had got it right. The much-dreaded recent angiogram confirmed the inevitable: a by-pass operation was the only option left. My operation date was tentatively blocked for sometime in mid-October - still over a month away.

Like it or not, a heart attack, however so mild, can represent a turning point in your life. Up to now, you may have been able to avoid thinking about what your daily personal and work habits meant to your overall health. But from that day forward, you know.

And you know you'll probably have to change the way you do things. You might quietly say to yourself, "so far, you've been lucky, kid." You now have a second chance to do it better. The slate could get wiped clean, for all of the right reasons.

I believe this could be the perfect time to reassess lifestyle habits, and begin to make small meaningful life changes, that can help reduce the risk of another heart set-back down the road.

There's much yet to see and do. So much so in fact, I bet my life on it.

Week Four: Pivotal progresses, bless the bureaucrats (I think)

To be blessed with a great life partner and a caring caregiver, is like winning the State lottery, twice.

Surviving Week Four was pivotal, which I'm happy to report we got through, more or less unscathed.

In spite of a granite wall of dumb bureaucracy experienced from a local support service group out-patients are directed to, there are small progresses to report.

Earlier with my old Type A heart ablaze, I would have railed on about top-heavy companies staffed by administrative pathetic incompetents. That was then, this is now, as I'm attempting to practice the gentle art of exhaling. I'm now more concerned about what's good for my new pump, rather than their unfulfilled work services and broken promises.

There was lots of treacle-like bafflegab shoveled my way earlier today, as our anonymous case-worker explained how her out- reach organization was terribly overworked and underfunded. Maybe so, but from my perspective, her problem was fast becoming my problem. I'm trying hard not to imagine a character here with a crow like fondness for sparkly things.

Actually, it was just a sordid discussion about managing your buttons and beads.

I'd wager a box of bandages, there were no pay/staff cuts on the admin side to solve her plan-to-performance challenges! To me, this was just another all too familiar story within the health sector, whereby troops in the trenches are performing simply impossible tasks daily, all the while their administrative counterparts seem oblivious to patient and co-worker needs. It's always another manufactured crisis, or the sky is falling in, with these folk. It's seldom about, accountability.

After two doctors, the prescribing nurse and an internal supervisor collectively recommended in my case their much vaulted home nursing service once a week, she has stamped my file, R E J E C T, due to economies of scale. Perhaps a quadruple by-pass operation was the benchmark for their perceived assistance in this case. Who knows? In the end, they failed me -- but mostly themselves -- which isn't the end of the earth.

What I find somewhat galling is their brochure copy, which proudly states to new patients like me: "DEDICATION to those we serve. COMMITMENT to excellence in what we do; and, PASSION to be the best!" Their printed words, not mine.

Who am I in a weak and drugged state to remind administrators and their case-workers, that it's all about people and stuff? First, last, and everywhere in between. Words such as DEDICATION, COMMITMENT and PASSION are no more than weasel-words, if not actioned upon properly at source. Bean-counters should be encouraged to earn these noble words the hard way, ultimately through a DEDICATED process of garnering more respect from their front-line co-workers and clients alike, no matter what budget constraints might prevail. You can only play the Budget Card for so long, then the Respect Card inevitably is dished back by staff and client. Maybe, it's your turn to play the Brave Card, and recommend system changes to those gnomes, several pay-grades above you. Not unlike cardiac recoverees, you must have a burning desire to win. To build a winning team, you will require PASSION and experience to succeed beyond all else. COMMIT- MENT often requires having the fortitude to hire enough of the right people, all up and down the line, starting maybe at your lofty position. Disbursing enough of the right passionate people out in the field, is also the real stuff. In spite of a possible relentless pursuit of inefficiency here, people stuff is the only stuff required, for your group to become accountable within your peer group and ultimately to your medically challenged target audience. Fresh thought and focus becomes all the more pressing, if you're in, oh I don't know, say maybe the critical illness recovery sector. I didn't hear much DEDICATION earlier today, rather a well rehearsed case of bureaucratic drag.

Does this make any sense to public sector crackberry admin types, as you scurry from one more budget meeting, to wherever? Trust me, there's more to life, than waiting and hoping for an indexed pension. Save that kind of hope for condemned criminals, waiting for their far-off faint hope hearing. Both, seem far-out waisted spent energy exercises, anyway. From what I've observed lately, this all resonates badly with your dedicated co-workers -- often serving your mandate on a contract basis -- who perform simply yeoman services on each shift, down there where blood meets the bandage. Either fix your problems, or flee.

I don't know why I'm thinking of an old Forbes quote right now, that might be applicable in this instance: "If you are not bloodying your nose in today's warp speed economy, we have a name for you. Dead." Corporately speaking, of course.

But enough, it's time to inhale some fresh air. Let's move on to more positive ground. There's plenty of good stuff to report.

Monday, was the day Patty went back to work. I think I'm also well enough to start the lion's share of my healing phase alone. I think.

