Why write a blog?

There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as the expectation of something better tomorrow.
Orison Sweet Marden

This isn't the first time that I've been asked the 'why' question, but earlier in the week it really gave me pause, to come up with some good reasons.

A local reporter is now asking, that's why. It seems that my blog has traveled from simpler times to now wider circles, than was originally contemplated. This was never my intent. Patients and Preventers within the cardiac system, now appear to be occas- ional readers. Who knew? And of course, by way of the internet, it is no longer a local event, even though I've tried not to mention the players, the hospital, nor the community. And still won't.

So, why write the damned thing, anyway? Here's a few reasons, that seemed important to me at the moment.

In early days leading first up to my angiogram, I became con- cerned about the swiftness of my body literally shutting down all around me, as I stated in earlier November thoughts titled, "Appraisal and Evaluation." With each week passing in September, it became harder than the last, to rekindle an earlier work ethic of vigour and purpose. I remember writing at the time, how my body seemed to be hunkering down and adjusting to pending changes, not unlike that which Mother Nature might do to her subjects. A quality of life as I had experienced from a recent past, had simply vanished within two months over the summer months of 2006. Just up and went. I can't explain it any other way.

It was during this period leading up to The-Day, when I'd find it occasionally challenging to formulate a simple response to a plain question. This was unsettling. I heard and understood the question all right, yet responding in kind came out to what seemed to me, ill-thought and garbled. Was it the new round of beta drugs I was now required to take? I dunno.

I thought they were going to operate on my heart, when all the while I now felt I was becoming a candidate-in-waiting for an over the counter lobotomy. Or unknowingly, might have had one without any knowledge, during my angiogram session. Now, that was a long day!

All of these little trip-ups leading to The-Day, concerned me enough to start jotting down small events and thoughts, no matter the time or day. Nothing more than that. It became time to practice that old adage, "a short pencil is better than a long memory." In hindsight, it was a good decision.

IT ONLY SEEMED NATURAL at the time, to bundle these idle writings up into a more efficient delivery format rather than a normal e-mail; to that of an organized platform such as one of the many free blog sites available. All blogs here are archived by month, and in a descending (by date) order, starting in October. I've found that comments posted back to the site are usually of a personal nature, that often require a timely response. Rightfully or wrongly then, I've decided to keep all of this personal dialogue off the blog site, unless requested otherwise. Blog spam gets quickly dispatched.

Great chunks of my memory, while recovering in the hospital and from my early weeks at home, are already lost in a forgetful haze. I'm therefore thankful that I took the time to jot down personal notations, mostly of a positive nature; barring one bureaucratic granite wall we smacked hard into, sometime back in November.

I think you're allowed one minor rant per site, but no more. OK, maybe one more in reserve. It's important to note here, one takes no pleasure in exercising their CrankyPants credentials.

This was my internal period, when updates only went out to family and a few close friends.

At the time, it accomplished two things: There was ample down- time, in-between sleep and shuffle. Struggling back to complete the daily crossword puzzle again, kept my mind sharp, when it was hard to concentrate. So did working on this site, often in a rudder- less state. It was as important for me to mentally craft and verbalize a sentence once more -- in spite of a mountain of drugs being consumed, that tripped my tongue at every occasion and dulled a few more little grey cells each day -- as it was important for me to successfully journey around the dark side of a physical healing curve, often with little sunlight for guidance.

Secondly, writing a blog through the crucial recovery weeks of October and November, helped me considerably. The upside of course, was keeping an inner circle of contacts appraised of weekly activity -- good, bad and otherwise -- which understand- ably seemed important to them all, after The-Day.

The well-intentioned hospital folk were keenly focused on the physical side of my recovery, and rightfully so, for they had just earned a well deserved gold-star, by way of a successful discharge. Yet, there was scant emotional roadside assistance available to recoverees and their caregivers. You didn't have to go too far, to find a disabled truckload of ailments and anxieties -- in spite of a touted 'understaffed and overworked' community medical system on standby, often ready to fail your basic needs when needed the most. For these are the days, when dark insecure moments can invade your space, like an uninvited arctic wind coming in under the front door. Survivors are basically left on their own, to muddle through this emotional chasm. And they usually do.

WHAT BECAME UNSETTLING through the recovery phase at the hospital, was realizing the age of most patients for that particular week anyway, seemed closer to 85 than 65, more women than men, and how unprepared they were -- single, or as a couple -- for their new life after being discharged.

