new heart new start

Week 32, no less: Loose ends

2007-05-25T08:27:00.000-04:00

I'm now in my 32nd week, no less, since The-Day. On another level, oh, to be 32, again.

Perhaps, I should have said, nearly 8 months after The-Day. And only 7 months to Christmas: Surely, there must be an equinox somewhere in this equation.

Whatever the alignments, lots happened this week while in rehab.

First, I got my EXIT announcement, which is good news on several fronts. My Stress Test evaluation is now confirmed for June 12, a little earlier than expected. On the upside, no blood extraction, is sought. There have been a couple of missed opportunities and small advancements on this side while in rehab, which I will elaborate upon next month, after my ticket has been punched.

Taa-Daa! I'm now officially 'The Oldie' after Gabriel's graduation a week ago. It was inevitable. So far, I've only slacked off two days while in rehab. Unfortunately, one of those AWOL afternoons was last Wednesday to see Rod Stewart in concert, and I missed his last day in rehab. Dang. Good luck, Gabe. Pick your pace and your books. We'll chat over the summer period, my friend. James also had his stress test and good heart keeping badge punched the other day, as well.

Archie, Robert, Graham, Frank, Anthony, Marvin, Gabe, James. Too many to remember these days, for all of the right reasons. Whatever the final tally, one thing is for sure: We may all be survivors of one sort or another, but there's now no one left from the original 'Mon-Wed 3-4pm' core snow bank crowd.

It's not been the same in rehab, now that the original gang has left. Our new group are getting into their own groove and are friendly enough, but... it will soon be time to move on.

I also had the good fortune yesterday of being asked to a retire- ment luncheon with two dear ladies, and eavesdropped upon what ladies with credit lines discuss, in these time-hallowed events. One being Patty (not the retiree, yet) and a long time mutual friend. By coincidence, both happen to be current caregivers. Our good friend to a husband with cancer, now thankfully in remission.

Cancer is a bad word these days, there's no doubt about that. My initial thought when referring to cancer, is that this is predomin- antly a lady's event. And cardiac related matters are of a masculine domain. Not so, as I've already lost three male friends in this millennium to that dirty bugger of a disease. Four more buds are currently in various degrees of remission or recup- eration. That's an unlucky seven, folks. All guys!

It might also be timely to mention what many health professionals miss, and what most female patients are not fully aware, is that heart disease is the number one killer of women. In fact, six times more women die each year of heart disease than breast cancer. But then, who's gender counting? It doesn’t end there. You would think there has never been a more pressing time to raise aware- ness of heart disease among women, to change their lifestyle habits and make it easier for them to choose healthier options. Yet, you’d be wrong.

Unless you or a close loved one has recently become a winged statistic, then who’s listening, anyway? Not enough, apparently, often a dollar and a day late. Women who survive the initial heart attack fare worse than men, with a statistically higher mortality rate and a risk of experiencing a second attack within their first year of recovery.

There is never a better time than now, to start educating and motivating a generation or two who equate cruising the burger joints to exercise, to reduce their risk of heart failure.

But I digress. School's out. There are times, kid, when you have got to stop being a little too preachy.

It was nice to hear that my luncheon date's husband is in a stable place. Finally. She reports she has "absolutely no retirement plans beyond a golf game on June 1st." Warm thoughts to you both, on several levels. I see a well deserved 'hooky phase' over the summer months, and no doubt, good plans formulating before the leaves fall.

Arrgh! There's still no go-forward strategies as envisioned earlier to report on the travel side, as my medical folk are dragging their buts big time, with any paperwork. Hopefully, this will be resolved within the month. It's hard to imagine that the LEISURELAN site and Winter '07 hosted tours were developed some 13 months ago. We're about a year late on the entire project. If there's no medical / insurance clearance by early July, then it will all have to be scrapped.

I thought it about time to also brush the dust off my golf clubs. As most of you know, I always had contemplated 18 holes of golf as part of my rehab strategy. Well, I'll hold that thought until mid-Summer. The putting came back fast, the seven and nine iron chip shot, too. But first, we have to get the ball to the edge of the green, right? I simply can't comfortably follow through with my swing using the driver, as yet. It can wait.

On the upside, says he with time on his hands, I'm now in early stages of crafting a book outline about the last year lost and reclaimed. More details to follow. I'm knee deep, literally, in the research phase to drop 50 pages or so, into a book outline. At that time, I'll put it down for several days, and then revisit the project to determine the 'tripe level.' At that juncture, we'll circle the wagons for serious go-forwards to a possible Fall / Winter publication. Or quickly deep-six it entirely, for vanity purposes alone.

We'll see where it all goes. I'm about half way through an Introduction and Chapter One.

Volunteerism

2007-05-10T12:54:00.000-04:00

It is the little things in life that say so much
Anonymous

I BELIEVE there are many things in life we can quietly undertake without any fanfare or a prevalent societal quid-pro-quo WIIFM -- "What's In It For Me" experience -- that can deliver positive experiences in spades.

Volunteering for example, comes to mind.

"I'll be there" for you, implies on a certain level that your best friend would jump in front of your foe and take a bullet for you. Being there unselfishly for others is the next best thing -- frankly, a gift anyone can give. The potential rewards of being there for others, could be equated to being on the giving end of Christmas Day, every day. It could be likened to the greatest gift anyone can give.

VOLUNTEERING COULD BE CONSIDERED the very core of civility. Thus, the output of small efforts of time and energy can often return superior emotional and spiritual gains to all stakeholders, particularly while 'walking a mile in the shoes' of those persons less healthy or fortunate.

What a potential rush!

Earlier this month, I was asked by my hospital to review, and possibly place input into, the new volunteer cardiac patient program they are about to launch. This is exciting -- both for their dedicated volunteer group, and of course, for the never ending count of recovering cardiac patients.

Midway through the morning session, I unexpectedly blurted out a small confession to their volunteer team leader and assembled group, about an earlier unannounced trip I had taken to their H cardiac recovery floor...

I had purposely stopped in the hallway outside of my room 311. There was no playbook to refer to on that nippy February day, for what might be considered in some circles, as a Typical-Tony ballsy decision -- almost on a level of pausing before walking unannounced through that huge Stargate ring, into the unknown. Or checking on the possible medical or legal ramifications, beforehand. This brought about a brief period of hesitancy to enter a room full of strangers. On another level, there was no turning back, either. I calmly walked in, introduced myself first to an elderly gentleman, and then to his two concerned sons, both about my age. It was evident there was a lot of tenseness in play within these four walls. The gent in 'my bed' was about to have I believe a valve operation the following day. This timing seemed a little strange, as I thought you ended up on the third floor, after your operation, not before. But, hey, I was the unannounced visitor with no program on that mid-winter morn. Not them.

I explained how I had been in this very room, several months earlier recovering from triple by-pass cardiac surgery. Room 311 was the lucky room on the ward. And here I was in the pink, so to speak; to retell the tale, healing stitches and all as living proof. No more than a lot of 'been-there-done-that' unrehearsed banter from the heart, actually.

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED after a few minutes. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my presence was perfect, as the off-springs had seemed to have exhausted any further motivational chats they could muster with dad. Somehow, as a past and current patient, he and I connected. You could noticeably see his stress levels recede. His kids noticed it as well, and both personally thanked me afterwards at the entrance doorway when leaving.

I felt good after that quick hello, and have no doubt, the gentle- man survived with precious little effort on my part. From my perspective, it was sort of squaring off that life circle, giving back to the community, unannounced and unrehearsed. I wasn't even going to tell the story to anyone. And don't know why I did earlier this month. However, walking to the H parking lot afterwards on that mid-winter morn, I felt an inward warmth that was hard to explain after helping a total stranger.

It wasn't at a heightened level of perhaps Allister Simm joyously playing the irreplaceable part of Scrooge while dancing on his head early Christmas morning, but a good feeling, nonetheless.

I don't mean to suggest for you to stand on your pointed little head and spin like a top to be a starbright. But you should try quietly helping someone, sometime. The WIIFM payback is awful. The rewards are priceless.

I guess in some small way, this is what they call the essence of volunteering.

