Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Episode Eight: Mars Wore Red, Venus Wore Pink
I wear a foot long cardiac surgery scar that was once bright red, and is now pink. And that change of color begs some questions.
If Mars wore red and Venus wore pink, who was I at the time of fresh raw red; and who am I now at the middling pink stage of things?
What will I choose to become when this pink line fades into its background tone of pale freckled Irish American cream? Will I slink back into the same old same old guy?
This cardiac crisis has brought some lovely long needed change into my life, saving graces. A grace occurred when the cage around a heart indifferent to the call to live different and live better - when ... well things got better once I accepted that the cage had to be cracked open.
That is how better thoughts and habits gained access, came in and took root. As my scar fades, am I now in some fading state of grace? Will it be harder to continue choosing these good changes after this scar toughens?
All these questions vex me, and more. Wears me out sometimes thinking about them. Maybe the best answer is a walk, another snack, a glass of tea, and a nice nap. OK, let's go play kindergarten.
Wanna come along?
Yours truly and somberly (til my next nap)
From Across Cardiac County Line Road
James Sullivan
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Episode Seven: The Sisterly Sword Of Damocles Falls
Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
The Sisterly Sword Of Damocles Falls
OK, the jig is up.
I give up coppers.
Don't shoot G-Man.
My sister, now she done went and done it. My sister had threatened to go public with an embarassing video of a hospital sickbed performance. Were this a soap opera, this show would be titled "Rants of Our Lives", or maybe "As The Rubber Chicken Turns".
I remind you all was said under the influence of Demon Demoral and Mighty Mind Bending Morphine. Hell, gimme a break, I was just barely out of surgery. I mean, from a phone cam video you can count 4 punctures on my neck and shoulder in this video, 4 of the - 10? or was it 14? - piercings into my epidermis for this procedure. Too many holes, they spirited nonsense into me as they drained common sense from me.
Well, that Sword of Damocles my sister held above my head has been released.
And she went so far as to put that video on my Facebook page!
For all else but me this an opportunity to carpe that diem.
Skip expensive therapy, all of you who need a boost in self-esteem.
All who are in need to feel superior - I say unto y'all, go here.
You will feel soooo much better about yourself in comparison to me after you see this:
Yours truly and most ridiculously
From across Cardiac County Line Road
James Sullivan
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
The Sisterly Sword Of Damocles Falls
OK, the jig is up.
I give up coppers.
Don't shoot G-Man.
My sister, now she done went and done it. My sister had threatened to go public with an embarassing video of a hospital sickbed performance. Were this a soap opera, this show would be titled "Rants of Our Lives", or maybe "As The Rubber Chicken Turns".
I remind you all was said under the influence of Demon Demoral and Mighty Mind Bending Morphine. Hell, gimme a break, I was just barely out of surgery. I mean, from a phone cam video you can count 4 punctures on my neck and shoulder in this video, 4 of the - 10? or was it 14? - piercings into my epidermis for this procedure. Too many holes, they spirited nonsense into me as they drained common sense from me.
Well, that Sword of Damocles my sister held above my head has been released.
And she went so far as to put that video on my Facebook page!
For all else but me this an opportunity to carpe that diem.
Skip expensive therapy, all of you who need a boost in self-esteem.
All who are in need to feel superior - I say unto y'all, go here.
You will feel soooo much better about yourself in comparison to me after you see this:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1632250289&v=feed&story_fbid=96921018859#/video/video.php?v=229442430456&subj=1632250289
Yours truly and most ridiculously
From across Cardiac County Line Road
James Sullivan
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Hospital Cuisine, Act II
Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Episode Six: Hospital Cuisine, Act II
The hospital food I ate after waking up from cardiac surgery - OK, time for another rant (short ) about hospital food.
Easier to tell this if I was on a vaudeville stage.
I'd hire a back row shill to respond like this after my opening line.
"Yeah, the hospital food it was sooo bad" I'd say as my opener.
Then from back of the audience you'd hear the hired cry - "Yeah that food, how bad - just how bad was it?". Then since I was asked directly from the audience it would be rude for me not to tell. Would be natural to tell.
I will pretend you just did that. Don't think it strange that I do; people pretend to hear such questions in the most intimate of relationships, to give themselves permission to say what's on their minds.
So how bad was it? Small portions, very heavy and calorie intense.
