New times, open roads, clear skies

I would rather be ashes than dust.
I would rather my spark
should burn out in a brilliant blaze
Than it should be stifled in dry rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor,
Every atom of me in magnificent glow,
Than a sleepy and permanent planet.
Man's chief purpose is to live, not to exist:
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my new time.
Jack London

There's a time-honoured gag about a guy waking up from many years in a coma and asking, "Do Sonny and Cher still have that stupid TV show?"

"No," he's told, "she's an Oscar-winning actress, and he went on to become a Republican Congressman." The patient then keels over and flatlines.

The lesson to be learned here, especially at this juncture when people sometimes still make judgements about you -- from the reasonable to the deliciously absurd -- is that reality sometimes is too crazy to make up.

A couple of cases in point: I'm soon going to observe a morator- ium on the "S" word, noting that I am well on the way to 'surviving' better than anticipated in my rehab phase. It will soon be the sixth month anniversary since The-Day, an intense period which now seems so long ago. Also, a couple of my old publishing team kid- napped me the other day, and questioned my need why I should get so busy, again. They, more than many, seem to have forgotten my inner feelings, needs and anxieties. Chasing a victory is still a lot more engaging and exhilarating to me, than sitting home watching another trophy on the mantle. Or as one of my senior lady editors reflected within our earlier assembled management group, "There are days, when I miss those old days." She added, with a warm tap of her index finger on my knuckles, "I went on so many blind dates, thanks to you keeping me busy in the past, I should have got a free dog." That's another sort of moratorium we chuckled over, before topping up our coffees last week. Happily, she is remarried to a great guy, who already had a golden lab. What a happy, fortuitous union for all three!

So, a quick peek into my past: Yes, a few years back, I used to be active in the publishing of glosssy full colour lifestyle and custom print magazines -- nowhere near the size of Hollinger Inc. and their many print mastheads from the dead-tree sector.

Publishing is a strange business. Just ask Lord Conrad M. Black, and his assorted cronies.

Their current legal challenges now being played out in a Chicago courtroom, could be likened to a rocky shoreline, where the deep waters of literature, stewardship and governance meet the terra-firma of business, profits and shareholders. All too often good authors and editors die, gasping for breath on the beach; while publishers sink in the cruel waters, for any number of reasons.

This blood letting may be underway in some media boardrooms and in a far-off court house. I'm happy to say, that is not the case at LEISURELAN -- a more grounded enterprise, which I'm now revisiting after a six month hiatus. The reality is, I'm quietly busy as a bee, with no desire to sheppard advertisers; editors and authors anymore, to their respective deadlines. Those days of pushing string, herding finicky cats and corralling time-critical paper and distribution suppliers are long over.

Lately, I see a clearer canvas emerging, offering up warm colours of fulfillment and hope. With little fanfare so far, new small group luxury tour itineraries are being planned, a comprehensive con- cierge program and Wine Appreciation Series will be launched later next month.

Other interesting announcements follow shortly, too, of a squaring-the-circle nature.

It feels good once more, to be back in the thick and fray of life.

Type A personalities need only apply

Do you want to learn how to make salsa? Or, do you want to learn how to salsa? Personally, I'd like to do both this year.

FOR THE RECORD, I used to be the poster boy for all things associated with a Type A personality. Likely, still am.

Wikipedia best describes Type A personalities as, "....a set of characteristics that includes being impatient, excessively time-conscious, insecure about one's status, highly competitive, hostile and aggressive, and incapable of relaxation. Type A individuals are often highly achieving workaholics who multi-task, drive themselves with deadlines, and are unhappy about the smallest of delays. They have been described as stress junkies."

HOLD ON, I know this person. Talk about looking back into the future. At this juncture though, I'd preferably like to leave a basket full of these characteristics in the past.

The Type B personality, in contrast, is patient, relaxed, and easy-going. There is also a Type AB mixed profile for people who cannot be clearly categorized and have a combination of both types of personality.

So, what's all this about, anyway? We've already got all of the answers. We don't need to know any of the questions...

IT BECAME VERY APPARENT early in my recovery week following surgery, that you had to want to get your strengths back, survive this intense healing period with the few cunning wits you could muster, and then be discharged as fast as possible. There were times, when you thought your future only evolved around the frequency dosage of many vials of pain pills, to placing each day behind you as best you can with minimal setback. Not much more. Yet, if you didn't take a hard position from the onset beyond Pain Management 101, then recovery could take longer, as I witnessed first-hand at my lone H physiotherapy session. Upon reflection, auguring down to a continued state of fragility, was never an option in those early days.