I received this unexpected e-mail later in the day from their Director of Volunteer Services, which I felt was very touching. With thanks, J.

Tony,
Thank you so much. As we proceed, I will be in touch for your insights...I will always remember one of your final comments at the meeting about the father and the two sons. You summed up the value of the volunteer involvement with one story and I thank you for that.... J

Good luck, you merry band of volunteers...

Three cherries

2007-04-29T23:50:00.001-04:00

SOMETIMES there are threads of uplift in your life. Take today, for instance.

Sunday was reserved for a much waited sunny toot to wine laced back roads around Twenty Bench, a spot of lunch in Jordan, and then the tourist stuff along both sides of main street Niagara-On-The-Lake. This day trek was a first return itinerary for us both, since last Thanksgiving Weekend -- at a time, when hours became very precious to me leading up to The-Day.

THERE WAS SOMETHING VERY SPECIAL to once more drive up the back roads of Niagara wine country. Really nice, actually. Today, there were times when I could have stuck my head out of the window and trailed my tongue back to my right ear, like many cooped up back seat muts you see at this time of year. "Just happy to be out in the sun, with no leash," as Patty often refers to each sighting.

Six months earlier in an uncertain time, our sunny long weekend was ablaze with a riot of Fall colours. This time, rebirth, with fresh green buds bursting on the vine, being tended by rows of workers in the same fields, now preparing a new season's harvest. And lots of fruit blossoms in early competitive stages of white and pink, all competing for our attention. Local bees must have quietly been busy, earlier in the week.

It was important today for therapeutic reasons to retrace earlier steps. We want to return in a few months, to see the fruits of all of the love and labour, we saw this time. And in the future, France is once more on the horizon. These are all building blocks to a year lost, and finally being reclaimed -- brick by brick.

There was something very meaningful today, by having lunch in the presence of beautiful company, at the same restaurant beside The Inn On The Twenty from ago. A quiet toast together to the obvious. And to a very special lady. No tears, just joy.

In Las Vegas slot terms, I had quietly pulled down three cherries, side by side. Winnah! I had to almost remind myself what my ears were really for: To quietly stop that symbolic silly grin going all over my face.

AND CAPPING OFF a memorable day with a wicked Spring rite of passage (everything in moderation, eh?): One DQ Skor Blizzard.

My first and last for the year. Honest.

Mid-Term rehab levity. Grin and bear it.

2007-04-20T08:41:00.000-04:00

exercise / ekcesaiz/ Sigh. An activity requiring physical effort, done to improve your health. Performed alone or in pleasant rehab company. Beneficial to all out-patients of heart disease.

Rehab on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons for six months, you say? Let's see... Ah, yes, I actually can squeeze that into my (blank) appointment page. Done. You're in the book!

38 crunching minutes into a serious session. Work it...Work it!

22 minutes later, a well deserved snow cone of ice water awaits.

You'll get more of this when you are healthy & fit. Or so we're told.

Maybe some of this, too.

FLASH. EXCLUSIVE! THIS JUST IN!! Forget the Abominable Snowman, UFO's, Yeti and all things not yet clearly understood. This is a rare actual internet photo (so it must be real) of Rehab Gnomes, who clash and bang your sub-conscious, on those wavering days when life is a little unbearable and you don't feel like driving to your afternoon exercise session. Brrr.

Pitter-patter, let's get at her

2007-04-10T08:31:00.000-04:00

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.

Topsy-turvy

2007-04-05T15:43:00.000-04:00

Reviewing Mozart is like reviewing God. Don't bother.

Tell me the last six months haven't been a little topsy-turvy?

As regular readers are aware, our earlier planned September trip to France had to be cancelled due to my scheduled October 10 cardiac operation. Thanks to Patty's fast sleight of hand and ingenuity, a long weekend to Niagara wine country over the Thanksgiving period became Plan B. A good choice it was, too. Anything, to take one's mind off a fast approaching operation day, seemed like the order of the day. Looking back on that period, it was a snakes-and-ladders sort of unforgettable quick getaway: a simply gorgeous suite at the Inn-On-The-Twenty, a small luxury boutique area property; a crisp, sunny Fall weekend, with nary a cloud in sight; all the while, under strict H orders not to touch a drop of wine. Arrgh, almost masochistic, in hindsight! In defiance, a rack of lamb became the kidded-about Last Supper, and then quickly trundled home to the shower for yet another in a series of extensive morning and evening scrub downs. The-Day, full of trepidation and unknown, was fast approaching. Waaay, too fast.

I can handle a green Christmas and a white Easter, which we're now slowly backing into. Tomorrow is Good Friday.

This year, perish any thoughts about wearing an Easter bonnet, ladies, unless you plan to discreetly wear ear muffs underneath. An unwelcomed fresh blanket of snow has returned, much to the delight of our regular feathered friends. (I can't say as much for the roses.) Pairs of ground feeding juncos, a bevy of coos, two couples of dueling cardinals, a lone nut-hatch and jay, a box of chicadees and the usual assortment of cheeky-monkey sparrows, knew something apparently we didn't know, about abrupt weather patterns. To the cat's delight, they never packed their bags. Not so, a new arrival of backyard robin interlopers, who flopped around today, literally, gorging the remaining dried fruit on our laneway crab apple trees.

Three afternoons of watching The Masters golf tournament in the comfort and warmth of my family room, is really starting to look attractive. We've all gotta do, what we've gotta do, to see sundown.

Well, almost anything until next Tuesday. April 10 will be my six month anniversary of The-Day. Prescription orders are running out. Life is good. Forget par, life is becoming a string of birdies.

The haunting beauty of Mozart's Requiem and how the tragic circumstances surrounding his unfinished composition, has been awash all over the den for the last half hour. People may remem- ber parts of this seasonal classic from the film Amadeus, as it contained the music Mozart was writing when he died.

You don't have to be a lover of classical music, an opera patron, or a believer in all things Easter, but I find listening to the Requiem mass this year is becoming a spiritual stepping stone of death and life, in that order. No matter what the critics might say, music this good, shouldn't be reserved solely for the dying.

There is a dark lushness and flow to the piece, which has made it a favourite sacred mass at Christian high holidays. It hits all of life's little high notes: birth, death, lightness, darkness, regret, repent, redemption. I think it rises not so much to rage against the dying of the light, but perhaps to face it bravely.

Now, I'm starting to notice how it takes a strong conductor with a long baton to marshal the aesthetic beauty and spiritual power of his orchestra, all in harmony with the richness of tone from a separate choir and then the four choral soloists -- sometimes together, sometimes apart -- not unlike feasting, and returning to a long, layered, aural buffet.

As inspiring as the music is, it's firming my resolve to take on any and all topsy-turvy curves in life, that may come my way. And handle each of these hurled challenges, as best as possible.

Roll on Thanksgiving, 2007, too. This anticipated long weekend, still some six months away, already has a special celebratory meaning to our family. We just haven't decided upon the location, as yet, where to firmly celebrate Year One.

The first six months have been the heavy slog. By comparison, the remaining six should be an easy stroll in the park. Here's hoping, anyway.

These are all good thoughts to work on, with nothing now but time on my side.

Can you spare a moment?

2007-04-03T14:28:00.000-04:00

A Moment If You Please...
Moments Can Be Short. Moments Can Be Long.
There Are Moments Of Joy. Moments Of Sorrow.
Moments Of Passion. Moments You'll Never Forget.
Moments You've Already Forgotten.
Moments You Didn't Get.
There Are Awkward Moments. Senior Moments.
Moments Of Truth. And Momentary Lapses In Judgment.
People Who Ask For A Moment. Share A Moment.
I Need A Moment. You Got A Moment?
Wait A Moment. You Can Take A Moment.
Make A Moment, Spoil A Moment.
And If All The Stars Line Up In The Right Moment,
Then That Moment Can Be Perfect Moment.
Can Define You Moments. Can Delight You.
And Moments Can Change Your Life.
Here's To The Moment. And Squeezing All You Can
Out Of Every Last Single One Of Them...
2007 (Voice Over) Lexus media commercial

Every so often, you come across a simply great print campaign, that dovetails nicely with a client's product or service. Savour The Moment, Lexus. There could also be parallels here to this new lifestyle I'm courting and circling, following cardiac surgery 6 months ago.