Remembering several aged lady caregivers in literal full-fright at my lone and frank H physiotherapy session, still troubles me. Our small staff lunch area cum conference room had all the coziness of a crammed U-Boat galley, more so this time, with extra wheel chairs and oxygen bottles stacked back to the doorway.

The penny dropped at different moments with my fellow recover- ees, all the while as our physiotherapist droned on, "now turn to page seventeen, now turn to page..." It was simply unbelievable. Each 'invitee' had precious little energy to even reach for their booklet, let alone keep up with the well intentioned dialogue. As groggy as I was after two days on the ward, you could see them quietly looking at one another in stony silence, as they exper- ienced their own respective eureka moment. It was at that par- ticular moment, when life as they once knew it, didn't race in front of their eyes as much, as it froze locked in time.

Reach in and rip my heart out, if I ever have to go through another wretched morning session like this, ever again.

Each realized that a velvet door had quietly closed in behind them. Many had been raised through the depression years, likely fought and returned from oversees conflicts, built a new life, and quietly retired. These life milestones didn't count a whit. A lot knew from this moment onwards, life would somehow once more be very different. Besides soon having to learn how to program 911 into their house phones -- and that's the good news to report -- they were also grasping some of their other new go-forward challenges, such as lifting a 175lb loved one off a bed. Or from the floor. Believe me, you wouldn't wish this 'why-me?' white-eyed moment on your worst enemy's granny or loved one, so late in their sunset years.

Sadly, I've no doubt, this scene is played out weekly at many hospitals across the country. It's no wonder, a great number of hospital staff simply drone on, experience emotional fatigue or burnout.

I THINK THIS WAS THE IMPETUS to contact a good friend, who operates a far-reaching e-chat line, mostly to a retired audience. My mish-mashed thought at the time, was to possibly allow the blog to be a sounding board or forum to her many readers and caregivers, to post their thoughts or small life-advancements leading up to surgery day and afterwards. I had no idea where this would go, if at all. And still don't.

Positive response from many quarters in North America, is still dribbling in from this small bit of internet exposure last November. From that point onwards, it could have been spun onward exponentially, with an internet life form of its own. Who knows? Fortunately, this form of 'thank-you' communication came back from an ageing generation, who is used to sending off a quick note of appreciation. A new maturing savvy computer set, now does this task effortlessly by e-mail. And saves a stamp, to boot! Blogging has become one of the new delivery vehicles of choice.

One stressed Sandwich-Generation boomer from Calgary, was extremely thankful on some of the networking suggestions I made to those awaiting their operation, and how to possibly house-proof her mother's residence from afar, before her mom's pending cardiac operation in Toronto. Some serious observations, others of a lighter vein, were outlined on Week Two of my recovery titled, "What they probably didn't tell you earlier." I understand her ageing mother, is adjusting well and into a speedy cardiac recovery. You couldn't ask for sweeter post-op news than that, from any stranger.

There's no shortage of dark humour abound, either. Another reader had just come through a terribly stressed Christmas, fearing all dire cancer related scenarios to his life. He was awaiting an imminent 'poke and probe' that keeps the colonoscopy crowd busy. While he was appreciative for my blog comments, he thought it prudent not to initiate a recovery blog for his immediate family and circle of friends. I agreed.

NOW I'VE GOT TO BEHAVE. Some time leading up to Christmas, the blog site surprisingly popped up at my hospital, which I'm told, is well received within limited circles. Shortly after discharge, I tried to express some of my feelings about the unsung high caliber of professionalism extended daily by many of the line and support staff, in a very early notation, "Angels, all." To repeat, I carry both an unpaid debt of appreciation and a reservoir of deep respect, to my entire H and rehab team. You know who you are.

And not to forget a big thank-you to the many retired telephone ladies, who spend likely countless hours away from the limelight, preparing little red heart pillows for each survivor. I can't tell you how many times it has been used -- from the prevention of many pending chest disasters due to unstoppable sneezes, through to being a knee rest chopping down our Christmas tree. And a gazillion times, in-between.

Another late 'Angel' candidate, is the receptionist at my family doctor's office. For nearly a quarter of a century, she has radiated the receptionist area with a lot of class, always with a friendly voice and the warmest of smiles -- likely on some days, when she might have been sicker than most nearby awaiting patients. She'd never show it, though. And have the right amount of empathy to acknowledge our plight or urgency, by somehow squeezing late-calling patients in before sundown. For starters, go directly to the back room, and tell him, we've approved a double amount in your pay! And take the same amount of days off with pay, as The-Boss will do this year. It's the least we can do. Naturally, I'm representing a countless hundreds of other sickies who frequent your space, year in and year out. It's important to us all, that we keep you smiling.