I still clearly remember our cardiac head doctor giving me his Gaulic best on Saturday morning rounds, with a lady assistant and clip board in tow. "Can you give me any reason as to why I should not discharge you today," was his opening volley. Mais... He con- tinued his likely well rehearsed lines, "Hospitals are not a safe place to stay in, you know." Oui, je comprend mon docteur... He, of course, was referring to the health side of his domain, and was quite correct in his first assumptions about me and his fine establishment.

After all, we were complete strangers. Hospitals in general, can sometimes be the best place to be housed in, if your sole intent is to pick up a new vicious strain of an exotic bug, they are wont to breed. Where else can you find so many exotic pets under one hothouse roof, that are resistant to most antibiotics? I had other plans, mainly a four letter word starting with a capital E: E X I T.

As bad as I must have looked and unbeknownst to him, my head was already spinning at another pace and place. Even with sapped strengths, I was already internally filtering his comments to all scenarios otherwise, as in, "Just get me outta here. I've got a life to put back together." All I could mostly offer back to him, was a wan smile and a few nods.

It was enough, apparently. Discharge came the following day.

DAUNTING is as good a word as any, that came to mind at H dis- charge. I didn't realise at the time, but this period became my new Ground Zero, the first of many baby steps taken in the early months following recovery. I'd like to think of this phoenix period as a rebirth, of sorts.

Fortunately, my options and choices back in the Fall recovery period, were few. I had taken a recent full bore hit in the chest area, and plummeted back to earth with a sudden and painful crash landing. Early recovery was not a pretty sight, without a plan. The primary objective here following The-Day, was to heal and soar, once more. Or remain winged on the ground at my peril, arse up in the ditch, so to speak.

IT SOON BECAME QUITE CLEAR through a semi-drugged fog, to somehow get back to be in the bridge building business -- bridges that could take you over that fragile place of dependency follow- ing surgery, to bridges that lead to greener pastures where you'd like to cross over, two seasons or two years down the road.

There were challenging days following surgery, often with no play book to refer to each new sideways development. It was also easy pickings for friends and strangers alike, for them to judge a book by its cover. I felt a lot like I looked. Externally, it must have seemed as if I had barely survived the worst gang mugging possible -- stitches from here to Halifax, an ochre-yellow meat hook of an arm, held only together by surgeon's tape. Dressed up, I became the mid-week bearded gent, shuffling through the Malls for exercise, hugging a little red pillow. What a sight to confront, and politely go around. Or else, being strapped in the back seat and chauffeured around Miss Daisy style, from one medical appointment to another. This couldn't be me, eh? Well, apparently it was. I'm told there were days, when I looked like a card carrying zombie from central casting, shuffling off camera in some B movie.

Inside, though, a battle plan was quietly emerging. Recovery to a future rewarding and continued life, had to take absolute prefer- ence over bouts of fragility and uncertainty. It was time to try to assume control over my circumstance and in the process, eliminate that most devastating handicap — self doubt. I now wanted to climb above the post-surgery haze, to visualize solutions and then attain them.

This quest started off with what I'd like to think of as, small time-dated anticipations. Nothing more, than mostly willing to myself that tomorrow would be a better day, than yesterday. If you could string enough of these good days together before the weekend, then you might have a pattern emerging. More weeks than not, this simple formula worked. Whodaknewdit?

Handcuffs clamped to the bedposts, for example, and other like fantasies were never under consideration. In those days, my gun sights were set modestly lower to simple pleasures or achievable deadlines, more like: Less pain, greater mobility. The enjoyment of a fine glass of wine again with old friends. Cutting down our Christmas tree. A white Christmas, with all of the, ahem, trimmings. Rehab. The pounding spray of salt water in my face, from sailing too close into the wind. A sunny vacation, anywhere. And far-out past snow banks, to see that first robin and the emergence of Spring flowers once more in our garden beds.

Survival has always had a firm grip on my soul. Once more, it was time to start a long trek upwards, to that place where mountain tops kiss the clouds. One step, one day at a time.

I'm happy to report, there's not much of that mountain left yet to climb. I'm OK, on many fronts, with equal thanks to my main squeeze believing in me, as well as me believing in me. I think I will always be reminded, as being a lucky cardiac recoveree. (This is the time, when I reach somewhere and pinch myself.) Here's the kicker: I don't consider myself as being sick, anymore.

Most of my friends and associates have stopped asking me how I feel, or telling me I look great. Even my spunky mom, in her 92nd year agrees, "You look fine again, son." Wots not to luv then, guv?

