Pitter-patter, let's get at her

You have to set big goals. You need to have big dreams. And leave determined footprints behind you. Most days, anyway.

FINALLY, a sunny brisk morning, not unlike the one I remember six months ago, being wheeled into the cardiac garage. Yes, today is my six month anniversary since The-Day, if you can call that a celebration. As wee milestones go, I think this could qualify for a small lit candle atop a smaller wedge of cake. Torch me, momma!

IT HAS BEEN AN INTERESTING HALF YEAR, a line you can assuredly take to your bank, for aggressive compound interest. I speak this way from many years experience in the travel industry. Believe me when I say, and without sounding too repetitive: This is one trip you want to avoid, at all costs.

And if you ever thought that you were finished learning your sums and ABC's so long ago in another lifetime, then you might also want to give this noble concept another good shake -- at least when it comes to digesting what you've learned since your cardiac operation, and how to apply these evolving life lessons to your future.

FIRST OFF, and most important in this grading, I feel as if I have acquired new heightened levels of good health, that could give some (with faint hearts) literally a rarefied nosebleed. If I stop writing here, and draw a line under all the drivel that may follow below; for this fact alone, I'm eternally thankful to my entire H team.

After six months of recovery, I feel fit and look well.

The rehab folk also concur, and now regularly push me in con- trolled exercise ways long forgotten, since my late teens. I suspect weight-loss-and-hold challenges will always be a work in progress. I know, I know, I'm supposedly losing weight somewhere, but I can't help but still equate weight loss as the quid pro quo for all this thrice weekly sweat down.

THANK GOODNESS I'm nowhere near a fanatic or passionate exercise stage. But the simple fact is, I enjoy a weekday afternoon inspiration with our evolving gang -- each session, mostly laced with a steady flow of jocular banter, capped with a well-earned swig of iced water at the top of the hour. I've learned lately, there's many forks in the road that finally deliver us with postage due to the Fitness House, and even more doors to open upon a timely arrival.

People take to exercise for many reasons. It could be the annual resolution chestnut, to simply lose weight and get fit before mid-January. Maybe worst, the sudden jolt from a parental health scare, or an unforeseen sudden loss of a longtime friend.

In our particular case, we were all lifted up at our ankles and given a second smack on the bum. As part of the healing deal made with the cardiac system, we all got summarily tossed into a rehab hamper, whether or not we liked exercising in a prior life. It's too damned bad, anyway, if we didn't. Looking around our rehab room, I think all here are intrigued with the challenge of survival, at all costs.

NOW A QUICK history lesson: Much to my mother's continued embarrassment, and a son's wicked delight at past family gatherings, was reminding her that I was likely the result of an intense 48 hour weekend pass in Wales, faraway from the blitz period of a nightly fire bombed London. The child's perverted joy, of course, was to make her mom blush, often with achieved results. Whenever, I did become the end-product of a generation raised from the ashes of a war torn Europe, who became part of that subsequent endless wave of immigrants to Canada in the early 1950's. Along the way, you will never be able to forget being told to eat everything on your plate, even if you didn't like the tripe, because you weren't sure when you were going to eat next. Yes, those food less days did regularly occur in my early years, much to the indifference of a daughter later raised in better times. As I remember, she was wont to shovel food around her plate until it got cold, look at her mom for a quick approval to bolt from the table, and then look back down at the plate. On balance, I can only conclude this must be either a genetic or environment curse -- your pick -- a perverse version of DNA like hand-me-down revenge, passed on from parents to their children. Likewise, I also believe some of those early forced food habits, are now bubbling up front and square, in my ongoing weight-loss wars. As usual, she had the last bite, crumb and quiet grin in the matter. I guess, now in her 92nd year, I should cut her some slack. Anyway, thanks, mom, I think.

That said, we're a resilient species, always ready to bounce back from near death disasters when given half the chance. Nine times and a few fractions out of every ten with my rehab crowd, anyway, if you're a scorekeeper.

WHAT I DID LEARN over the past Easter Weekend though, with the end-effect of a properly sighted 2 x 4 across my forehead, is that you can't slack off for a moment; and return to prior eating habits, as I had done since last Thursday. For the record, I have gained a great deal back of my hard fought weight loss since entering the rehab program. That's how fast weight gain can return and snake bite you. There is no turning back now. I have to complete this remaining rehab period, with vigor and purpose.