The breakfast eggs? They were bland and awful but otherwise it was OK to a morphine muddled mind; decent enough cafeteria style grub. Hey, we all survived high school cafeteria, right? Could you do worse than lunch hour back in high school? I think not.
My guess about why the twisted taste presumes that dieticians expect their bed bound patients to have suppressed appetites. So they load nutrition supplements into the food, intensify the lunch tray real estate. That would explain my swallowing a bite of hospital meat loaf. Or was it a kneaded loaf of pottery clay?
Meat loaf that lands in the gut with a solid thud. Meat loaf that goes down the gullet like a safe tossed down an open elevator shaft. If they put a wireless mike down my esophagus ... I swear you would record the same sound the safe makes as it lands at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Might even take as long a fall to get there.
Some cannot rest after seeing a magic act until they understand the illusion. Fine. Then here is the secret on how to make meat loaf taste like it was made from industrial crumb rubber. Conjecture is that a heavy dose of corn meal (not flour) is the trick that congealed the hospital meat loaf to the density of tire retreads left behind by an 18-wheeler.
Yours Truly As Your Bad Critic Of Bad Food,
Living Across Cardiac County Line Road
James Sullivan
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Episode Six: Hospital Cuisine, Act II
The hospital food I ate after waking up from cardiac surgery - OK, time for another rant (short ) about hospital food.
Easier to tell this if I was on a vaudeville stage.
I'd hire a back row shill to respond like this after my opening line.
"Yeah, the hospital food it was sooo bad" I'd say as my opener.
Then from back of the audience you'd hear the hired cry - "Yeah that food, how bad - just how bad was it?". Then since I was asked directly from the audience it would be rude for me not to tell. Would be natural to tell.
I will pretend you just did that. Don't think it strange that I do; people pretend to hear such questions in the most intimate of relationships, to give themselves permission to say what's on their minds.
So how bad was it? Small portions, very heavy and calorie intense.
The breakfast eggs? They were bland and awful but otherwise it was OK to a morphine muddled mind; decent enough cafeteria style grub. Hey, we all survived high school cafeteria, right? Could you do worse than lunch hour back in high school? I think not.
My guess about why the twisted taste presumes that dieticians expect their bed bound patients to have suppressed appetites. So they load nutrition supplements into the food, intensify the lunch tray real estate. That would explain my swallowing a bite of hospital meat loaf. Or was it a kneaded loaf of pottery clay?
Meat loaf that lands in the gut with a solid thud. Meat loaf that goes down the gullet like a safe tossed down an open elevator shaft. If they put a wireless mike down my esophagus ... I swear you would record the same sound the safe makes as it lands at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Might even take as long a fall to get there.
Some cannot rest after seeing a magic act until they understand the illusion. Fine. Then here is the secret on how to make meat loaf taste like it was made from industrial crumb rubber. Conjecture is that a heavy dose of corn meal (not flour) is the trick that congealed the hospital meat loaf to the density of tire retreads left behind by an 18-wheeler.
Yours Truly As Your Bad Critic Of Bad Food,
Living Across Cardiac County Line Road
James Sullivan
Episode Five: How To Wrap Great Gifts
Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
How To Wrap Great Gifts
My heart surgery was a simple in and out job. Really more like a semi-complicated bank heist though the better plot perspective is a smooth anti-crime rescue caper. Least dramatically it could be seen as a week long drop off at the car dealer service center. A quick crack of the chest popped open the hood on my most major engine. Two snips and a stitch, two inches of ballooned out artery get replaced by a Dacron splice. Five weeks later my sternum halves are fusing together, neatly closed by loops of titanium wire.
Very pretty, theses little bows of titanium wire. I know just how pretty they are. I have seen them. For I have seen what can only be seen by X-Ray: a thread of gift wrap around a gift of the most wonderful kind, the most wonderful gift a man woman or child can get.
And what might that be?
It's called a second chance.
They don't come to everybody and they don't come too often.
Easier than I thought it would be, to lay down the junk and get on board the Second Chance train to Wellville.
Here's a small poem I wrote prior to Operation Chest Crack.
It was put down with a thought in mind as possibly a final piece of work, if things went more like No Chance instead of Second Go Around.
A very short poem, so the pain will be over before you know it.
You'll have a 2nd chance to read something better than this very soon, I guarantee.