What is becoming a tad disquieting in retrospect, is the possibility you could achieve your recovery goals of improved health faster, with the background of a Type A personality, rather than the pattern of a more passive Type B counterpart. It's becoming quite evident lately at each rehab session.

If correct, there is plenty of irony here to be passed around.

While a Type A behavior is a good predictor of coronary heart disease, and was likely the reason that got you to the stent factory or to a more lengthily surgical procedure in the first place; it's these same determined traits that will get you back to normal life, once more.

I SEE this determined look already on several of the new class recruits in my ongoing rehab sessions. A goodly number of them are in their mid 40's to late 50's, mostly nowhere near the sunset years of their chosen (and temporarily derailed) career paths. They may be shunted to a side-track somewhere for now, but don't underestimate this crowd. They still want to be a part of, or at the helm of, their old team. And a few pay grade increases still to cash. While money may be the yardstick, to them; there's many more boulders to push uphill and leave their mark, on a yet unfulfilled career. These are good qualities to grasp close to your chest, I guess, whilst rebuilding your strengths.

There are no shortage of sunken minefields already planted in their path. Some classroom boomers have already expressed to me, the voodoo adventures of integrating themselves back into the workforce. In their short absence, they note new alliances and work teams have quietly come together at the office. Staff tip-toe around, with few skill-sets as to how to handle a returned wounded warrior. Clearly, our new crowd on-the-mend will need all the eyes of newts, bat's livers and frog toe-nails they can muster for continuance. These are stressed healing times, where it's prudent to constantly look up, and look both ways, as well as look ahead. Be nimble, people.

In the end though, all recoverees need to draw up their own unique Survival Plan, muddle through each day as best as possible. And do whatever it takes to get themselves over today's Finish Line, into tomorrow.

The bright lights in the crowd, soon realise that in the grand scheme of things, this is really all much to do about not much. They get it, already.

There's really only one question here to answer: After this sudden wake-up call, what quality of life do you want to have five years down the road? Everything emanates out from that far-out new marker, possibly sooner. This time table is just not quite clear to some of the candidates, as yet. These are new life wrinkles we're now confronted with on that old chestnut called, Pick Your Stress: a different menu of lifestyles are now for the offering, new career paths await, a life commitment to diet and exercise, retirement tweaking, volunteering, quit smoking, to name but just a few examples. Simply, a trove of life adjustments to treasure. Or not.

It seems to me, the trick along this mostly uncharted recovery voyage, is to see if you can jump tracks in the recovery process on your timelines and on your terms, by possibly integrating more of the best features of a Type AB or B personality into your evolving lifestyle mix. I'm trying to adjust my horizons in this new quest. I figure, if I could want to walk away cold turkey from puffing 50 cigarettes a day in another lifetime; then there's a better than even chance, I can master this slight impasse.

As you may gather, I'm now staring at another 'want to' cross- roads in my life.

In the past, I found out the best way to predict the future, was to simply take charge and create it. This now brings me front and square to the Ticket Master's wicket, with a whole new set of baggage at the ready.

Hopefully, a more mellow version of the old 'Type-A-Tony' will be on the correct last train leaving the station before sundown. We'll soon find out.

Newbie no more

Yesterday, we all bid farewell to Frank, as his six month rehab phase has ended.

A few of the old guard that are still around will miss his weekly jovial banter, especially his take on exercise (usually, not!) and a huge love for life. For sure, from this corner.

He was never going to be your guy, if you were looking for an exercise fashion statement. That was likely OK with him, too. Frank had a quiet unassuming manner and presence, when entering a crowded room. And always unknowingly his own fashion brand! What you saw, is what you got. Mostly lumber-jack suspenders in this case, holding up a pressed pair of jeans; with an accompanying golf-shirt, whatever was at the top of the ironed heap at home for that particular day. Rest assured, there was never any need to dart towards the change room into matching shorts and tees, prior to each workout session.

Most of all, he was always fast with a good quip and a grin. I will miss that likely the most.

One also suspected there were untold stories still to be revealed, about each fading tattoo on both of his gnarled arms. Maybe those 48 hour furlow sagas from long ago, are best left alone. That's my guess, anyway. I've consistently found, you can tell a lot about a stranger from the type (and location) of their tattoos.

Whatever, I think we were all in a better place in his presence, on each weekday afternoon's outing.

"What are you going to miss about this place?" I quietly asked, partway through his last session. "You guys, mostly," as he pointed to Anthony on the rower, and over the way to Marvin about to punch in launch codes on his treadmill, "and the staff."