Hopefully, this past long weekend will be the same hair trigger moment, that got me walking away cold turkey from two large packages of cigarettes each day, several decades ago. "NINETY CENTS! I'm not paying ninety @#$! cents for a pack of cigarettes!!" That's the sort of fifty cigarettes a day, fifty pounds ago, impetus moment, that I refer to.

I CAN'T HELP BUT THINK of that band of poor sods today, who are likely huddled outside many H Main Entrances; staff and patients, alike. You would be hard pressed not to miss their dwindling membership at each hospital visit. We've all seen them at one time or another, each with a defiant "L" branded on their foreheads. At this time of year, they give the appearance of offering encouraged small talk to the other, just to keep warm. They need to. Our intrepid group shift from one foot to another together in winter clothing over top of wheeled IV apparatus, and likely paying some nine bucks a pack for the privilege of freezing, all the while sucking back a rich brew of poisons from each cancer stick. Talk about inflation. And cruel irony. Truly, this is one instance where you can say with confidence and a straight face, that all levels of government effortlessly suck and blow at the same time, on behalf of their constituents. And concurrently help a bloated medical infrastructure with a continued flow of new patients (literally, butting out at their front doorstep.)

But then, pious non-smokers are often accused of exhaling too much. Guilty, I guess, as charged.

Cigs, food, alcohol, whatever, you have to do whatever it takes to get you over that bridge away from dependency to a healthier place. For the past thirty years, I've always equated quitting smoking to perhaps, how I might perceive an alcoholic equates to drinking: One's too many, a million's not enough. In my early smoke-free days, I took to not smoking a puff, one day at a time. I suspect my new food regimen, will likely have to commence with the similar effect: One bite's too many, a million calories is not enough, kinda one day at a time.

A SMALL CONFESSION: Lately, I'm becoming a little twitchy, perhaps the natural blowback where some of life's little crossroads and fate may have a struggle to align. Or cross. Or not. Once more, outside forces just slightly beyond my grasp, are possibly amas- sing with fervor to determine my future. As is usually the case at this stage, they're nothing more than the odd bothersome irritant; yet if left unchecked, they can come together to form the perfect little business storm. More storms at this juncture, I don't need.

High on my crossroads hit list these days, is the unknown spectre of an upcoming Doctor's report on my current health status. This now sought outcome will have a profound bearing as to the timing of my return to the travel sector, as envisioned. Existing drug pre- scriptions are fast running out, my nitro patch by coincidence, finished today. I'll take these passages as all good signs.

THE BOTTOM LINE here is simple. I'll always be a cardiac recov- eree, not unlike perhaps a sober alcoholic will always be an alcoholic in arrest. In either case, there is no possibility of ever pouring little Humpty-Dumpty back together again, no matter the size of the cracked shell. Similarly, insurance actuaries will never let me forget my new exalted position in life either, and will willingly 'kajing' me into another inflated risk column, for the privilege of availing any of their services. The problem here is, if you're in the upmarket tour business, then you need to travel off-shore more than most, which requires a steady issuance of out-of-country health insurance policies. This requires a 'stable' go-forward bill of health, or else find other revenue streams.

So, next week I have my Come-To-Jesus health meeting with the family doc. I'm not seeking small miracles here, just a recorded stability on my file. If my position is deemed 'stable' by he and his cardiac colleagues, then LEISURELAN will finally be a go. At that time, I will qualify for insurance repayment, should there be any unforeseen off-shore cardiac related occurrences down the road after their collective assessment. Or else, if I'm not 'stable' at this timely juncture, then we need to identify the issues and determine appropriate go-forward strategies. Pronto.

Put otherwise, boys: Pitter-patter, let's get at her. Either way, I've got a viable business here on-hold, or to fold.

It's not personal. Over the past quarter of a century, my family doc and I have both cruised into middle age on an amicable evolving patient/doctor relationship. But a timely hard copy medical report for our files, either way, is now sought. My future livelihood back in the travel sector, holds in the balance.