Luckily and gratefully yours
From Across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
How To Wrap Great Gifts
My heart surgery was a simple in and out job. Really more like a semi-complicated bank heist though the better plot perspective is a smooth anti-crime rescue caper. Least dramatically it could be seen as a week long drop off at the car dealer service center. A quick crack of the chest popped open the hood on my most major engine. Two snips and a stitch, two inches of ballooned out artery get replaced by a Dacron splice. Five weeks later my sternum halves are fusing together, neatly closed by loops of titanium wire.
Very pretty, theses little bows of titanium wire. I know just how pretty they are. I have seen them. For I have seen what can only be seen by X-Ray: a thread of gift wrap around a gift of the most wonderful kind, the most wonderful gift a man woman or child can get.
And what might that be?
It's called a second chance.
They don't come to everybody and they don't come too often.
Easier than I thought it would be, to lay down the junk and get on board the Second Chance train to Wellville.
Here's a small poem I wrote prior to Operation Chest Crack.
It was put down with a thought in mind as possibly a final piece of work, if things went more like No Chance instead of Second Go Around.
A very short poem, so the pain will be over before you know it.
You'll have a 2nd chance to read something better than this very soon, I guarantee.
"All Who Wander, All Who Doubt"
All who wander are not lost.
All who doubt are not damned.
Those whom we must hear may not shout.
The surprise you seek cannot be planned.
The joy that feeds cannot be canned.
Wounds that bleed these were my brand.
What I should doubt are my old ploys;
Favored white lies, and toxic toys.
These I should lay down and surrender
Before Fate improves by beating me black blue and tender.
Luckily and gratefully yours
From Across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Episode Four - "Dive! Dive! Dive!"
Recovery Escapades: A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
"Dive! Dive! Dive!"
Over time the main chunk of artery rising from my heart bulged. Swelled just a tad - from two and a half to just under five centimeters in diameter.
For me and most folk, 2.5 centimeters is normal. For everybody a 100% diameter increase to 5.0 cm is more than just a tad.
Five is where a blinking yellow traffic lights at sleepy small town intersections go nuts, turn into klaxon horns replete with screams of "Dive! Dive! Dive!". Like in old WWII submarine movies.
Submarine movies - a genre of old B&W epic drama that picks up the pace all sudden like. All just because somebody thinks that the little speck dot on the horizon might be a Japanese Zero with a depth charge.
Kinda skittish not to wait and see up close before over reacting.
Kinda like what happens when Soviet bomber icons move quick and funny on a room sized map at the Strategic Air Command's mountain lair. Lotsa people dressed in similar blue outfits start moving around fast, a lot of shouting goes on, and antiperspirent deodorants get put to the maximum test. All just because some little bomber shaped icon thingies crossed the Artic Circle.
Again, maybe a little too sensitve, insecure even?
Btw, for me the blinking and scurrying for my five centimeter icon definitely occurred at the SAC mountain lair in Colorado. It did NOT happen in some evil overlord mountain lair mind you; for I am a good guy.
I would never be hanging out at the evil overlord's joint unless I was dispatching his henchmen. Or maybe working on undercover assignment, with a hall pass. That then would be OK. Cause my Mom taught me to be careful about who I hung out with. You know, choose your friends real careful cause they influence you. So for me it's Strategic Air Command, for sure.
Oh, and subs - the submarine dive scene? Definitely an American sub, no Nazi or Japanese subs for me. Maybe a British one but I really like "Dive! Dive! Dive!" way more than "Zero? Right. Down a bit please, and do hurry on with it". Yeah, very likely not a British sub. No drama there.
Just under 5 centimeters, eh? Well, my actual sighting of diameter = 4.95 centimeters on an MRI scan was not as dramatic as the sighting of enemy aircraft. But in my little curl of the blood gurgling world, 5 centimeters is too dramatic not to act.
So I acted dramatically. I called forth for a hero. A masked man, skilled with a knife. No, not a Ninja, let's be clear. A cardiac surgeon. Although if there was a cult of orphaned Ninja surgeons trained in med school monk temples since childhood in Cardiac/Pulmonary repair and very important independent of all evil overlords I would have interviewed them as candidates. Definitely. Because that would be best of both worlds, see? Dramatic, as well as professionally competent.
Oh, how I love drama. I love drama so much I married it. Twice. If you don't believe that I love drama, interview either of my ex-wives.
My 2nd ex didn't stick around long to participate in the drama of these Recovery Escapades. But to that I say, S'OK. S'All Good Darlins. All OK, and All Good. I say that a lot nowdays. I say it because I am alive to tell. Living a little more drama free, no drama queens just the drama king in a live solo performance.