I'm only now beginning to fully understand this new life cycle we're all peddling in. Sooner or later, everyone here gets their 'best-before date' placed under one last bit of rehab scrutiny. Fortunately, this is not a usual gathering of Ready! Shoot! Aim! gym instructors, that are looking after our best interests at heart. Lucky for us. We all have the pleasure of a final stress test. And with a positive result, we get our exit-ticket punched, hopefully for the last time. This week was Frank's turn with passing grades.

On the way out, someone in the group cracked, "Chicken wings at Mortey's tonight, eh Frank?" He flashed that TKO winning pugilist's grin at the doorway exit, as only Frank could, waved back in mock defiance. And in an instant, he was gone to the parking lot, before assuring us of his return in the Fall.

Here's hoping. That's what makes special graduates from rehab, such a unique alumni.

The fact is, there's a high attrition rate of cardiac recoverees under this roof -- some have to go back to work, holidays happen, or they just tire out along the way. Others, quietly acknowledge their rehab graduation badge, and wear it well. I'm reminded of that old axiom on these special farewell occasions: Q: What are your ears for? A: To stop that silly grin going all over your face. Such was the case here, yesterday.

Whatever their departed reason, we've already lost nearly half of the 'old-gang' that I slowly got to know, way back early in the New Year. More good buds are scheduled to be shipped out before May. Dang. I've no desire to become the class resident eminence-grise, but time here, is not working on my side.

Clearly, I'm no longer The Newbie in our class, as I expressed in an earlier journal entry. Over the past two weeks alone, we've had a good handful of new recruits cycled into each afternoon's session. Evolution of this sort is necessary, but understandably, a little saddening to report.

What's a little discerning though, is the fact that our new tyros are much younger alpha-males than in our original group, some even wearing their baseball cap on backwards with a heady 'bring-it-on' bravado. Mmm. Could this be the new perfect storm brewing on the cardiac horizon, the vanguard of a generation weaned on fast-food? They're keen as hell in the shadow of vernal equinox, and ready to leave scent markings all over each well-worked machine, to prove their point. Memo to Management: It might be time to check the extended warranty on each exercise machine. Lately, they've all been on the receiving end of a good workout. What's that smell, you ask? Likely the undeniable sweetness of testos- terone in the raw, being spritzed throughout the building. Can Spring actually be far away?

In the meantime, Frank, you've earned a well deserved mess of fish 'n brews on The Rock this summer, b'y. And a four-finger shot of screech to each of the remaining few of us still in boot camp. It seems you got in and out of your last tour of duty, just under the wire, my friend.

Today is The Ides of March.

Still out there, somewhere east of Easter

Eggs and bacon: A day's work for a chicken, a life's work for a pig. Unknown

About a month ago, you may recall I was a tad apoplectic about my weight loss. Or specifically, the lack, thereof. Well today, I met our Nutritionist Maker with current printout updates to my earlier perplexing concerns.

All you need to know, is the BAI machine doesn't lie. This is short for a Bioelectric Impedance Analysis (that's Impedance dahling, not Impotence.) The BIA machine provides a breakdown of your weight into fluid weight, fat weight and muscle tissue weight (muscles, bones and organs.)

The small machine passes a weak electrical current through your body from electrodes on the bottom of the scale's platform. Be- cause muscle conducts electricity and fat acts as an insulator, the electrical impedance measures our total body water, which then calculates our muscle and fat mass. Like I said, you can't fake it.

The short takeaway: Everything seems to be slowly going in the right direction, underscore slowly. Muscle tissue weight is down a bit from a month ago. So is the fluid weight. This is all good, apparently. On the upside, if that's the right way to describe it, my fat weight is down to the equivalency of perhaps a small Sunday roast, or three pounds of butter. Hoa, Oleo Boy! Fat, all the fat, and nothing but fat, so help me...

Lately, I'm becoming more of a simple-stupid kind of guy. This isn't complex at all. The next time you're trolling past the dairy section at your supermarket, look to where the pounds of butter are neatly stacked. Then visualize the immenseness of three of those little suckers side-by-side, up on the shelf staring back at you, rather than me. Only then, are you allowed to smugly mosey past those Haagen-Daz sirens, to the adjoining frozen gelato bin.

On this weighty matter, there's only so much lipstick you can put on a pig.

Our rehab nutritionist is as happy as a clutch of clams at high tide. So are the stethoscope gang on the floor. I'm trying to be giddy free and keep this still in perspective. When you BMI chart these improvements on paper, all I've done is quietly pack my bags in a southward direction away from the lower end of the Obese zone, and moved next door to the high end of the Overweight column. Big whoop. Big hat, no cattle, as they say out West. Next stop though, is the Acceptable column!

