Seventh inning stretch

It ain't over, 'till it's over.
Yogi Berra

Baseball is more than a game. It's like life played out on a field.

I'M REMINDED from some of my rehab regulars, that the Florida Grapefruit League baseball season is just around the corner. This is another good reason, to report Spring and school break can't be far off; as we're now officially closer to March, than January. Spring ahead, fall back. The daylight clocks advance an hour, in a few weeks. I knew there were nice things to say about the shortest month of the year. Forward March, let's go team. It's time to play ball!

If you're prone to placing such four-letter words as 'game' and 'life' into the same sentence, then read on.

Some of my new heart buds, like to emphasize surviving a cardiac operation is akin to hitting a long bomb out of the park. This is not entirely an untruth. To continue with a baseball analogy, home runs are always a big hit with the crowd, particularly when you score the winning run for your team. Or an inner moment, to share a special milestone with just yourself. Whatever your makeup, a cued tape of the roar of your fans, is entirely optional. You'll know when your inner personal-best team, is jumping up and down on adrenalin.

Unfortunately, we aren't always so lucky, each time at bat. I know. There's usually a basket full of baseball metaphors and cliches for us all to contend with each day: the intentional walk, a strikeout, the dreaded curve ball, an unlucky pop-up to an infielder's waiting glove, a flubbed bunt, mixed in with the occasional single sprint to first base. Seldom a home run, though, which is perhaps the way it should be. When our turn at bat, not all of us are blessed with enough talent, to consistently knock the ball into the next postal code.

THE FACT IS, baseball like life, can often be a humbling affair. But there can also be quiet milestones, along these new pathways. Small personal bests, if you will, that seldom warrant a fleeting glance on any seismic printout. For me these days, they're usually indoor endurance or distance restricted events at rehab, to help me not drop the ball. Peddling from about 10 minutes a short while ago, to now nearly 50 minutes non-stop on the recumbent bike, is but an example to report -- a small personal best, that was simply unheard of, from my recent past. However, soon, Spring will emerge and other options will burst forth, as sure as we await a crocus-poke through receding snow banks. It will soon be time to reclaim our neighbourhood. Lately, I'm already finding new confidences to walk beyond the end of the street, to now the other side of town. There's likely another world out there to enjoy I earlier missed, while speeding by in other lanes. It might be time, to follow your heart. Don't play golf? Then walk a golf course. Perhaps this year, take a walking holiday. Get quietly involved in a new passion. If you haven't got one, find one. If you can't find one, then it might be time to make one up.

There are lots of things in life you can't control, but how you respond to those things, is the one thing you can control.

"The best way to deal with any bad situation is to believe in your- self and have confidence that things will get better. After all, if you don't believe in you, why should anyone else? Baseball is a game of confidence, and of overcoming failures and fears. That's what life's about, too." Sage advice, no less than from baseball legend and author, Yogi Berra.

He continues, "Baseball is a game of confidence, and of over- coming failures and fears. That's what life's about, too."

Berra never doubted his abilities. We shouldn't doubt ours, either. "When I was managing the Mets and we were in last place: I said, 'it ain't over 'till it's over,' and we made it to the World Series. I guess that was my attitude and it still is. "

ON A MORE HUMBLE LEVEL as I near the mid-way point of my rehab phase, I believe I've just about stolen my way around to third base -- the old fashioned way, with little fanfare -- one base at a time, thanks to the assembled team. So far, I can report no triples bounced high off the centre field wall. Barring any unfore- seen screw-ups, bad umpire decisions or further rehab weight-loss seductions, I can clearly see home plate -- some 90 feet, and still a lifetime away.