Alive because my cardiac surgeon is one good fix it up plumber - even if he never did attend monk temple Ninja med school as an orphan since childhood.
Yours truly and ridiculouslyFrom across Cardiac County Line Road,James Sullivan
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
WARNING - ACRID NON EPISODIC INTERLUDE
FAIR WARNING - ONCE AND ONCE ONLY
This posting is too acrid, long and raw.
But to the sensitive and attention deficit I say: bite my shorts.
Before you slink off to Google up some no-strain diet tips, celebrity gossip, or get rich easy secrets just bite my shorts. This posting ain't about serving up icing coated ginger snaps for the squeamish of stomach. If kittens handled with mittens is your main mode for coping with reality...
So bite me. If you dare, bite me.
But to do that - you gotta read this whole post end to end before you know where to sink your teeth. I dare, double dare you to even try to bite my arse. You might have the need to snap back at me for what I have to say. But do you have the guts to do it?
THE SHORT AND SKINNY OF IT
Some folks complain (not without cause!) that I talk around things too much. Take too long to get to the point. I agree, I confess my crime. Like a sociopath killer at his craft, I just can't seem to stop torturing sentence structure to death.
But I have compassion for those who prefer Cliff Notes over the original. For them, I boiled this whole post down to a few snappy slogans. Find below all the juice of this posting. Think of the list below as an excerpt from a book. A book titled "The McCrusty Remedial Reader".
This excerpt is for all of us in the slow class, that belong on the short bus. It reads like the back page of what used to be "My Weekly Reader". - the adult edition of "My Weekly Reader". 'Scuse me, just joking - this would still be the grade school edition.
POSTING BACKSTORY
A reader's response to episode one (Demon Demerol Does The Talking) greatly affected me. Woke me up in the wee hours to inspire me to write this.
This respondent to Episode One has a bad, messy life going on.
Not a pretty backdrop for a light bedroom farce type play.
And despite all that he rolls on with a good (albeit somber) perspective on his unenviable situation.
Which (situation plus attitude) is, illustrated per excerpt done careful to maintain anonymity, this:
THE TIP OF THE SPEAR -IE, THE POINT OF IT ALL
Quite a well hit knock on the coffin nail's head,
when rightly my email respondent said:
A major duty of the living is to ambulate - move far and fast enough ahead of the blues that you can carry in mind and on your tongue, vividly, the memory of the best times.
It is your duty and to your benefit to move fast ahead of old storm fronts. To shine what's good of the past on your daily discourse with the living and in your tellings. Your mission in life includes serving up from the past what was savory, free of sour stink, into the present now and the anticipated future.
Else, the enlivening parts of our personal histories - the big reasons for why we bothered to put up with the many costs of living - get lost, just fade out. If you fail in this duty, all good that has gone by will fall under shadows cast by visible, physically obvious and thus auto-persistent facts of olde age, and piled up losses.
SING IT, QUEEN - WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS
Downsides? All those considerations weighing in favor of giving up? They need no champion.
They are ambient without effort.
They thrive on dank airs, dark moods of self pity.
They host themselves within immobile souls.
Regardless of the facts, and not without regard for facts like casualty counts, the living must move forward or die. And yes there are a lot of dead people walking.
GIMME THREE STEPS, GIMME THREE STEPS MISTER
Dead walkers are people who slowed down their effort to out pace by three steps of reach the dues of the blues. Walking dead are ones who dipped too long into an inviting spring, gushing with cool waters of melancholy. Went in too long for a quick dip.
SOMETIMES ALL I NEED IS THE AIR THAT I BREATHE
So, am I saying you become undead - or predead - from too-long temporary breathers, from breaks away from positive attitude exertion, by extended vacations of the soul that went bad?
Yes. Like condiments in a scuzzy bachelor's refrigerator left there too long, by attidues gone bad while on the chill.
Some (many) "pre-dead" sank into their sighs and moans and groans, into self-sorry places from whence they softly - some times abruptly - quit breathing. First quit breathing in their souls, then quit breathing in their bodies, years later.
ATTACK OF THE MUSHROOM PEOPLE
Out in the world there exists a spirit species of fungus. For want of Latin in high school or coolege I'll just call it Sad Fungus.