To a few, this is a subject, guaranteed to slow your heart and thicken your blood. Yet, if management is happy, and the caregiver is beaming, then I'm happy for all the stakeholders.

It's only a start. My revised New Year's goal was to modestly jettison ten little pounds of 'butter' by Easter. Three down, seven to go. But who's counting. Much.

Does anyone know if Easter come early or late this year?

Fridays and disconnects

If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reason- able, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise. Robert Fritz

FRIDAY is sort of an odds-and-sods kind of make-do day in our rehab world. Depending on the weather lately, there's only five or six keeners in our session, taking in a third exercise outing each week. Pity. There's likely upwards of a 125 to 150 weekly partic- ipants struttin' their stuff at our rehab centre.

The price couldn't be better here, either. All rehab recipients are posted two week day outings -- Mondays and Wednesdays, or Tuesdays and Thursdays, as part of our six month complimentary rehab period. Hour sessions literally start at sun-up, and continue back-to-back through to the afternoon commute home. As you may gather, this is one busy joint. Friday being an optional event, is our last chance every week, to either slot in a late make-do day or simply undertake three structured exercise days, before each weekend's social events catch up with our good intentions. Many don't take advantage of this third outing, which is a shame. Monday's have a way of rolling around, literally -- all too soon, with little to nil weight change for a good many participants.

Good rehab news this past Friday to report: Thanks to a steady stream of good encouraging chatter nearby from Robert, I did my first non-stop 50+ minutes on the recumbent bike. Many thanks. As a result, it's placing a whole new meaning to the term today: Sunday is reserved for a day of rest! But let's continue...

THE FIRST DISCONNECT in our well programmed cardiac system, can occur soon after H discharge. All recipient hospitals receive their well deserved 'adda-boy' at this juncture. Patients and care- givers then at their emotional and physical weakest, are pretty much left to their own harrowing survival skills, in the post-op weeks that follow surgery. You soon encounter well mandated support services recommended by our hospitals, are jammed to capacity due mostly to underfunding woes of their own making. I have no doubt in this patient quest, some worthy case files fall between the bean counter cracks. On their watch. On your dime. My sense is, hospitals and support services might wish to realign their mutual client's end-objectives, if they continue to hype or seek each other's timely services. Currently, there's a great disconnect of alleged good intentions, in the early days after discharge. I know. I knocked on their door, and was told the inn was full.

LATELY, I NOTICE many rehab patients have distanced them- selves from earlier stent or cardiac setbacks. The good life goes on. A case could be made here, that some patients have fallen back into prior bad lifestyle habits, that got them into these cardiac-cross hairs in the first place. There's no doubt, a lot of my new survival buds long for the camaraderie each week. I sure do. A good many of them may be inheriting new muscles groups in defense of their new weekly exercise program. This is good, too. But I don't see many patients losing much weight, for their efforts. To me, weight loss is the quid pro quo, after a sweaty week, in months of driving through snow drifts, for better days beyond Spring. I've bought into their weight loss concept. I just accept, I'm on a correct wellness program for complete recovery. A good number in our group though, still unnecessarily ring the bell well in excess of 200 pounds, late into their rehab program.

Let's just be charitable and say, they're not as much overweight, as they are under height.

THERE COULD BE A DISCONNECT HERE, TOO. Hopefully, I'm wrong, for we've got a pretty dedicated team working in our corner on the rehab side. No, I mean, really dedicated! I'm not privy to the working side whatsoever of their lock-step rehab program -- nor want to be -- so rightly or wrongly, I see results through a different set of prisms, than from management.

AN OBSERVATION: Who knows? It could be time for some of us to take one exercise session off in the program, and undertake a hard teaching dose of what the hell got us all here in the first place. Might I humbly suggest then, it may be time for (some of) us to be frogmarched back to recovery school, and review the basics again, that we were taught early in our rehab phase.

In business terms, there's an oft phrase, used at this juncture: plan-to-performance. How's the campaign going at mid-term? Are we still on track since launch date, or do we need to tweak it at mid-point, to reach end-objectives? In these cases, our end-goals should be "SMART" (an acronym): that is, specific, measurable, acceptable, realistic to achieve and time-bound with a deadline.

In this case, it could also simply be referred to as a parental cuff around the back of the head.

It likely couldn't hurt much. It made a lot of sense, way back then.

Sorry, was I thinking out loud...