According to the Lexus agency copywriters, there's much yet for me to see and do! And apparently, a few more pearls to string. I believe them.

By my count, I've already com- pleted thirteen of their great Moments (above left), and have already attempted a few others with modest results. Maybe a tattoo could round that count off to fourteen. In your quest to 'follow your heart,' how many Moments have you healthy folk completed so far? What's your tally?

So far from here: There's not enough sangria in Spain you could ply me with, dress me up in white with a red sash, and then with a hearty double-dog-dare-ya, shove me out on the street to run with any bull. That said, I have raised a glass to a falling sunset off Key West, after swimming earlier with several tame dolphins. I haven't hugged a real koala, but I did blow kisses once to a couple of hungry looking polar bear cubs in Churchill. And I can't begin to relate the number of biz tightropes I've walked across, with few safety nets below. Long ago, I did quit my job to start travelling the world. Fortunately at the time, I was in the travel industry. With a quorum of security nearby, I did have breakfast once with Elvis; about 4am if I remember correctly, in the Las Vegas Hilton hotel cafeteria (this was late in his chemical/chubby stage.) He wouldn't qualify for my idol prize. But shortly thereafter, I did meet an unassuming Sir Edmund Hillary one evening, who was the first person to scale Mt. Everest. He insisted, that I just call him Ed. I've never forgotten that. Somehow, I can't imagine Sir Elton John or Sir Mick Jagger being the same class act, even though I love their music. Sorry, I haven't build a house as yet, but I have kept the economy brisk, by buying a half-dozen or so, usually at full pop. That was in between several 'footitis' sailboats, a period when I started to appreciate looking up at the heavens, from safe North Channel moorings. Haven't got any tattoos, as yet. Ditto, running a marathon. Nor written a best seller, either. I think we'll stop at this blog. What I heartedly recommend though, is that you take along a big blanket, should your interests turn towards any unplanned beach activity. Trust me, sand is not always your best friend in these unscheduled trysts. I still remember the Vietnam era well, lost a good buddy to it, and have finally come at peace with that violent decade. I've no yearning to stone the blarney kisser as yet, even though some friends say I possess contrarian leanings, so I guess I could qualify at tilting the odd windmill. On different occasions, I've also been in the saddle, so to speak, atop an elephant and a camel (different continents.) Both were a smelly, bumpy ride, as I recall. Luv mango's, especially at water's edge in Bali. And along the way, had the plum luck of falling 'haaarrd' in love -- as they say in curling terms -- on a level, that leaves you bruised and breathless, for all of the right reasons. These days I'm simplifying, just trying to follow my new heart. This quest for balance is becoming a whole new voyage of anticipation, a blank canvas looking for many rich colours to fill. I'm happy with my lot.

So, there's my 13 Lexus life Moments. I could also add a few other interesting entries, but the blog cops might go into a tsk-tsk mode.

Oh, and I met the Pope in Rome, sort of. My daughter can fill you in with the details, should you be a little curious. Our travelling companion for that special long weekend holiday with our daughters, was the pilot who flew us all to Italy on that special father and daughter outing. Unfortunately, he recently died, taken too soon from us all by cancer. We four shall never forget the good memories, Al.

I'm not sure what brought these pearls of wisdom to the fore, but it's also good to see more crisp sandcastles lately in my life with retreating tides, than the other way around I witnessed several months ago.

Why there's enough good thoughts in the air, to make a feller want to pull a hard right at a certain car dealership on the horizon.

Don't worry, kicking tires doesn't have to be a guy thing -- you know, that sacred ritual the nice people in the auto sector would like you to go and do on the first sunny Saturday in Spring. Remember what they say about convertibles, is true: top goes down, pulse goes up.

So, pile in, and don't forget your sun screen, shovel and bucket. Sandcastle season, awaits...

Changing of the guard

2007-03-28T17:31:00.000-04:00

Take nothing but memories. Leave nothing but footprints.

It has quietly been happening all month, with the finality of an auctioneer's hammer. You're done! Good luck! New shooter!

Lately, there has been a steady changing of the guard. One day, old buds are peddling along side of you. The next day, they're not. Staff are moving around, as well. It's all become a little unsettling.

Spring is everywhere in the air.

Just when you start to think this place couldn't get any more stable for your health, the sun sets. First, you chalk it up to a one-off flu day, even a longer mid-winter getaway, then the passage of time creeps into the equation.

James hasn't been around for about a month. The fourth recum- bent bike misses his good company. Archie had his last stress test before school break. He's been gone for a while, back now into new daytime work patterns. Shirley never returned after March Break, either. And as you know already, Frank left a couple of Wednes- days ago. Jill, one of our trusty instructors, announced this would be her last week working along side us. Fortunately for our rehab program, she is still active throughout the day, only now starting her chores an hour earlier. And then finishes her long shift, when we start. Unfortunately, or otherwise, she still has to listen to a repetitive loop of 60s and 70s tunes all day. Groan.

Soon, Jen and Marilyn will be our new official rehab guardians. From the get-go, it has always been Marilyn and Jill. As you can see, there's changes all around the bases this month. Marilyn came to our doorway via a prior RN background, and is still continuing her advanced learnings most week nights and evenings. (Warning: A wicked assortment of diet Belgium chocolate laced bonbons accompanied by a flute of framboise awaits our collective June graduations!) Earlier, Jen commuted a considerable distance, to be with us on our make-do Friday sessions, mostly having to punch her new Civic through last minute snow banks, for the privilege. Now she's full time. She's got more degrees on the wall, than new cars purchased, so far in her career trajectory. Quiet congrats are due here, with many successes wished for her in the rehab biz. This is one smart girl, dad. As one high achiever to another: Take a few moments, and listen to her message, soon.

And there's more on our side. Today, Graham finished his term. Robert and Marvin finish their stint within the month. How fast a half-year in rehab does progress, when you're too busy peddling to always say 'hi' and 'bye.'

You'd be right, if you think there is a pattern forming here. March has been a watershed month, to the 3pm to 4pm, Monday and Wednesday crowd. This collective news is having the same sobering effect as a long cold shower, guaranteed to dampen any good party. You know the sort of hose down, we don't always seek -- frigid waters that plummet down fast and true, from a delivery faucet the size of a mature sunflower in September. That kind of sobering news.

All that's left from the original old gang, when I started rehab waaay back in those snowy January days; are Robert, Gabriel, Marvin, Anthony. And yours truly. These may be just names of interest to the casual reader, but they quickly became my new extended family. I'll really miss them all dearly, especially when my departure time arrives late in June.

How well I still remember that period early in January, when I was The Newbie. Not any more. With every successful graduation, one is quietly pushed one rung further up the rehab ladder. Egads, I'm less than a handful from being at the top rung. The current new crop of newbies will only realise this point, as late spring and early summer blurs an anticipated golf season. By that time, I'll be packing my bags and picking up another bag, for sought pars and birdies.

There's a welcoming upside to report in this one-way rehab street. All alumni have the blessed opportunity of returning on their own dime and time, after a mandatory six month gig. Frankly, for a twice weekly sweat-down, at a paltry $40 a month tariff, can any grad afford to stay home? Where else will they find for this tony exclusivity, the privilege of being seriously watched over by an on site dedicated team, with stethoscopes and cardiac equipment at the ready? Nowhere. I know some of our original group will be swinging back through the front door when cottage season subsides. Other grads from several years ago, that need to be reintroduced once more to some form of exercise discipline, are buying back into the program, too. I will return, until I won't.

Wouldn't it be nice -- cheez, this sounds like an unintended CHIP television commercial plug -- wouldn't it be nice, if as many of the earnest returnees as possible, were bunched back together into the same class. All this would take, is a bit of internal scheduling. Since diet and exercise are now touted to be a lifetime commit- ment, then it sure would be gratifying to see some of the old familiar faces once more this Fall, with renewed energy and a good reason for continuance.

Just a thought out loud, while I'm at this pensive moment.

Be well, all, in the meantime...