IT'S TIME THEN, for some seventh inning stretch observations, before I romp home with the help of my new team players. Or Spring arrives, whichever comes first:

Your old strengths return. Daytime slumber sessions have long since passed, as has a dependency for sleeping pills. There's also fewer prescriptions to refill. This is all good. And you are no longer forced to sleep on your back in closed bedrooms, because frisky cats are often prone to pounce unannounced on your chest for grub and affection. Mostly grub, I found out. The Red Cross shower stool rental is but a fond, misty memory. Aaaah. What used to be a 30 minute daily life-exercise back in that frail Fall period, has been replaced with a quick splash-about. A lesson learned: I now dry off inside the warm shower area. Not outside. What was I thinking of, earlier? The back seat chauffeured 'Miss Daisy' stage ended around mid-November. Thankfully, too, there's no need to drive anymore with a heart pillow stuffed between one's chest area and the steering wheel -- much to the relief of, well, just about everyone driving by. As a result, driving confi- dences have returned, even though I'm more cognizant than ever, how sane people often turn crazed in an instant, while behind the wheel. Strike me dead, but I now look forward to each week-day rehab session. I find this a great opportunity to chat with fellow survivors. As one who was never 'an exercise freak,' I can't wait to do weekly personal-best exercises, I thought weren't even pos- sible in a prior life. Who is this new guy jumping up and down?

You pick up the pieces at work. Not all cardiac survivors are pensioned retirees, as I can confirm. It's time to go back to work. Vintner Murray likes to compare exercise to drinking red wine -- always better in moderation, and more enjoyable in the shade of a sunny warm sky. I'm going to hold him to that observation, in the near-term. Earlier, I wasn't allowed to even sniff the stuff. By Christmas, a local LCBO staffer, hauled a box of grog to the car. Today, I carried a similar box alone out to the car trunk. Next month, my Wine Appreciation Series, Unplugged & Uncorked returns, as does the LEISURELAN concierge services. Unfortu- nately, the earlier planned small group luxury tours have now been slotted back to the Fall '07 period, earliest. I lost a year on that front. The first private journey, will now likely be a small group to Napa wine country and San Francisco, for people who may prefer a slower and more intimate view of the landscape during harvest. It took awhile, but I've finally got my 'A-Game' back! To your very good health in the meantime, friends. And, if not to appear a tad selfish at this juncture; to mine, as well.

You'll soon have clothing options. Seasons change, so do fashions, as your waist-line and clothing sizes auger-down under a constant exercise regimen. This is a great excuse to revisit and then jettison earlier fashionable garments from another size ago. Preferably, try boosting the local economy, which area store owners and credit card companies would have you prefer. I'm opting for new duds, soon.

Old wounds heal. The 'pig in a python' scare midway down my leg incision, has receded and replaced by a small bump, just to remind us both of early patient and caregiver frights. And the brute ugliness of a mauve and yellow-ochre swelled arm, held together only by strips of surgeon's tape, has also left town. Bye. Some mornings, I stand alone before a mirror in quiet awe, and still can't comprehend all of the complexities that happened to my leg and arm -- but especially, my chest area on The-Day. I find it all still a little daunting. Lately, I see nothing but wine coloured strips of healing stitches, like north-south interstate throughways, that continue forever on a roadmap to Florida: there, there, and down there. I'm not too keen to enquire anytime soon, about the many surgical and post-op miracles performed throughout that long October week. The scars will always be around, of course, but the passage of time is now the great healer. My left arm is still occasionally numb or sensitive, as is my ankle area. I'm told, this healing process could last upwards of a year. Or may be gone next week. Always the innovator, I'm now recycling prior-parked expensive dress shirts. Quite by accident, I found a good quality woven fabric helps my sensitive arm the most, and is less irri- tating, than coarser woven casual shirts and sweats. I never imagined being a walking around testimonial this way for Giorgio Armani and Christian Dior. Thanks anyway, gents.