LASTLY, AS YOU CAN SEE, a blog is a great platform to say 'thank-you' to old and recently acquired friends. Near, far and away.

Earlier this week, a reporter from our local newspaper, took down a lot of notes about the genesis of my blog, for a possible upcoming weekend lifestyle article. I was a little nervous during Tuesday afternoon's meeting, with what I'm sure was a lot of repetitious babble on my part. I hope she crafted something positive from her scribbled notes and from my mildly unsettled state. Whatever the outcome, the interviewer was most gracious, the interview unexpected.

By the way, the young gorgeous babe draped on my arm in the accompanying article pix (should our local paper decide to go forward with the article), goes by the name of Bebe. She'd want you to know that.

And for the future? "Less blogging, more jogging," says main-squeeze and trusty caregiver, Patty. She's mostly right, in this recuperative phase. It's also time to restoke the embers of those past work-ethic fires.

That said, while there's much still to be seen and done, tomorrow really belongs to no one.

The Newbie

First there was the uncertainty phase from last August to October, then The-Day, followed by a solitary three month coming-back-together stage. And thus in the new year, finally, group rehab with some of the plucky survivors.

After several weeks of silent huffing and puffing on weekday afternoons, I'm still likely classified as The Newbie by nearly a dozen regulars, whose group I've been assigned to. That's OK. I've no doubt, there'll be another new-guy slotted in behind me soon. The introductory rehab meetings that I participated in late last year, are once more filled up with earnest recruits. There's no shortage of new-shooters waiting in the wings, at this fine facility.

We're past a friendly, "Hi, how-are-ya?" type of jocular banter. Weigh-in is usually a laugh-in, and then each of our blood pressure is solemnly charted in the lobby area, before we start to sweat to (not with) the golden oldies.

Normally, I'd wade into any new crowd like a politician in heat. Not so, as yet. It wouldn't be proper to come here with all of the answers, when in fact, I'm still learning the depth of most of the questions. Right now, I'm content just to drop in, quietly do my bit for the greater good, and then leave with little fanfare.

In the meantime though, I'm finding this to be an interesting and eclectic gentleman's group.

I'm not the youngest at each session, definitely not the oldest, by far. Mostly, they could be of a Korean War vintage, rather than those of prior skirmishes. So, they have already honed some of their surviving skills leading up to Their-Day. I hear a few com- mute considerable distance, for the pain and pleasure of these week day outings. A great deal, have recently graduated from our local H angiogram stent program. The rest of us are Full Monty zipper types, revealing the odd leg and arm scar wound like a quiet badge of recognition -- recently victorious from another battle- field, of sorts.

You quickly realise, that any past great performances you thought you achieved, are baseless. Pots of gold you might have assembled from earlier conquests, are also worthless currencies to trade, in this new recovery phase. Cardiac rehab ensures a level playing field for all able participants. Oldies, newbies, whatever. We're all now on that same survivor wheel called life, peddling like a herd of hamsters.

There's other sightings, too. No secret ritualistic handshakes are necessary, to acknowledge a sprinkling of competitive Type-A candidates within the group. I know professional workaholics from afar, those that work extreme hours for the love of a job. This is not meant to be reported in any disparaging manner. I used to be their poster boy once, maybe still am their grand-daddy. They stand out like a beacon, even in rehab.

One such recoveree, complete with trim torso, simply beats the pedals off his chosen recumbent bike, literally non-stop for each hourly session. There's no need for him to chart any go-forwards for posterity purposes in our presence, as most of the heavy sweating apparently is done at home. Rehab has become a seven day religion for our convert. He simply hooks up his iPod, tunes out our tunes; and then shifts everything to some mystical fast-forward gear, with a solitary purpose nobody needs to chart. The truth is, more than one of us are envious of the intensity and duration of his pedal prowess. Sweat aside, I am. Why not, I'm The Newbie.

The rest of the flotsam and jetsam are usually good for no more than a 15 minute stretch at either the bikes or weights. We each then religiously jot down our progresses, and shuffle onwards to a next machine not in use. Each to his own tune and time, I guess.