New times, open roads, clear skies

2007-03-26T11:31:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-20T21:41:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-15T09:05:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-12T23:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-11T16:00:00.000-04:00

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...

Seventh inning stretch

2007-02-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-14T09:14:00.001-05:00

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

2007-02-13T17:00:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-02-12T09:33:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-09T12:10:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-08T11:07:00.000-05:00

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.

Why write a blog?

2007-01-24T17:13:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-19T17:13:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-10T10:01:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-01-01T17:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Earlier this month, I did a four minute lap

2006-12-30T11:58:00.000-05:00

We're very fortunate to have a well utilized indoor Recreational Centre, that appeals to many sectors within our community.

The enclosed building provides all residents with a several thousand seat ice arena and a comprehensive aquatic program. These world-class facilities offer an abundance of interest for local fit-folk, but they're not in my immediate focus today.

My interest now, is the four or five wide lane jogging track, stra- tegically glassed behind the last row of seats around the top of our ice arena. I've used these track facilities before during our colder months, while in my earlier angina years. I can do this again.

We recently had several back-to-back snotty December days, which seemed an ideal time to come in from the cold, and revisit the site. I had forgotten about a mostly physically active mature bunch with swinging elbows, that frequent the place every weekday morning. This is not a distracted iPod crowd. Their frailties are more basic. Rather, they sometimes absently chat along side each other, in stead of jogging in single file, and are therefore prone to step on the odd wayward (bum) foot. My Ouch.

In short order, I found out it was more prudent (and safer) for me to stay well inside the slow lane. There were occasions, when I was actually closer to the adjoining hockey seats, than Lane Two. It's not that I wanted any strangers to accidentally bump into my chest area, but this is still after all, Mall-Month. You fast realize your limitations in crowded quarters. Worst, most speed-demons 'of a certain age' were passing me on the starboard side. Zipping by at a brisk walking speed, no less. So be damned, if I was going to celebrate the first occasion here in a long time, by letting my fellow walkers know it would be safer for me today, if I shuffled along and hugged my red heart pillow, too. I left that little beauty parked outside in the car. Anyway, I'm sure all morning there was an invisible neon sign on my back that flashed, "Keep Right!"

I've already confidently survived several last-minute Christmas mall shopping forays. But today's crowd is starting to jog up my snoot. It's time to size this well-intentioned morning activity up, as a one-off non-event. After beating the boards for half an hour, the best I could do that day in low gear, was just shy of a four minute walkabout -- in what amounts to be an area of nothing more, than an over sized ice hockey surface. There's simply no way to go people, but up!
So, enough of this nonsense. Later in the day, Christmas came early from me to me. I finally found a reason to purchase a heart monitor around my chest area and wrist watch at our Cardiac Rehab Centre. Good news beckons on the horizon.

Several days later after my stress test results, I found out my heart rate during physical activity, should be pumping along in the 108 to 120 range. Now, I've got the tools to monitor a proper speed and duration. This is such a great help to push myself further and faster in a controlled environment. Until quite recently, it was clear I might have been infrequently exercising my legs, but definitely not my heart.

My hour long rehab date is now confirmed for each Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons. I'm actually in a good sweat after these early sessions, with time spent in the off-days on the tread mill at home. Whew. Physical activity of this intensity, hasn't happened since my hard fought pre-angina tennis match days, from another millennium.

It's now personal. First, we concentrate on my legs and heart, while the chest area heals further. Then towards the end of next month, I'll be encouraged by staff to start strengthening the chest and arm areas. The end-picture here is a coordinated BMI weight assault, literally on a pound by pound weight loss basis. I like to visualize this picture in simple-stupid terms: Try to imagine every pound of fat you shed, as to something in size and weight, to that of a pound of butter on the store shelf. My revised early new goal, is to modestly jettison at least 10 of these pound packets before Easter. One at a time.

It's now several weeks, since trundling around our local jogging arena. Clearly, my 'A-Game' needs further improvement. In the process, I am at least starting to munch more greens and spinach.

My last sailboat was called "Popeye." I know a little bit about this lad. As he is often wont to say, "I yams, what I yams." I'm not sure what the past tense of this missive might be. I used to think there should be more 'yams' in all of us -- especially, as year-end fast approaches, the time for resolutions. I'm not so sure, anymore.

The problem is, quiet resolutions often require resolution -- and if you're like most of us, there is a gulf between good intentions and realistic behavior. I'm already trying to adjust. For example, I know such alien words as 'diet' and 'exercise' are soon going to be new found words in my daily vocabulary.

As you can imagine, I'm trying to quietly simplify my life.

Well then, here's a quick resolution to be actioned upon, sometime before the end of next month: Maybe, next time at our community Rec Centre, I can bust open a can of spinach, and leave the Kiddy Lane behind me!

Baby steps, indeed.

Christmas is special this year

2006-12-20T17:42:00.000-05:00

I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. ~ Charles Dickens

Traipsing for The-Tree

2006-12-12T09:06:00.000-05:00

Using my faithful red pillow as a knee rest, I knelt down with equal doses of haste and caution, and sawed it down.
The intepid warrier, December, 2006

Winter officially approaches, as does the festive season. Christmas is only a couple of weeks away, and will soon then be time to trek over nearby Benjamin's Tree Farm, to once again chop down our Christmas tree.

Traipsing over snowy back acres of a 100 acre Christmas tree farm is an annual family rite, that still takes on a special meaning to us.

Earlier, while at our Thanksgiving Weekend down in wine country, we both mused out loud, about some of our unfulfilled 2006 chores. The-Day was then less than 48 hours away, and approaching waaay too fast. We had a short-list of unfulfilled chores and a growing basket full of uncertainties.

It's funny how such small, seemly insignificant tasks, can be a far-out yardstick to clutch and hold on to in down moments. I quietly did, anyway.

This 20 year old annual family Christmas tradition, was appar- ently near the top of our list of seasonal activities. This year, we thought we might have to bring along some strapping lad to 'cut-drag-and-bag' a chosen ten-footer, back to the car.

Ha! Not this year.

Last Sunday, with no-fuss, no-muss, we made a quick afternoon foray to Benjamin's, with the intention of looking at one of their pre-cut Christmas trees. There was no shortage of good selection, but at eighty bucks each less a nickel, we started a slow strategic retreat back to the familiar cutsaw and toboggan area. Something clicked. Somehow, we had to go traipsing once more. With focus and limited energies due to a brisk wind, we selected a small beauty. Using my faithful red pillow as a knee rest, I knelt down with equal doses of haste and caution, and sawed it down. Patty then bagged and tagged it to the car trunk. The deed was done, erected back in our living room, and in full lit glory by sundown. Arrrgh!

HR chimps in the zoo

2006-11-30T15:30:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Ummmmmmm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, one and all...

2006-11-24T12:53:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be well, all, 'till then.

Week Seven: Rehab Phase commences

2006-11-22T16:23:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a long time since my angiogram day

2006-11-12T10:49:00.000-05:00

First, an up-front confession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Week Five: Good company and a toot

2006-11-11T20:11:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look up. There's a harvest moon tonight

2006-11-05T14:25:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Appraisal and Evaluation

2006-11-04T11:48:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-11-03T22:39:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My 'Bobby-Box' overfloweth

2006-10-29T12:46:00.000-05:00

Near as I can tell, there are six or seven different pills currently in use throughout the day and night. Depending on the hour, I'm either being revved up, put in neutral, fast reverse, or quietly asleep.

There's the latest anti-inflammatory pill and ointment to make my leg incision a prettier sight. Let's see: A pill to prevent stomach upset, pain pills (love 'em), sleeping pills (need 'em), a daily nitro patch. There's more -- a yellow one, a small red one, a long white one -- by now, you should get the picture.

Currently, all prescriptions are packed tightly together, in a lone 'Bobby-Box.' Cometh the time then, cometh the solution, as this story line might require some background.

Back in our early courting days, Patty was introduced to my long time friend and later Best Man, 'Uncle-Bob.' I forget the exact date, but this nickname has stuck by him over the decades in many friendly quarters. During his work-cycle, Bob made and shipped those plastic half-pint strawberry boxes across the country, we all see in the grocery stands each berry season. Hence the name 'Bobby-Box,' in our household vocabulary.