It waits for a just-so, rightly fertile mind set. Grows best on sedentary, immobile logs. And folks who lay down just like them. On minds that are ripe for rot and resignation, hostile to mirth and serenity and the mobility of moving on.
No matter what, one must move forward or die.
Keep moving on or die.
Plain and simple, bears repetition.
Stay agile in the forward direction of time. Otherwise this happens: the living get an increase in the casualty count. Along with a bonus subtraction - one less vital soul to carry on the shared burdens of the living community. The ones who go on despite knowing the score. The score is up for all to see on the flashing stadium board, a count of who's alive and keeping on, paying it forward into the community, and a count of who's gone off to the sidelines to wait it out until they die.
ONE, TWO BUCKLE MY (DANCING/MOURNING) SHOES
One less of the vital living amongst us is not much, but it does count for a lot. A decision to give up and die by pouting counts as one more stone in the rucksack. Another weight to be carried by others still carrying on. More to put up with by those who must not stop, who will not stop, who cannot, yet, let themselves stop adapting and overcoming. Surviving with grace.
Decide to stop living too soon, before your time and guess what? C'mon. You know. Others then pay for your mileage. Your distance on the road to the ferryman. Your road tolls so to speak.
DON'T PAY THE FERRYMAN
There is no "not paying" the tolls.
No refusals are allowed.
There's just no "not going" the full distance on the road to the ferryman's dock.
And you know the boatman of whom I speak, don't lie to any of us.
Your bill to live in this world gets paid one way or another, by somebody. Whether to participate or wait it out, either way, must pay. Might be you that pays in full the rent for your use of a life; lucky us all if so. And these are costs due well ahead of the ferryman's price for a ride to a place of rest.
For a guidebook covering that ride, that final section of your soul's itinerary, don't ask me what I know. Go find a chaplain of your choice. Quickly.
One of the many things I am sure as hell for certain that I don't know, is if a Purgatory exists or not. I ain't got no dog in that theological fight. But the idea of Purgatory has merit, for me. If only tales of Purgatory were true and not this fool's wish for comfort. If Purgatory exists then likely you would pay your own invoice for your time on the road. Maybe with interest.
Then others need not pay any karma on your behalf except by foolish choice only. I suspect any griefs paid on your behalf would go unposted to your book, get lost by bad practices of karmic accounting (btw, if you think good bookkeepers aren't worth their salt, you ain't seen much gangster cinema; everybody, both mobsters and Feds, are after the accountant who disappeared with the books).
Question is: will you pull your own weight and then some up to your end, or not?
Carry on with aplomb; or pass on the weight of your days onto someone else's back.
SPILL THE WINE; DIG THAT GIRL
I say take a pass on them on them.
A pass on those who too soon give up.
Pass by those who want to ride their final distance on the backs of others as tired or more than they. Pass by on those who secretly want to ride royal, on a palanquin, with bearers drawn from the carry-on living. Let someone else transport them up to the final finish line, the ferryman's portal gate.
I originally said not pass by but pass water on them - ie, piss on them. But I've reconsidered since first writing this and revised this posting. You however may wish not to pass by, but to pass your water - your choice. If the latter, I say then we drink good wine and it on to them whut gives the ghost up long before their appointed time of physical death, pass them a share of the wine by passing water on their grave.
IN A HALL OF MIRRORS, YOU LOOK AT YOURSELF MOSTLY
I felt, and to myself said much the same (the latter - pass water on 'em) as I put many of my father's trouble-pebbles of memory into my ruckus sack. That was after we lowered his oh-so-self-sorry behind into the ground.
Or put what was left of him down, him being found alone and three days dead in his flop house room. His end was the fruit of consistent work. An ardent application of his 62 years of too-wasted living had long been focused on achieving a sad, solitary end.
KNOCEK KNOCK KNOCKING ON HEAVEN'S DOOR
My father is an example of one who gave up and became a walking dead man many years before he passed on. And only at the very end did his remorse overtake his sneering disdain for others who had not suffered as much as he had. How could they have felt more hurt than he? Only if he himself had made sure of it. He decided to wait to die, long before the very end of a long self centered life. In the very end, he suspected - he knew - he had ridden too hard too long on the backs of others. A little too late for his life to profit by, sadly. Too much water under the bridge and too much sleeping under bridges, no joke.
PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF
Oh, I can hear it now - Hey dude blogger authorman, maybe you should heal your inner child and lighten up a bit. Walk light, as they used to say in the ironworker trade.