New identified stresses. Forget the long bomb out of the park. Yawn, that was yesterday's breakthrough media side show of the month, directed equally to identified funder groups and the great unwashed, alike. Unthinkable medical advancements now regu- larly make the evening news. What seemed to be the impossible just a few years ago, has become simply today's new medical norm. Raising the medical bar this way, I'm sure, can often be a bloodied double edged sword, when stakeholder expectations blur with reality. I've no doubt, the final funding tally is often the yard- stick to an important project launch, existance and continuance. Or not. So I suspect, there's always the spectre of pushing that envelope with a "look at me" mentality, not unlike gradeschoolers darting their hands in the air. On the other side of the slate, a great many (future) patients take these medical-firsts in stride, with a quiet 'It'll-Never-Happen-To-Me' mentality of denial, and perhaps shouldn't. Typical boomers. Those unfortunate candidates, who have had to play their 'denial' card earlier than expected, are soon asked to buy into a dumbed-down version of the seriousness of the entire operative event. For example, we often equate cardiac surgery, to such terms as 'normal procedures' as if surgery was an every day matter of fact occurrence. Perhaps, just as well. I'm humble enough to realise what 'normal' in cardiac circles means: a dozen highly trained people's expertise converging in one room for an intense 3 or 4 hours on your behalf, providing there's no complications. And dozens more of dedicated folk leading up to The-Day, and afterwards. Some normal! What's becoming more clear, is the stress-laden fact that today's society, charge all specialty medical teams -- cardiac to cancer, and every ailment in between -- to hit no less than a grand-slam homer every time at bat. No strike-outs. No exceptions. Or likely, no long term contin- uance. In my life-time, we've come a long way since the early breakthrough days of Dr. Christian Barnard. I guess what I'm kinda thinking out loud is, who heals the healers during these 'normal' stressed times?

There are new loves in my life. Earlier courted sex sirens, referred to in certain circles as the ladies Salt and Sugar, are now replaced by their more dour stepmother, Mrs. Dash. Harlots, both, we're now advised. I sense on most days, we're still hopeless causes at the trough of life, all the while being seduced with weight-loss overtures by our rehab team. The new message: a whole lot more exercise, more grains and fruit, less meat, and no desserts we used to favour. Sort of, in that order. Are we having fun, yet? Time will tell, in the new land of HDL, soy and Omega-3. Like Buckley's cough syrup, we're constantly reminded from our 'new moms,' that a steady dose of this new regimen, is good for us. Now, open up wide and take some more, damn-it! One thing is certain though, there'll likely be fewer gastronomic orgasms as some of my lady friends used to fondly toast past memorable communal noshes, while in this transition period. This gastro-lockdown phase, can't entirely be good for one's health, can it?

THERE ARE TIMES, when I simply have to jest. Not that it is so, but I just can't imagine any upside to being the richest feller in the cemetery. Pigs wearing XXL pink tutu's, cool shades and custom fitted tiara's flutter by above; glaciers, like waistlines, recede. Hey, not every day has to be lucid, as you enjoy the sunny rehab rays of maturity creep. That noted, I can see and feel good things are slowly happening to me. It's a nice glacial start. Nice, indeed.

IN SPITE OF THE ODD sideways irritant, I'm simply amazed of my overall health progresses from a season ago. Let the good times roll. Gawd, I'm parched and ready.

Hug and Swak Day

Hugging feels good, overcomes fear, eases tension, provides stretching exercise if you're short, and stooping exercise if you're tall. Hugging does not upset the environment, saves heat, and requires no special equipment. It makes happy days happier, and impossible days possible. Kathy Tobin

Yea, yea, I know February is Heart Month. What you really should know, is that February 14 is every cardiac sur- vivor's badda-boom of recovery days -- greater than any imaginary red cherry, crowned atop an illusive double-dab of whipped cream, slathered above a toxic triple scooped ice cream sundae, you used to lust for, not long ago. You shan't be denied, however. Today is your day, literally, no matter how far you may be advanced in your recuperative stage. So hop to it. Set your little red heart pillow down (or pick it up, whatever your strengths.)

Lovable chores await the faithful and converted.

It's now time to re-energize and redirect those devilish endor- phins. This is a great day to take bold liberties, to put a skip in your step, once more. For starters, go back and give your care- giver or loved-one another big hug and a swak. Maybe to both, if you're of a frisky mind. Whatever your final tally, don't stop this time until you've got tired arms and sore lips. Or need medical assistance.

A kiss, is nothing more than a lovely trick designed by Mother Nature to stop speech, when words become superfluous. Hope- fully, you haven't forgotten this point, since your teen years.
I'm a firm believer, that random 'survivor-swaks' should be dis- pensed, using any carefree combination, oh say between gusto and no-reason, especially on those days that end in a "y." No Rx prescriptions are required.