They're quickly disposable, thanks to the marvels of plastic injection-molding. But we think they are great storage containers to organize your small hardware or kitchen stuff. You can use them singularly, clip them together. Or in this new use, easily corral all prescription pills together in an orderly fashion.

Bob, tell me there isn't a larger pint size version on the market somewhere, as I'm now considering buying shares in the local pharmacy chain.

Shaving day

2006-10-28T17:07:00.000-04:00

The status quo has no more status at our house.

I'm not sure when the tipping point occurred -- likely, earlier this week viewing the advance movie promos for Santa 3 -- but shaving day happened right after a long hot shower this morning.

Earlier, I heard there are four great periods in the life of a man; the one where he believes in Santa Claus, the one where he no longer believes in Santa Claus, the one where he is Santa Claus, and finally the one where he looks more and more like Santa Claus.

I'm now at that special Fourth Period. Changes are needed.

The good news is, I have always used my right hand when using scissors, my left hand for shaving. The object therefore, was to hack as much white mane off as possible without snipping any flesh from the subject area. This was also as good a time as ever, to exercise the use of my left hand again with a razor, all the while not tiring myself out standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

Normally, guys run their blade over a steady face, applying various strokes and pressures along the way. In this case, the exercise was in reverse, but a shave, nonetheless. Today, I had to steady my two hands around the razor's handle and repeatedly move my face back and forth past the stationary blade. Don't try it, unless forced to.

What a plethora of facial choices! I can trim a full beard and be in some form of dapper disguise, have sideburns, an artsy goatee, a full moustache, a silly Hitler, or just lop it all off.

In the end, I tried them all, knowing what the end-exercise was to be. My old self.

Sideways

2006-10-27T09:34:00.000-04:00

We were warned earlier about a Sideways Week, which is not unlike a long dance -- one ahead, two back, three sideways. It's only Friday, but Week Three has all the hallmarks of being a leading candidate for my first Sideways Week.

For those who have not experienced a Sideways Week, it's not so much as being blind-sided by an intentional sucker punch; as it is perhaps treading for all its worth in the deep end of the kiddie red plastic ball area, you see at many IKEA entranceways.

By week's end, you really haven't got much to show for your rallying efforts.

A continued fluid build-up in my left foot from last Saturday evening has become a reoccuring concern. Progresses we can both handle, but these life-challenges are definitely uncharted territory. After several hours rest in the Emergency Room, the swelling sort of went away. The prognosis seemed to be either too much exercise, or too little movement. We all concluded at the time, that it might have been the result of too much walking and climbing stairs, too soon. At best, we chalked the evening scare up to a one-off event.

I've been extremely tired all week since the remaining staples were extracted from my chest and leg on Monday. My body seems to be telling me to rest and sleep, which has been the case for most of the week day hours. I'm reminded from a new friend on the coast, 'slow and steady wins the race. There'll be plenty of time to hunt tigers and win marathons.' Too true, I think. Let's keep those new running shoes in their box, for a while longer.

Whatever, this listless state has resulted in both overall less exercise and a daily return of an uncomfortable fluid-filled build up again in my foot. As they say, this is not what the Doctor ordered.

Today, there's a bulge swelling halfway down my leg incision. These are new and unexpected healing and expansion forces in play, and one major staple job you wouldn't want to go pop-in-the-night!

I saw a new Doc this morning. As expected, I'm now the proud recipient of further scraps of prescriptions to curb any leg infection and further swelling. As well, another quick trip to the hospital rounded out the day -- this time an ultrasound on my leg for potential blood clotting.

Thankfully, all is well.

For Gary: Even I think it might not be prudent to hold the meds for the nourishing comfort of a glass of red wine. So, that nice Bordeaux planned to be uncorked this Sunday, is now on hold for another 10 days, until the latest round of pills have taken their course. Be patient, my friend. All other earlier promised activities in this area are now slotted back further into November, too. It's worth the wait.

Advancements and adjustments

2006-10-24T22:20:00.000-04:00

This is the start of Week Three, 14 days since The-Day. Overall, there have been considerable advancements and adjustments.

Little do we realize, but we've been performing daily tasks all of our life by rote, often with both eyes closed. Without any thought, we place either our left foot or our right foot first into our pant legs or socks every morning, pull up, and then repeat the process with our other leg. We shave, brush our hair, eat pizza or clean our teeth with the same hand always, and so on.

When asked by hospital staff on operation day, what hand do you write with -- in my case, the right hand -- then all vein harvesting was done from my other arm and leg. I'm ambidextrous, but mostly use my left hand.

Oops.

This has resulted in learning to brush my teeth and other daily health and life tasks with my opposite (mostly unused right) hand. Try it sometime. It's like starting life all over again, akin to possibly some of the daily challenges a stroke victim might undergo in an early rehab stage. This morning with minor adjustments and grunting, I slowly went back to using my left hand to brush my teeth. Small advancements are at play here.

It's also been two weeks since any attempt at shaving. I've long since left behind the Wolf Blitzer CNN 3 day stubble. At this pace, I'll soon be a welcome candidate as some Mall Santa starting a short term assignment late next month. My neck IV incision has healed nicely, so I'm running out of excuses in this department. Sometime later this week, I'll revisit my face with a pair of shearing scissors and a sharp blade, but not yet.

It wasn't a chore learning to climb steps at the hospital, as they have 10 on each floor for you to try out and master before discharge. I've now got into a unique swaying gait of climbing and descending our two short flights of stairs at home. I come down the stairs sideways, clasping my trusty red pillow across my chest area, the other hand lightly sliding up or down the stair rail for balance. It's not a pretty site to watch, but effective nonetheless.

From things you-likely-don't-need-to-know dept: With a catheter removed, patients are quickly encouraged to use the hospital washroom facilities. It's about 12 baby steps -- sometimes with assistance -- from my bed to the washroom. As the day goes, somedays, this is a journey. Each toilet is equipped with what looks like an inverted kid's cowboy hat, with the brim straddled across the seating area -- an apparatus that apparently allows staff to check the quality/quantity of your urine. Whatever. In the early days, this chore can take some delicate navigating, with either a unsteady frontal approach (not recommended, twice), or a more challenging turn around, and slow squat down in the general area. The latter approach has all of the delicate movements similar to perhaps watching a NASA craft mate with the Soviet space station -- less of course, using any fancy electronics for guidance and dockage purposes. That exercise seemed so Herculean the first few times, less than a fortnight ago. Fortunately, we don't require a standby cleaning staff these days.

If there's a minor upside here to report, my weight is already at minus-two. Translated, that's 2 pounds less than when I entered the hospital. My goal is to plateau out somewhere around minus-fifteen - or about where I used to weigh some 2 decades ago. Can't promise anything more than that, so we'll see.

There is some mobility. I must now be looking and sounding less like a recent stroke victim -- the sort who had long since ceased to have anything relevant to say about life -- than a cardiac out-patient. A small example: This week, the morning shower is becoming a much easier event. A major problem still is the confidence and ability to fully dry myself off and dress afterwards. This still takes two persons and some planning. Hopefully, a few days out from now, this small challenge can be conquered, now that the staples are gone.

One-half of the staples were removed, before hospital discharge. Yesterday, the remaining half were extracted from my chest area and left leg from knee to ankle -- likely a 100 in total. For the curious, they're a classic U design, more industrial size thickness than their office counterpart, about a half-inch in length in each direction. They're nasty little buggers, but quite effective when enough are used.

The lone tender spot is at the bottom section of my leg incision, when the Saturday night admitting nurse accidentally dropped a bottle of pills on my incision. This forced a couple of staples further into my lower leg and ankle area, where there is mostly bone. This was no time to quickly experience the sharp end of Newton's gravitational equation. Big owies, plus a few unprintable adjectives. Quite a muffled few, actually, between streaming tears. My arm and leg is a little tender this morning, but dressing was definitely smoother and faster.

As you can see, most of me is well under way in the healing department. I try not to look at my chest area, unless necessary. The left arm is still ugly to look at and swollen at times. When leaving the hospital it was the size of Popeye's forearm and a deep mauve in colour. This week, it has turned yellow-ochre, as has my right wrist from IV insertions. You shouldda seen how bad the other guy in the fight looked!!