Yeah - I ought to lighten up. Lighten up by lightening my own ruckus sack of troubled carry-stones. By taking out many of those I carry that are not my own. Start trading some heavy memories in for a lighter bauble; not jewelery, rather something that plays music in a major chord. Barter for something more worth the cost to carry, good for me and others too.
COOK, FEED THEYSELF
To live better by living on my own counsel, that would be a good thing. Chef, eat the stuff you cook. OK then. That would mean I carry on by carrying my own load more completely, a much better thing.
And if I do I would not so offend others with so many of my recent bemoanings. I try to make them entertaining and funny, or just memorable. But sometimes I wonder what the heck I have to complain about. Not much at all.
And if I do eat my own cooking, live by my own wisdom, then I should profit. I'd lessen my chances for dropping out ahead of my due time. Be less likely to leave an indebted legacy behind me. Much unlike current our federal government's fiscal practices whose price our grandchildren will be shouldering for a very long time.
NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO - THERE YOU ARE, DUDE
OK then, I ought to start with me. Let others do their own deadwalking, or memory bearing. Or palanquin bearing - every one for themselves and their own choices.
Yes there are a lot of dead people walking.
First their souls, then their bodies.
They quit breathing, first in soul.
I see them, rambling through the neighborhood, as I work to pull weeds inside my own backyard.
Crustily and ridiculously yours truly
From Across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
This posting is too acrid, long and raw.
But to the sensitive and attention deficit I say: bite my shorts.
Before you slink off to Google up some no-strain diet tips, celebrity gossip, or get rich easy secrets just bite my shorts. This posting ain't about serving up icing coated ginger snaps for the squeamish of stomach. If kittens handled with mittens is your main mode for coping with reality...
Though you or better yet those around already carrying your emotions for you, might profit if you do. Yeah, I'm getting all preachy here. Whatever.Then run and run fast.
Hit the backspace key on your browser of choice.
You won't enjoy what you are about to read.
So bite me. If you dare, bite me.
But to do that - you gotta read this whole post end to end before you know where to sink your teeth. I dare, double dare you to even try to bite my arse. You might have the need to snap back at me for what I have to say. But do you have the guts to do it?
THE SHORT AND SKINNY OF IT
Some folks complain (not without cause!) that I talk around things too much. Take too long to get to the point. I agree, I confess my crime. Like a sociopath killer at his craft, I just can't seem to stop torturing sentence structure to death.
But I have compassion for those who prefer Cliff Notes over the original. For them, I boiled this whole post down to a few snappy slogans. Find below all the juice of this posting. Think of the list below as an excerpt from a book. A book titled "The McCrusty Remedial Reader".
This excerpt is for all of us in the slow class, that belong on the short bus. It reads like the back page of what used to be "My Weekly Reader". - the adult edition of "My Weekly Reader". 'Scuse me, just joking - this would still be the grade school edition.
The list above explains all. You don't have to go any further unless you want to bite my shorts. Since I reside in them, you get to bite me good if you really go for it with gusto. But you gotta know my offenses to get past my defenses. And likely, you ain't got the attention span or the guts to try.Carry your own weight, pay your own freight. Misery loves company. Never ever ever give up. Stay on the sunny side of life. If you can't say anything good don't say anything at all - unless its the
hard bitter 'save your fanny' truth.
POSTING BACKSTORY
A reader's response to episode one (Demon Demerol Does The Talking) greatly affected me. Woke me up in the wee hours to inspire me to write this.
This respondent to Episode One has a bad, messy life going on.
Not a pretty backdrop for a light bedroom farce type play.
And despite all that he rolls on with a good (albeit somber) perspective on his unenviable situation.
Which (situation plus attitude) is, illustrated per excerpt done careful to maintain anonymity, this:
"Still I'm on the green side and any day on the green side is better than dirt napping.
If my friend gets better perhaps I can come visit, but for now I seem to be on a death watch.
Now talk about a bummer, everyday I have to check on him to see how he is doing since he is so orney that he wont go to assisted living. One day I am going to find him dead and that will be a bad day, lots of PTSD fears there since I'll be the last of my military circle breathing.
Still one must move forward or die, and yes there are a lot of dead people walking, first their souls, then their bodies. "
THE TIP OF THE SPEAR -IE, THE POINT OF IT ALL
Quite a well hit knock on the coffin nail's head,
when rightly my email respondent said:
"Still one must move forward or die,NOW THE (WHIPPING) POST
and yes there are a lot of dead people walking,
first their souls, then their bodies."