Around about this time, I've usually found that laughing becomes a good by-product of the entire exercise. It's much like jogging on the inside.

I'll likely have more to say on the matter, later. Right now, I'm scurrying around trying to confirm dinner reservations for tonight. Almost anywhere.

Rest assured, other chores have already been addressed. For now.

Welcome back, Mike

As most blog readers to this site already know, February is Heart Month. Where have I been?

Earlier in the month, I caught the tail-end of a Canada AM morning health food segment with nutritionist Leslie Beck and the always jovial Mike Duffy, from his home in Ottawa. Silly me, should have connected the heart dots, right away. Truthfully, I must have been the only viewer in Canada, who didn't know that Duffy is also a recent recovering cardiac grad.

The Charlottetown-born political journalist and star of CTV Newsnet's Mike Duffy Live, is now back pounding the Ottawa political scene once more, after a five month hiatus. About time, too. It's good to see him once more filling the screen -- albeit a little less so, these days -- as if he had only taken a few days off, to holiday back at his beloved Prince Edward Island.

What struck me most, from a weekend follow-up article by Sarah Hampton in the Globe & Mail, was a similar snakes-and-ladder road map he encountered, as I did, in our respective recovery phase.

The last thing either one of us needed with similar Type-A work habits, were periods of memory loss in the early recovery weeks following surgery. I thought I was alone in this unmapped mine field. Happily, not so, if that's the right way for me to report it.

As ageing boomers of a certain composition, I suspect we'll both be weight-challenged for a while longer, too. Well, me anyway, at this rate. I'm currently stalled at minus-nine on the scales, with good intentions. For the uninformed, that's a nine pound weight loss since The-Day. Mike's currently at about minus-forty, and still climbing in the right direction. At this rapid pace, he'll soon be fading out like background music. Good on 'im! I've no doubt, his trusty RN wife and caregiver, has him on a short lunch-leash.

And if I'm permitted a quick diversion at this juncture, I think all cardiac survivors should become the rallying force behind somehow enacting February; as Caregiver's Month, if it hasn't already been suggested. Where would we be today, without them?

Anyway, as one news junkie to another; welcome back, Mike. Pick your stress, good health and may there be many more scrums for you to report in 2007. And beyond.

It's the fat, stupid. Do the math.

Willpower is just another muscle group that needs your attention, often before rehab.

I THINK even before you leave grade school, you likely know whether you're either a word or number person. There was no doubt in my case. I've always been more comfortable around words than numbers, so bear with me. And my math.

Here's a few numbers, that I've been rattling around of late.

Item: Wherever you think you're going, we're all going in the same direction. Some just a little faster, than others. I finally crashed and burned from the fast lanes, after a paltry 2 minutes on the treadmill last Summer at my intro hospital stress test. Back then, we were also determining how fast my cardiac consultation would be accelerated, with an all too predictable outcome. Now, some six months later, finally in rehab, it's not uncommon for me to last 30-40 minutes non-stop on the recumbent bike, often longer. A planned recovery not unlike retirement, needs to be equated; in terms often related to be a process, rather than an event. I'm happy to report, events lately have been more or less straight-line, rather than zig-zag, as reported in my early recovery days. More importantly, I plan this recuperative phase to only be a one time event. In all matters of the heart, one is always a good number to hug.

Talk about a turnaround. Dang, if I was a publicly traded com- pany, I'd be a hot commodity these days. My P/E and PEG ratios, are simply over-the-moon. Thanks team, all, from my heart.

Item: Unless the earth has shifted recently, there's still about 3,000 calories associated with about one pound of that stuff you've got slung around your hips or waist. It's not about you, or me, Oleo Boy. It's all about the fat, stupid!

AFTER NEARLY TWO DEDICATED MONTHS in rehab, I now realize the most calories I can only burn off (after 20 intensive minutes, or so, on the recumbent bike) is about 250. Likely not many more. It's now a determined and motivationally challenged peddler, who silently admits monitoring each tenth of a calorie, ramping up past two tenths of a calorie... Others, relate to time and distance. Not me, as yet. Extrapolate this madness out for an hour session, and it may be a 750 calorie weight loss, maximum, for each day event, three times a week. If you really need to take this silly hypothesis to the nth degree, then every 10 days or so, there may be the loss of a pound of fat -- on those mystical weeks, when the earth, the moon and the stars, all align perfectly end on end.