Patty will be home for the balance of this week, then she has to go back to work. We've got about 5 days to get all shower and dressing issues resolved. Tomorrow, I start to do the entire event by myself.

Consciousness can often be called, that annoying time between naps. Indeed, as last week was very tiring. Last week, I definitely required to set aside an hour on the sofa before lunch and about 1-2 hours most afternoons. This has now been shortened to about a long afternoon nap, lasting no more than 2 hours.

There have been moments this week that were simply over- whelming. I'm not seeing any visitors as yet, although family and friends relate over the phone, to keep the dialogue chatty and nervously upbeat, that I sound fine. It's often a period to put on brave fronts, but I still don't feel fine inside. The chest and leg area pain are often intense, just before pain pill time. I'm trying to make a conscious effort to cut down on the narcotic dependency of these little lovelies, but quickly realise, this is a silly concept. A high-low pain pill cycle is followed by a good, light buzz. And more sleep. Keep 'em coming, for now. It was easier to just take a slow deep phone breath, pause; and reply that life has simply changed for a while, not ended.

We always love a spontaneous event, if it involves a quick car getaway. No such luck here so far in the car back seat, trundled up behind my heart pillow and safety harness. I can fly again and get access to the car later in November, barring no unforeseen set- backs. We also haven't had a backgammon game with lunch or dinner since coming home, either. This needs addressing, even if I have to throw a few games to start the process! (She will likely hold back a few pain pills for that last comment. Just kidding.)

So, I have some health back and more mobility. Given the span of only one week at home, there have been momentous small life-advancements here to report, with only a few adjustments along the way.

I knew how I felt and looked two weeks ago. Not a pretty sight. At the time, it was a given that I'd scare all the little villagers down in the valley. Much progress since then, in small increments, even though the villagers should still stay away until after Halloween.

Quiet Wahoo's And Hugs therefore all around to the support players and prayers.

Saturday night at the Emerg

2006-10-24T14:49:00.000-04:00

Recovery can often be charted more as zig-zag, rather than in a straight line. Such was the case, late on Saturday evening.

The Leafs had just lost their hockey game in a shootout. It's time. I'm soon ready for a bucket of pills prior to bedtime.

But something's not right with my left foot. It's swelling up like an overcooked sausage. I've no movement nor feeling in my foot at all. Visually, there's no ankle left -- one big toe, and four little toes, now all as one.

Fortunately (I think), an Ontario Government health agency has a 24/7 phone-in emergency service, for such occasions. The friendly counsellor suggests to Patty, that this new event might be a scenario of potential blood clotting. Get to the Emergency Ward of your hospital. Now. These are not comforting words to hear around 11pm on a Saturday night.

You quickly find the Emergency Room on any night, takes on all the appearance of a controlled war-zone. With simple cloth partitions between admitted patients, there are no life-secrets once inside. Trust me. Doctors and key staff speak clearly and loudly here. All parties know their functions, and as a result, quickly dispense burst-decisions with the speed and efficiency of an F1 or NASCAR pit stop. Overall, it's an invasive place with intense purpose, holding little of the noise and drama you can view nightly on mainstream TV. That said, alien monitors, noises and buzzers constantly invade your space inside this 20 some odd bed facility. It can be an extremely lonely place without the company of a loved one at your side. Somehow tonight, I could relate more to the sobbing elderly gentleman behind my curtain, than to the wailing drug induced teenager, all the way down the end of the corridor.

Three hours later, the swelling seems to have subsided a little. It was a simple case of fluid settling in my foot. Nothing more, thank goodness.

Just heartedly acknowledge the professionalism and dedicated staff inside these cloth partitioned walls. I recommend you whistle a little tune on the way out. And then move your life along. Anywhere but there.

We're home at 3am. No sleeping pill was necessary tonight.

What they probably didn't tell you earlier

2006-10-20T23:06:00.000-04:00

There aren't many times in your life when you are given a second chance to wipe the slate clean.

Hip-hop, for tomorrow belongs to no one.

The good news is, you're encouraged to walk the corridors, as soon as humanly possible, after arriving on the recovery ward. I know this is done for sound medical reasons, such as building back your muscle base. But there's really no good way else to also say, "g'wan scram, get outta here!"

The Dutch have a phrase that loosely translates, "A guest, like a fish, stinks on the third day." They're more accommodating in Myanmar, of all places: "Seven days is the length of a guest's life."

While its never really expressed in specific terms, you're expected to be in a recovery phase, that ideally lasts no longer than a week. Put otherwise, there can't be an orderly flow of cardiac by-pass operations scheduled at the front end, if there's no recovery beds and sufficient nursing staff available at the back end. After all, the hospital doesn't get their much deserved gold star on your behalf, until you're officially discharged. Don't believe my mild cynicism, just look at this post operative period, as what the manufacturing sector might: a unionized 'just-in-time' repair and overhaul plant. Nothing more, nothing less.

I never connected these dots at any of our hospital pre-surgery meetings, even though I was always the youngest non-smoking candidate in the room. If one was a gambling person, then one might conclude one's chances were both good to survive the by-pass operation as well as the recovery phase, on-time-on-budget.

It didn't take an aging baby boomer's groggy mind long to soon realize, that most patients - this week anyway - could demographically be those of my aging parents. A goodly number of patients shuffling along the corridor, looked closer to 85 than 65 years old, and according to the main board at the nurse's hub, were already fast approaching a double-digit post-recovery stay. Some were there already. One person had already reached Day 25!

So here's a few layman assumptions from what I observed in my 5 recovery days on the ward, and from a week's recovery now at home:

1. Recovery first, finances second. That said, it's time to review your financials. Every case is different, but there could be a consultative period of up to 90 days, leading up to your operation date. Whatever your timeline, you should take this period to quietly be proactive with your life-affairs. If you're aged and alone (or as an aged couple) and your support/kids are not available upon discharge, then prior source a range of for-profit home support services and contract staff to assist you in the first couple of weeks after discharge, should this be the case. If you find these necessary services to be too expensive, then specifically ask the hospital staff -- either in your pre-op sessions, or in your recovery phase -- for a list of social support services, that may be available in your area. Either way, be clear of your medical and emotional options prior to discharge.

Your survival and mobility in the first couple of weeks is paramount, no matter the costs! My sense is, the odds of your survival lessen greatly, without this layer of support home assistance close by.

2. Rent a shower stool from the Red Cross. It's heavenly. You'll find each planned shower, an excellent time to put your daily exercises to work. More importantly, with all of this enclosed warm mist, it's just a great time to place your thumb over each nostril, and give a good blow! Our little secret. This is no time for a slippery bar of soap to become a lethal weapon, stopping its unplanned trajectory at any recent ankle or leg stitches. For now, try some liquid hand soap.

3. Don't underestimate the importance of listening to your on-site physiotherapist, as I did. Your daily exercises at home might seem exhaustive at first, but so necessary, as your recovery phase continues. With continued practice, you'll also soon be able to inhale those three ball thingies up their plastic chutes, more times than not. Your lungs will thank you for it, later on.

Other hospital professionals that are on hand prior to discharge, might be the timely services of an occupational therapist, dietician, pharmacist, social and pastoral worker. If you have any nagging thoughts or feelings about your future, this is the time to ask questions.

It's never too late to work out, particularly, if you are used to a sedentary lifestyle, the land where I come from. I'm told, I will notice increases in body strength, flexibility, agility and balance after participating in a customized walking and resistance training exercise program. Bring it on! First things first, though. One has to gain one's strengths back, while early in a recovery stage.

4. A planned exit-strategy is important. There may be a mountain of evidence here to possibly suggest otherwise, but a family caregiver's fitness is directly linked to an orderly patient recovery. This was never stressed to us at any of the preliminary hospital meetings. If possible and if health permits, the caregiver should learn and practice how to get the patient out of bed and up and down from a chair, days or weeks before your operation. Not after surgery. Patient leg muscles should be as strong as possible to allow you to rock forward and lift up from a sitting stance, very early-on in your recovery phase. What I noticed in my lone physiotherapy group session, was a group of aging lady caregivers in full-fright, who likely couldn't carry a regular bag of kitty litter too far, never mind lift up their 175 lb spouse from a bed. Or from the floor.