To resolve this morning's schedules, I showered right after the caregiver, dried most of myself off, in nothing short of ten minutes. Actually, we worked well as a team, with minimal inconvenience in and around her pressing morning schedules.

The bottom line: I was showered, dressed, had breakfast and delivered a cup of tea upstairs to the caregiver by 7:59am. Most of the week has followed in a similar fashion. Now, that's progress, in spite of any low flying crow formations running interference!

THIS WEEK, WE ALSO HAD our first post-op meeting with the surgeon since The-Day -- now almost a month ago. Barring a small frown looking at my leg area, he's pleased with the results. I'm happy, that he's happy, so adieu with many thanks. Later, I'm shuffling down the hospital corridors and started to chuckle to myself. Patty looks at me with a quiet, "Whaat?"

"Can you ever imagine spending $800 for a great meal with close friends, only to be hustled out of the restaurant by the maitre d' who has double booked your table?" I said, more concentrating on the oncoming visitors and H staff, than looking for her visual response.

This was sort of the same feeling just now experienced with The-Man, but I took it all in stride. We've now made it to Timmies and the Gift Shop on the main floor, and I'm quietly thinking to myself, I come from the land of Time Is Money. I get it. "Thanks, Doc. No, really; thanks, Doc!"

This is becomeing a tiring afternoon. Only a few more turns until the exit. We're now out of the front door, until the next time. Fresh air, at last.

FAST-FORWARD to Friday: With a little practice, I'm showering myself daily, drying off without any help, and dressing up in all manner of bulky garments. I've sliced a few strategic slits in an old left slipper, to compensate for a larger fluid-filled foot. This is also one of those rare occasions, when there are side benefits to being a lifelong hoarder. Without making any further fashion statements, I've also recently stumbled upon an old pair of tennis shoes, that can accommodate an over sized left foot. What a lovely miss-match. You have to get your 15 minute walks these days, from many creative quarters. The upshot here has resulted in several quick sunny afternoon sprints this week to the mailbox, and around the block.

Either way you cut, slice, or dice it; my arm and leg may be on the mend, but they're still two ugly looking mothers.

Since mid-week, we're now both learning the morning procedures on how to dress a 12 inch leg wound with a festering bump in the mid-section, that suspiciously fits the term: a pig in a python. This is terribly daunting, at first. You have to wash most overnight guck off the wound in the shower, saline the infected area when you first come out of the shower, damp down the infected area, apply the ointment and quickly cover up the entire area with a new strip of bandage. It isn't rocket science, just another 7-10 precious minutes fitted into an already tight morning program. Patty did a darned good job at it today.

The above illustrated occasion is but one example of new stress minefields, that often await fatigued caregivers -- especially, when/if community or for-profit support services can't meet their patient's pressing concerns. And their mandated business objectives.

Until this week, I delicately traversed each stairway step sideways, one-by-one. Now, I take them -- albeit slowly -- like the big boys do, even laden down each morning with a caregiver's cup of hot tea, accompanied by the ever trusty red heart pillow wedged under my chin. Onward and upward, as they say.

The left foot/right foot thing is finally working itself out, too, while dressing each morning. I still can't do such taken-for-granted chores, like raising both arms at the same time, but my left arm is about 80% back to normal -- actually more, if you overlook the tenderness factor. In this key area, little things are slowly coming back to norm. I can now open a can of soup, read the morning newspaper with one arm up higher than the other, gingerly hold a fork or spoon in my left hand, brush my teeth after each meal, and shave most days. These little life building blocks have precious meaning today. Several weeks ago, they were unthinkable. Earlier, taken for granted. Not anymore.

My weight has stalled out at minus-five, meaning a five pound weight loss since The-Day. I want to address food intake and exercise next week with focus, in spite of too many leftover Halloween goodies and the sudden appearance of a humongous Chelsea Bun, that somehow showed up in the pantry over the weekend. Thanks Darlene, you wicked thing. There's still a goal out there somewhere, to be minus-fifteen before Christmas. Well, maybe minus-ten, at this rate.

A quiet concern, is the strain this is all being placed on my precious caregiver. There's double duties now at work, as well as the usual bucket of chores waiting for her at home at the end of her work day. Week Four was an overload. This past week, we had prior-scheduled hospital appointments that extended around a very long lunch period, plus two evening visits with the bureaucrats at 5:30pm, which resulted in long stressed days for all concerned. I'm advised, tomorrow will be the ninth - count 'em, nine times - we've visited either the Emergency ward, hospital specialists, new/regular GP doctors and local support services for my bum leg. Enough, guys. It would be nice if you could arrive at some consensus soon, rather than swiping my Health Card with alarming regularity.

It's apparent, I've got to step it up on my side, too. More light household chores and walks are on the agenda this week. I just wish I could do more.

Overall though, what a quantum leap of progress in less than 30 days!