Along one wall, we've got a row of pedal bikes, not unlike what you'd see parked out at the driveway's edge after a Spring Garage Sale. The rest is state-of-the-art equipment: five or six treadmills, with a digital console that would challenge any novice Star Trek navigator. The uninformed, often require driving lessons just to get started. We've got access to six heavy duty Nautilus weight machines, Schwinn Fan (Who knew? The screened-in wheel becomes a cooling propeller!) and recumbent bikes, solitary rowers, stair-climbers, stand alone weights and another foreign apparatus in the corner close to our boom-box, that I've not as yet been introduced to.

Package this all up with an endless loop of high school tunes from the 50's through to Gloria Gainer, belting out "I Will Survive" from the disco era, a trusty and alert pair of staff hands, heart monitors galore, and we haven't any more excuses not to rock-on -- in this life, anyway.

I can't believe some 50 years ago, when I first listened to Chuck Berry, Dell Shannon, and the many other doowop group regulars from an 'American Bandstand' era -- with not a health problem to be concerned about, at the time -- would I ever be revisiting this music again, with such intensity three days a week. In a structured cardiac rehab program, no less. Ever!

I think the treadmills and weights are the exercises of preference for this group. Personally, I'm beginning to favour the Schwinn Fan bicycle, for it gives me the option of focusing on my shoulder and arm areas as well as peddling with intensity. It's guaranteed to quickly raise my heart numbers to the 135 plus range. The bonus of course, is the harder you peddle, the more cool breeze you create -- for yourself, and for the lucky party ahead of you on the nearby recumbent bike.

Beat me said the masochist, no I won't said the sadist! Here's food for thought, as you sometimes can get what you wish and whinge for.

After recent small whinings as to when I might start on the weight machines, yesterday's session brought me around full circle with a sharp dose of reality. It was time for me to be introduced to Mr. Nautilus, where pressure on my chest area would once again be activated to prior-operation days. Is it time? Am I all together yet? Click-click? Simply a daunting moment in quiet internal overdrive.

These days, you don't sit down and lift or pull weights. No, siree. Each Nautilus machine has to be customized to maximize your abilities and short ankles. Jill patiently walked me through the set-ups of each machine, before I then attempted 12 to 15 reps with each contraption that favoured my quads, hamstrings, chest, arms and shoulder areas. Have I missed any sore muscle groups?

In a true understated Saskatchewan fashion, she quietly acknow- ledged at the end of my intro weight session, "You might be a little stiff tomorrow, Tony." She's our guiding light at these sessions. And seldom wrong in these matters.

True to her word, I'm in a wee bit of pain today. I think I'll wait a few more sessions, until revisiting the services of Mr. Nautilus, thank you very much. He's got my respect.

This will be a work of study over the next month or two, with I'm sure, more to report. Until then.

Click-Click

Today, I would like to acknowledge a birthday and a recovery milestone, of sorts. Both mean a lot to me.

This week, was my Capricorn caregiver's birthday. At last, we can both officially put 2006 behind us. In keeping with a quasi-healthy theme, the event was modestly capped off with dinner for two at a local fish establishment. Their minimal interior nautical theme is warm yet informal, the entres extensive and inexpensive. Some- how, it didn't seem the proper time yet, to scuff the numbers off any titanium credit cards. Best of all, we must have both quietly trailed home fishy qualities on us, that sent our two tabbies into undescribed ecstasies at our feet. Talk about cheap tricks from below. It truly became an unexpected family affair at the front door, in spite of an unnamed utterly shameless duo.

The contents of my 'Bobby-Box' are also thankfully shrinking. Earlier in the day, I went to refill only three prescriptions -- some short term, others lifelong, apparently -- and leave with a short get-out-of-the-country note from my family doc. It was nothing more than a short scribble on his Rx pad, for a surprising and almost tawdry on-the-spot user fee of 15 bucks. I haven't seen this kind of simple few lines scratched down on my behalf, since earlier parental-awaited grade school report card days: "Yes, little Anthony has been a good boy. Yes, he's been quite stable since October 10, 2006..."

YES, it's now been three months since The-Day! With a favourable nod from the out-of-country health insurance gods, we might soon be able to assemble some much needed holiday plans. Here's just another good reason, why we should all grab winter firmly by the scruff of the neck, and once and for all, wrid it farewell.

This week, my Rehab program is being ramped up to Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons. My target heart beat area has also been increased to 119 to 130. I can now peddle faster and longer under the tuteladge of our trusty Rehab team. Let's see.

So, how's the report card after three months, you might ask?