The post-op services provided by each cardiac hospital may vary. Ask your nurse or social worker on staff, as to whether you can tap into any classes that may prepare for an easy return home. There should be regular sessions offered, in the areas of dietary or nutrition, stress management and a pharmacy overview of medications.

5. Assertive launches and controlled crashes. Again, if health and time permits, then start honing those leg muscles above your knees. You're soon going to find this most useful, when lifting up from a chair or sitting down on a toilet, while in your early recuperative phase. Try these little exercises, soonest. It may work, in your case:

(a) Put a chair beside a guard rail, if you think this is necessary for support. Stand in front of the chair. Back into the chair, until it touches the back of your legs, then slowly descend to the chair with your arms crossed in front of you. Before contact with the chair, you should feel the use of your leg muscles at work, that I'm referring to. Then rock forward and up a little, clutching a small pillow over your chest area, as you try and rise to your earlier position.

(b) Lie flat on the floor on your back, more or less at attention like a soldier, with your arms beside you. Then try and roll over on your nose, while still at attention. I know it sounds silly, but try it, anyway. With this simple exercise well practiced, you should find it easier to later perform the basics of rolling out of your bed.

(c) Use a bed that will allow you to sit on the edge, and at the same time, comfortably have your feet touching the floor. With your two feet grounded, and a pair of good legs, it should be easier for you to rise up with your red pillow in tow. Rock on. After that, the world's your oyster!

The sooner each patient learns how to rise up and sit down from a chair, toilet and their bed, then the sooner they can reclaim their domain!

6. A walk through your house with your kids/caregiver to prevent any future accidents. Are the lights bright enough? Are throw rugs a hazard? Are there fresh batteries in your smoke detectors? Is there a fresh fire extinguisher on each floor and in the garage for quick access? Is it possible for you to rent an electronic medic-alert, a Medicalert bracelet, or purchase Gift Certificates / credits from a local taxi company? I wished I would have thought, to buy a shoe horn with an extra long handle.

7. Network. Surround yourself with strong people. You'll soon need to tap into their energies. Use this period before your operation date to reach out to friends, family, medical staff, support groups. Everyone. You'll soon be on intimate terms with your pharmacist, who can direct you through a flurry of new prescriptions (and describe their side effects.) This is no time for patient / family misinformation. Can your new medical or phar- maceutical people advise and direct you to any recommended websites, strictly for educational purposes? Do you have a current support system in place?

Specifically, do your children know how to contact your doctor, lawyer, banker, church or temple, and neighbours? Certain friends might be willing to help out a bit by taking you shopping, shoveling the sidewalk or mowing the lawn. If not, homework time with your kids (or new caregiver) is about to begin.

8. Keep a weekly journal. The first thing caregivers should write down at the top of each page is, "You can't care for your spouse or loved one, unless you look after yourself first." Later on, patients or caregivers might wish to write your symptoms down longhand, or go to www.blogger.com as you're now viewing, which is a free electronic service to any patients with minimal internet savvy. If not, you'll soon find out how quickly this lead-up to The-Day, and your early recuperative weeks will soon become a forgetful haze, for posterity or medical reasons.

9. You've likely already found out that doctors these days are busy professionals, with few bedside manners. Time is money with this new crowd. You'll soon get passed around beyond your family doctor, on to your cardiologist, your surgeon, post-op community services; and finally, the rehab team. Try and have a short-list of pertinent questions ready in advance of these medical follow-up appointments. And take notes. They may get called away on an emergency, half-way through your long awaited meeting. There are no dumb questions to ask, just dumb answers!

10. Surviving. You may not realise it yet, but the hard part is already behind you. And you even slept through the entire main event! Survivors belong to a unique club, with select admission. They're usually driven by a singular vision. They're resolutely defined of purpose. Not unlike most entrepreneurs, they usually start with nothing more than an idea and a belief they can turn a germ of an idea into reality. Surviving should now be your new entrepreneurial life venture (no experience necessary, appar- ently.) You've been given a second chance, to not make the same mistake twice. Think about that for a moment. Take that new baton stick recently handed to you and run with it for as long as humanly possible. Plan B is not even an option for consideration or debate.

Disclaimer: The information contained in this blog site is provided for reference and/or education purposes only. This electronic web information is not intended to be a substitute for a physician’s advice, diagnosis or treatment. The writer assume no responsibility or liability for any inaccuracy or omission of information or from the use of any information or advice in this blog site.

The next best thing, to the next best thing, to great sex...

2006-10-19T10:39:00.000-04:00

Giggle as you may, the next best thing, to the next best thing, to great sex (happens around Day Three or Four) is a long warm shower!

They don't mention this blissful state anywhere in the many support publications you're appraised of prior to your operation.

In fact, the last chore you ever want to do again, is shower. For three or four days leading up to The-Day, you have to spend at least a continual one-half hour of intense scrubbing each morning and evening with a surgical brush and antiseptic soap. And then again. And just when you're crossing over from pink to early raw, once more for the last time, until bedtime.

But that was my last week's clean phase. Now, after nearly three days in bed, my hair is matted from bouts of intense sweat and dryness. I'm thankful of course, for the regular towelette facial wipings over a formed chin stubble. There has to be more though, as the rest of me is feeling quite icky. It's time, to start turning thoughts into actions.

It doesn't matter as to whether you're a tub or shower person, the 'aaahs' take on a new special meaning at that first hallowed cleansing.

Angels, all

2006-10-18T19:33:00.000-04:00

I was past the tears and good-byes and long hug stage from the Admissions area, although my eyes were still very moist. All surgical consent and release forms were duly signed, which seemed an ideal time from my surgeon's perspective to have these binding documents thrust upon an awaiting patient for quick signature. This didn't seem to be the right time nor occasion to parse a legal contract, clause by clause. Just scribble in the lower right corner. And get on with shaving my legs and chest area.

My earlier angiogram day was simply horrific, full of trepidation and the unknown. Today's visit is potentially much more problem- atic, yet I was very much at ease, almost uncharacteristically fatalistic: I'm either going to wake up and survive this day. Or not. It's clear, that if I don't have the operation, my odds for a sustained survival and a quality of life past remembered, will be somewhere between slim and nil. And Slim never showed up for today's party.

By now, Patty was being directed to the family waiting area, where she would be for the next five or six hours.

It's a short gurney hop down a long corridor and a few swinging doors, from the Admissions area to the cardiac OR section. I don't know why, but along the way, I placed a hand over my heart, in a symbolic attempt to feel it pumping one last time. Couldn't feel a damned thing. A mild drugged and shaved state 'being delivered' will often make you do the silliest of things. Today, was no exception.

This wasn't so much a case of following one's heart, as possibly being hauled along with it, literally, to the garage for an imminent major overhaul. About halfway there, you pass a glassed in area. Outside was turning into a gorgeous sunny Fall day, which I was determined to see more of. At the time, it seemed a good omen.

Events were now moving swiftly. All told, there must have been about a dozen principal and support persons buzzing around my gurney on operation morning. They were all a friendly and task-driven lot. Mostly, I just saw the ceiling and staff coming and going out of a corner of view. To an outsider, there's a controlled air of order and chaos in the room, not unlike looking down on an ant hill. A nurse on my right side was doing her best to put me at ease, while hooking up IV lines to my right hand. Her warm assuring smile, on these occasions, went a long way. Concurrent tag-team enquiries on my left, were being asked as to what hand I used for writing, as my arm veins were gently being tapped and stroked. Big lamps hung above and behind this confident pair. I looked out beyond my two feet, and caught a quick glimpse at my masked surgeon, in an adjoining area.

I didn't realize it at the time, but a cocktail of drugs was already kicking in. Big time.