I see a few stars up there, once in a while. So far though, I'm still waiting for that heraldic cosmic event.

Last week, Marvin and I agreed to finally take matters at hand, and quietly bring back some sanity into our weekday rehab sessions. He's the Marvin, one-half of Marvin & Tony, often my adjoining recumbent bike partner in these crazy math sessions. It's time to recruit an understanding partner in crime in this budding matter.

TO PASS THE HOUR, we've both decided to introduce a little bit of levity into these mid-Winter outings. Mssrs. Boredom and Big Yawn are always lurking nearby in the shadows complete with trench coats, covering a bag full of warm glazed doughnuts. Or a weekend buffet from hell. We're all trying to become health nuts, but the fact is, most of our group has had a lifetime's experience at abusing our bodies, mostly for all of the wrong reasons.

I don't think our local Mennonite neighbours thought much about our plight, when they pursed, "We get too soon old, and too late smart." But their oft mentioned phrase hasn't gone unnoticed on the pair of us. In my case, a pendulum has now inched forward in a doomsday clock-like fashion -- a little closer to a 65 benchmark, than my earlier Freedom 55 days -- to prove the point. There are some mornings, I feel as if I could be a maturity marketer's wet dream, just for the cure or prevention of many aching muscle groups hidden from view.

WE NOW make a point of appearing a little giddy -- well, I do anyway -- as the digital bike console flashes past the 100 calorie threshold, described otherwise in simple-stupid terms: We've now beaten off the equivalency of one (slim) slice of whole grain bread. Not the preferred doughy white bread, from earlier days. No peanut butter, either. And hold the raspberry jam. Just naked bread, toasted, if you insist. Or have Kyoto-like caloric credits banked for other undetermined weekend sins. At about the 15 minute mark, we've usually banked a hamburger bun, without much of the main-event inside. Even in the alternative, a healthy cabbage roll and a frothy wash-me-down, interjects partner Marvin.

NOT CONVINCED AS YET with our math? Well, how about a decent size glass of flinty New Zealand sauvignon blanc, to complement a grilled portion of Atlantic salmon on Friday night. Now, this carrot and stick mentality is starting to make a little more sense: One session. One banked glass of wine. Bank enough credits, and maybe, a prior dessert, fondly remembered.

"Maybe not," says the alert caregiver, trying to fathom what colour is the sky in the world I was planning to move to. "What possessed you to order that little warm bowl of stupid?"

'Nuff said. Clearly, patients drool and caregivers rule, in these hallowed matters.

With apologies then, to my old French teacher: Chacun a son gout.

HERE'S ONE LAST NUMBER for health lovers to wrestle with: One can be the loneliest number on a treadmill. Or looking at yourself in the wall mirror, pumping iron.

Oh, and listen up, as you ponder affairs of the heart, at this special time of the year. On February 12th, two is the number of days left for you to be a bright star about mid-week, to woo the affections of your main squeeze or caregiver.

But don't listen to me. Zero is the number of times, one ever needs to be flushed by a client-obsessed divorce lawyer. Or, so I was recently advised.

Spring

No Winter lasts forever; no Spring skips its turn.
Hal Borland

It's now mid-afternoon. The barometer has been dropping all day, faster than the snow is drifting up around the front door. By now, there's a full blown white-out, whipping by the office window in a horizontal-like fashion. I can just barely make out the outline of our neighbour's house. Why am I still here? Let me count the ways: masochism, healing, rehab, no travel health insurance, yet.

Those people who know me well, will attest there's two things I consistently don't do well: Mornings and Winters. This is the time of the year, for me to quietly project out somehow past a season of salt, sleet and snow. Let's close our eyes then, slowly exhale, and think of warmer times, early robin sightings, back-to-back birdies, boat launches, boat drinks. Any place and time, but the present.