A major duty of the living is to ambulate - move far and fast enough ahead of the blues that you can carry in mind and on your tongue, vividly, the memory of the best times.
It is your duty and to your benefit to move fast ahead of old storm fronts. To shine what's good of the past on your daily discourse with the living and in your tellings. Your mission in life includes serving up from the past what was savory, free of sour stink, into the present now and the anticipated future.
Else, the enlivening parts of our personal histories - the big reasons for why we bothered to put up with the many costs of living - get lost, just fade out. If you fail in this duty, all good that has gone by will fall under shadows cast by visible, physically obvious and thus auto-persistent facts of olde age, and piled up losses.
SING IT, QUEEN - WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS
Downsides? All those considerations weighing in favor of giving up? They need no champion.
They are ambient without effort.
They thrive on dank airs, dark moods of self pity.
They host themselves within immobile souls.
Regardless of the facts, and not without regard for facts like casualty counts, the living must move forward or die. And yes there are a lot of dead people walking.
GIMME THREE STEPS, GIMME THREE STEPS MISTER
Dead walkers are people who slowed down their effort to out pace by three steps of reach the dues of the blues. Walking dead are ones who dipped too long into an inviting spring, gushing with cool waters of melancholy. Went in too long for a quick dip.
SOMETIMES ALL I NEED IS THE AIR THAT I BREATHE
So, am I saying you become undead - or predead - from too-long temporary breathers, from breaks away from positive attitude exertion, by extended vacations of the soul that went bad?
Yes. Like condiments in a scuzzy bachelor's refrigerator left there too long, by attidues gone bad while on the chill.
Some (many) "pre-dead" sank into their sighs and moans and groans, into self-sorry places from whence they softly - some times abruptly - quit breathing. First quit breathing in their souls, then quit breathing in their bodies, years later.
ATTACK OF THE MUSHROOM PEOPLE
Out in the world there exists a spirit species of fungus. For want of Latin in high school or coolege I'll just call it Sad Fungus.
It waits for a just-so, rightly fertile mind set. Grows best on sedentary, immobile logs. And folks who lay down just like them. On minds that are ripe for rot and resignation, hostile to mirth and serenity and the mobility of moving on.
No matter what, one must move forward or die.
Keep moving on or die.
Plain and simple, bears repetition.
Stay agile in the forward direction of time. Otherwise this happens: the living get an increase in the casualty count. Along with a bonus subtraction - one less vital soul to carry on the shared burdens of the living community. The ones who go on despite knowing the score. The score is up for all to see on the flashing stadium board, a count of who's alive and keeping on, paying it forward into the community, and a count of who's gone off to the sidelines to wait it out until they die.
ONE, TWO BUCKLE MY (DANCING/MOURNING) SHOES
One less of the vital living amongst us is not much, but it does count for a lot. A decision to give up and die by pouting counts as one more stone in the rucksack. Another weight to be carried by others still carrying on. More to put up with by those who must not stop, who will not stop, who cannot, yet, let themselves stop adapting and overcoming. Surviving with grace.
Decide to stop living too soon, before your time and guess what? C'mon. You know. Others then pay for your mileage. Your distance on the road to the ferryman. Your road tolls so to speak.
DON'T PAY THE FERRYMAN
There is no "not paying" the tolls.
No refusals are allowed.
There's just no "not going" the full distance on the road to the ferryman's dock.
And you know the boatman of whom I speak, don't lie to any of us.
Your bill to live in this world gets paid one way or another, by somebody. Whether to participate or wait it out, either way, must pay. Might be you that pays in full the rent for your use of a life; lucky us all if so. And these are costs due well ahead of the ferryman's price for a ride to a place of rest.
For a guidebook covering that ride, that final section of your soul's itinerary, don't ask me what I know. Go find a chaplain of your choice. Quickly.
One of the many things I am sure as hell for certain that I don't know, is if a Purgatory exists or not. I ain't got no dog in that theological fight. But the idea of Purgatory has merit, for me. If only tales of Purgatory were true and not this fool's wish for comfort. If Purgatory exists then likely you would pay your own invoice for your time on the road. Maybe with interest.