On the physical side, I'd have to give myself an "A" with much thanks to Patty -- always nearby like a lioness might be to her cub, along with the assurance of a close-by medical infrastructure. There will always be the scars. That said, my cracked open chest and filleted arm and leg, now seem to be healing well (I have an understandable kinship these days to the plight of all lobsters and walnuts.) On other fronts though, I'm starting to be more aware of some of life's unplanned speed bumps and small challenges, required to keep one's emotions intact. There's many bright days of course, but overall on the emotional front, I'd only give myself a charitable "B" at year end. No more.

I can still vividly remember prior to hospital discharge, one of the nurses admonishing me in a friendly manner, "Be careful Tony, to always protect your chest area. You don't ever want to have it separated again, due to any clumsy accident." Just to underscore the matter, she concluded with a faux-finger pointing into my chest incision area, "You'll feel the pain, right there, and hear a click-click like sound, when this happens. And for godsake, don't pop open your arm and leg stitches!" We were in a seriously kidding around mode, before that Sunday afternoon departure. I'm sure, she was just likely trying to make one last sisterly tough-love point to me. If this was the case, then it worked.

These memories still continue to consume me past Christmas.

I went into Mall crowds on several occasions, much like a boxer might circle his adversary. You go into automatic flinch mode on a moment's notice when needed, tuck your elbows tightly into your torso and raise your arms to protect your chest area. In a past lifetime, this reaction would have instinctively been followed through with a bone jarring left jab. As a past Light Welterweight boxer (in English, that's some 50 pounds ago), you're now vigilant once more in ways never quite earlier trained for -- always seeking ice-free clear walking lanes and anticipating two moves out, the unexpected actions of oncoming pre-occupied shoppers with many extended elbows and parcels. Overall, I fared much better than anticipated, with no punches thrown.

We went to see old friends, on the Friday evening prior to Christ- mas. I made the fatal mistake of squatting down on a corner bar stool and holding court in busy kitchen area traffic lanes. Without any notice, their excited dog crashed the party from outside, complete with wagging tail, long legs and longer claws. Santa's-Little-Helper just wanted to be my new pal, as he sought attention from the obliging crowd. Why me? What our uninvited 'guest' and busy hostess didn't know at the time, was that he was repeatedly raking all of my leg stitches with his right paw. Nice doggie, have a celery stick. Do you freak out, or stay cool in a crowd?

A few days later we trekked to Blockbuster's, to rent a few videos. This was an innocent enough evening outing, until having to wait in their long conga-like checkout line. And wait. It was just our luck that we were parked in front of a tired single mom, complete with a couple of her restless tykes still in free fall from a Christmas sugar high. In short order, one of the little dynamos was hanging onto Patty's leg. The other was on the grimy floor banging a video against my bad ankle and shin area. Is it time to confront the indifferent parent, or let Patty diplomatically step inbetween us?

And then there was that memorable crowd event earlier at the local Rec Centre. I'm used to taking charge of events, particularly my own. Now I'm having to confront the reality, that marshalling one's strengths and confidences, is becoming a longer route march, than previously anticipated. Perhaps in a lighter vein, something akin to pushing yarns of string or herding cats.

Why can't they all be as manageable as Poppy? She's the older of our two resident tabbies. One of her favourite past times, is to give a good affectionate head bunt against my leg stitches, then turn around and repeat the whole exercise, all the while never hitting my good leg. Don't ask, it's a cat thing. All she really wants is a scritch behind her ears. If there ever was an official cat yearbook, she'd likely have a banner size notation under her picture, com- plete with neon flashing pointed arrows that would read -- Most Likely To Get Knocked Up! -- even though Vet, Dr. Bonnie assures us, that happy occurance is just never gonna happen. But we love her sweet side, anyway. Between feedings, there's often a pain-like puzzled Homer Simpson look on her face; likely best translated in feline terms as, "Something was said! Something was said!" I'd like to think, she's simply planning her next venture. As dim as she sometimes appears to be between the ears, she'll always be our lovable 40 watt bulb. I can handle affectionate slow.

It's a new year. This phase will no doubt also slowly pass.

A healthy Happy New Year, my friends.

May peace break into your house and may thieves come to steal your debts. May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills. May you still have your health to reach down and pick up a penny. May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may happiness slap you across the face. May your life endeavours become philanthropic. May your tears be that of joy. And may any problems you might have had last year, forget your address.

Give us patience and grace to endure. And a stronger faith, to feel secure. Instead of remembering, help us forget the irritations that caused us to fret. I intend to try, anyway.

Simply, may 2007 be the best year of your life.

We'll soon find out. Shortly, it will be time to go back to work. Rehab also continues in earnest this Wednesday.

I'm in good hands.