The next round of Angels I remember in a very groggy state, started with Nurse F, much later in The-Day, while in the recovery Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU). I was oblivious of family and any other staff for most of this stay, and still too incoherent to quietly recognize the obvious: 'You lucky SOB. You made it!' That quiet congratulatory period from me to me, was later observed over a luncheon jello later in the week. Early on, I was told an inserted respirator tube made it challenging to make anything but small talk. Now, I just had a raw throat, and was already Pavlov dog trained to nod on command. There were tubes to empty my bladder and to drain off any accumulated blood, IV's in my neck and wrist to administer drugs and fluids, strings coming out of the base of my chest and noisy heart monitors somewhere above and behind. Nurse F, became my lifeline for the balance of the day, as she closely monitored all vital functions, when time could have been day, or evening. Or elsewhere. I was so glad, she never seemed to be far away. Nor did I want her ever to leave her shift. I remember mostly a dimly lit area with her small desk at the room entrance, her soft hands on mine when she thought necessary, and always a comforting voice. Nothing much else.

The next morning, I was relocated to the CVICU recovery ward on the 3rd floor. Nurses here work on a 12 hour rotating shift basis. Work days are long on 3 West, with a job description that can best be summed up in a word: Intense.

Nurse R was my first contact with the real world. I never gave it a second thought nor concern, when she wrote every transaction down between ourselves, rather than punching all data into a hand held computer. We often smiled to each other when I mentioned to her that, "a short pencil was better than a long memory." Later in the week, I found out she still had a part-time designation at the hospital. Her eyes are pure. She has a big heart in cardiac patient recovery, and no doubt a long future in nursing. Two thoughts come to mind: Get this lady enrolled full-time, before she's scooped up elsewhere. Secondly, here's an ideal candidate for a mentoring program, if one prevails on-site.

Nurse A must have drawn the short straw and got me for the evening shift on Day One. My vitals apparently were all in a mess and quickly needed aligning. There were many visits to Room 311 before the end of her shift. Saline bags came and went overhead regularly. Extra pills were dispensed. And while in a multi-tasking mode, my fingers quickly became a pin cushion for a succession of ongoing blood samples. Throughout the night, there were many close encounters between her stethoscope and my chest area. This can truly become an intense period, when two people in a busy hospital can be very close. I remember her blonde hair was tightly braided back into a small pony-tail. Her eyes were very intense with little reason to smile. It's a guy-thing, but we had catheter issues that night, which resulted in words between us. Later, I always looked for her in my corridor walks, but we never met again. I wanted to quietly express my profound thanks to her, for getting me through that long sleepless night into Day Two. She likely wouldn't give it a second thought, but I'd also like to take this opportunity to personally apologize to her for my insensi- tivities at the time.

Nurse V was pinch-hitting a colleague out, so I only had her for half a shift before bedtime. You quickly realized, that this lady has held small hearts and large hearts in her lifetime. What a commanding presence! She alone, had a gift of expressing professional detachment with a lot of class, when not your patient. You appreciate this fact more after being away from their collective charge, especially when you consider the ward likely has a fresh turnover of patients every 10 days or so.

Nurse S came into my life twice during the last half of my stay. After several days on the floor, I was on the mend and adapting to their daily routines and schedules. You never felt like seven digits on a computer, while in her space. She provided just the right amount of tough-love when required, e.g. booting unnamed tardy patients out of bed for long corridor walks. There was also a high angel trust factor built up over a short period of time. Nobody but her, was going to extract half of my staples, prior to discharge. Nobody. Make no mistake, there is a professional side to her, but in an earlier life, this was the type of team person you'd always like to have a beer with after a hectic work week. And I say this to all, in the nicest of ways.

The hospital did something else smart, when they put their team together -- no small feat, I'm sure, in what is likely a unionized environment. Some bright light recognized the immense talent of experienced nursing staff coming into their retirement phase, who may not wish to retire as yet. Why not let them de-stress a little, keep their pension and dignity intact and repackage them as cleaners and food dispensers on the ward. What a huge win-win concept with immense value to all stakeholders! One turned out to be a past neighbour, who was a most pleasant surprise and joy to await each morning. Thanks, A.

A big thank-you to all the OR and support staff on The-Day. And to subsequent Angels on 3 West, especially the ones not clearly remembered in my early recovering days. You know who you are.

A special heart felt thank-you has to also go out to the Telephone Pioneer ladies, wherever you rest your head after a long day.

My new trusty pal of course, is the small red pillow they personally craft, that each heart survivor receives from these good ladies. With literally every move, it quickly becomes your new love, while in this recovery phase. Some time in the near-term, I'd really like to give you each back a 'near and dear' hug for your special gift.

I carry both an unpaid debt of appreciation and a reservoir of deep respect, to the entire team. Bless you all.

Cheers

2006-10-17T19:45:00.000-04:00

THERE ARE TIMES when you speak to your travel agent, and the words trip, travel and journey are often intermingled as though they have the same meaning. Yet upon reflection, there is a huge difference between taking a trip and being on a voyage.

We all know that traveling consumes a great deal of energy -- airports and customs, where we stay, what to wear, when to eat, and so on. Being on a journey, however, goes beyond what's on our mind, by sometimes being forced to connect those little dots to what is in it.

You could say that physical travel is not a prerequisite for journeying. Many of us secretly journey each day in the quiet confines of our office space, as we fondly look at the framed pictures of loved ones on our desk. Or let our contemplations briefly wander, while downing our first Saturday morning coffee at the kitchen table.

Little did I appreciate those minute differences, until being dis- charged from hospital, after cardiac by-pass surgery last week.

I've found out lately, that any past accomplishments, mean absolutely diddly. This new journey at home is mostly in rocky uncharted waters, with few navigational aids to get you through the day. Sleep overtakes most of the daytime, and while awake, you wing most of your daytime chores in a zombie-like fashion. If you're lucky and in the right place, you get a smile and a slight course correction from the alert caregiver. In between, you quietly struggle along, adapt as best as possible, and frequently fumble through a pretext of regrouping with the best grace and dignity possible.

I must confess, I've always been representative of that generation slightly in age-denial. Over the years, I have enjoyed being a tour escort extraordinaire, a niche travel marketer, a publisher of glossy lifestyle magazines. My present apprenticeship, is now learning how to become a cardiac recoveree.

We've all journeyed far since the days of Camelot. I think having children changed a lot of that. Along the way, the Me generation became the Wee generation. The generation gap between our parents, became the Gap generation.

Perhaps LIFE magazine's Senior Editor, Robert Friedman, best summed it up in an earlier reflective article, "To the media, we will always be known as the baby boom. But to our babies, now becoming teenagers, going off to university, becoming engaged, having grand-children, we are already history."

Talk about looking back into the future.

This might suggest a past life has been more zig-zag, than straight-line. Not entirely so. Constant has been a life fascination about the culture of wine, appreciating the craft of the wine maker and the pairing of wine with food. Until recently, I really enjoyed con- ducting hands-on wine appreciation and educational courses to intimate gatherings and conferences. It's most gratifying to quietly watch a new generation of informed wine enthusiasts pour some- thing nice into their glass for a change -- in this lifetime, while they're still young!

Since I'm struggling to put a sentence together, and can't drink whatsoever due to heavy medication, this area is all shelved until the new year, earliest.

In spite of all this maelstrom swirling about, I have to believe my life-glass is still half-filled. Cheers!

Simply a dream

2006-10-17T13:45:00.000-04:00

We've all seen this movie before.

Look at your left paw, and clench your fist. This is a locomotive. Now look at your right hand, and do the same thing. This could be you or me. Me, for sure. Now let's paint this dream in a matrix like teal wash, for full sinister effect.

Start the flick. The trick here is to race the train over the railway crossing. If you lose, you really lose. It's only a dream, anyway, right? If you beat the odds -- and the chances of survival here, are actually in your favour -- then you wake up. And you get a second chance at life.

This is the start of Week Two with a new heart, and progress to report. After six days in hospital, I'm now home on the mend from that much-needed train wreck called cardiac triple by-pass surgery on Tuesday, October 10, 2006. A little banged up and swollen, but OK.

As one of the orderlies stated on her morning rounds, "Any day you can walk away from a train wreck, Tony, is a good day, eh?" Couldn't agree more.

On other fronts, my thanks for your quiet thoughts and prayers, that apparently came from many different quarters. Very much appreciated from this new side of life.