Most outdoor painters will tell you that July is the best time of the year to lay down a loaded brush of green on your canvas or paper. The freshly mowed hay in the distant fields throughout rural Ontario is usually a different shade of yellowy-green, than the uncut clover in the foreground. Overhead, soft cumulus clouds lazily drift across a warm Summer sky. Their 'popcorn' shadows obediently traverse the landscape below to a distant forest of dark green maples on the horizon. All too soon, these same trees will favour the artist with a fiery selection of the palate -- one that complements the hues of hot hardwood reds and honey yellows during the early fall period.

I think we find our balance, when we accept Winter as an inner, reflective time. And engage with Spring, as a time that is outer and more active.

In my mind, Spring is the time for rebirth and resurrection, to kick-start this whole wonderful process. As the days grow longer, the trees once again grow greener for the artist's keen eye, and we too come out of hibernation. Our energies burst open, as surely as our awaiting Spring bulbs come into bloom.

The passage into Spring is also a reminder from Mother Nature, that it is possible to balance the forces of light over dark, goodness over evil.

And especially for this year, health over sickness.

My antidote to 2007, is to once again pick up my brushes before July. And to sail closer into the wind, especially with old friends.

Brrr. It won't be long.

Perplexing times, sort of

Exercise is often done against one's wishes and maintained only because the alternative is worse.
George A. Sheehan

Yesterday, I finally cornered our Rehab nutritionist.

The quick takeaway here, is that for the last seven weeks or so; I've been a good scout, food wise. We're talking, real good, people. I've even been on a grocery buying tour through our local super- market, to establish where and how the food marketing types often confuse and confound our buying habits. I'm fast finding out, these marketing wizards, who craft the nutritional numbers on the back of each store item, are a scurrilous lot!

IF I MAY BE FORGIVEN a small smug moment, I survived all of the traditional Christmas festivities; which many friends will attest, was no small feat. More importantly, I've become a convert to the Canada Food Guide, whereby Health Canada now favours a healthy portion of grains, fruit and veggies, over dairy and meat cuts, as broadly outlined in the Mediterranean Diet. This program differs from other mainstream diets, that promote a regimen high on proteins (meat and fish) over carbs (bread and potatoes) for quick weight loss. A slow and steady effort wins the race, sort of approach.

After seven weeks, I'm eating better, eating less, exercising a whole lot more...and haven't lost a flipping pound! What gives, I asked?

Is this just a simple case of 'garbage-in-garbage-out' gone awry?' Or something more sinister in play? Under similar circumstances, The Queen would not be amused. And today as they say, we're not lovin' it much, either.

The learned people quickly ripped off some BIA comparisons, or whatever, and are perplexed. So am I, as weight loss is the only meaningful yard stick, that I can relate to.

After a quick huddle, they're now recommending slower physical activity for longer periods -- at least, for the next month -- as I may have been burning off more sugar, rather than fat at my ongoing accelerated rehab sessions. There's some quiet mumbling about blood tests and possible thyroid issues, wherever that is. They're also encouraging me to increase my exercise activity, to five days a week, minimum. Crikey.

In fairness, I'm going to give their recommendations another month. If there's no marked improvement by mid-March, then I'm going to revert back to Plan B diet methods, along side a structured exercise program. I'll settle for accelerated weight loss, coupled with serious weight hold methods.

IN KEEPING WITH A HEIGHTENED weekday physical activity theme, it only seemed natural at these crossroads, to revisit our local Rec Centre. It's time to address an earlier New Year's resolution, and bust out of the Kiddie Lane.

You may recall from an earlier December entry, that all I could muster on that blustery Winter day, was about a four minute walkabout around the track. Quite pitiful, actually, even by my low standards. Taa-Daa. Today's average was about 2 1/2 minutes per lap, mostly in lane two. I wasn't about to talk to any of the new iPod moms pushing their little ones on three wheel strollers in the overdrive outer lanes. Nor many of the ageing speedsters in between -- more than one, I might add, who had winced, grimaced looks of pain across their faces.

Come to think about it, when was the last time you ever saw a jogger smile?

But I digress. Did I exchange quiet nods and mild pleasantries with several of the slower elderly types, each valiantly pushing their stroller in the Kiddie Lane? You bet.

Last month, I considered myself one of them.