Then others need not pay any karma on your behalf except by foolish choice only. I suspect any griefs paid on your behalf would go unposted to your book, get lost by bad practices of karmic accounting (btw, if you think good bookkeepers aren't worth their salt, you ain't seen much gangster cinema; everybody, both mobsters and Feds, are after the accountant who disappeared with the books).
Question is: will you pull your own weight and then some up to your end, or not?
Carry on with aplomb; or pass on the weight of your days onto someone else's back.
SPILL THE WINE; DIG THAT GIRL
I say take a pass on them on them.
A pass on those who too soon give up.
Pass by those who want to ride their final distance on the backs of others as tired or more than they. Pass by on those who secretly want to ride royal, on a palanquin, with bearers drawn from the carry-on living. Let someone else transport them up to the final finish line, the ferryman's portal gate.
I originally said not pass by but pass water on them - ie, piss on them. But I've reconsidered since first writing this and revised this posting. You however may wish not to pass by, but to pass your water - your choice. If the latter, I say then we drink good wine and it on to them whut gives the ghost up long before their appointed time of physical death, pass them a share of the wine by passing water on their grave.
IN A HALL OF MIRRORS, YOU LOOK AT YOURSELF MOSTLY
I felt, and to myself said much the same (the latter - pass water on 'em) as I put many of my father's trouble-pebbles of memory into my ruckus sack. That was after we lowered his oh-so-self-sorry behind into the ground.
Or put what was left of him down, him being found alone and three days dead in his flop house room. His end was the fruit of consistent work. An ardent application of his 62 years of too-wasted living had long been focused on achieving a sad, solitary end.
KNOCEK KNOCK KNOCKING ON HEAVEN'S DOOR
My father is an example of one who gave up and became a walking dead man many years before he passed on. And only at the very end did his remorse overtake his sneering disdain for others who had not suffered as much as he had. How could they have felt more hurt than he? Only if he himself had made sure of it. He decided to wait to die, long before the very end of a long self centered life. In the very end, he suspected - he knew - he had ridden too hard too long on the backs of others. A little too late for his life to profit by, sadly. Too much water under the bridge and too much sleeping under bridges, no joke.
PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF
Oh, I can hear it now - Hey dude blogger authorman, maybe you should heal your inner child and lighten up a bit. Walk light, as they used to say in the ironworker trade.
Yeah - I ought to lighten up. Lighten up by lightening my own ruckus sack of troubled carry-stones. By taking out many of those I carry that are not my own. Start trading some heavy memories in for a lighter bauble; not jewelery, rather something that plays music in a major chord. Barter for something more worth the cost to carry, good for me and others too.
COOK, FEED THEYSELF
To live better by living on my own counsel, that would be a good thing. Chef, eat the stuff you cook. OK then. That would mean I carry on by carrying my own load more completely, a much better thing.
And if I do I would not so offend others with so many of my recent bemoanings. I try to make them entertaining and funny, or just memorable. But sometimes I wonder what the heck I have to complain about. Not much at all.
And if I do eat my own cooking, live by my own wisdom, then I should profit. I'd lessen my chances for dropping out ahead of my due time. Be less likely to leave an indebted legacy behind me. Much unlike current our federal government's fiscal practices whose price our grandchildren will be shouldering for a very long time.
NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO - THERE YOU ARE, DUDE
OK then, I ought to start with me. Let others do their own deadwalking, or memory bearing. Or palanquin bearing - every one for themselves and their own choices.
Yes there are a lot of dead people walking.
First their souls, then their bodies.
They quit breathing, first in soul.
I see them, rambling through the neighborhood, as I work to pull weeds inside my own backyard.
Crustily and ridiculously yours truly
From Across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Episode Three: Hospital Cuisine, Part I
Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Hospital Cuisine, Part I
High point of my hospital stay was Happy Hour, not Breakfast Hour. When casting votes for "Best Of Presbyterian Hospital, Category - Cuisine", I'll pick Demerol-Morphine cocktail hour over breakfast time at the hospital - and the ubiquitous scrambled eggs.
Honest, we should try force-feeding hospital scrambled eggs to Al Qaida detainees instead of water boarding. It couldn't hurt to try. Got to work on at least a few. And not just eggs.
Ever try on something you must endure, an Abe Lincoln self help move ("People are about as happy as they've made their minds up to be")?
Try it on a serving of green hospital jello. On the 3rd time served. Cool Whip topping doesn't much cut the wickedly whacked taste of nutritional "additives" smuggled into the gelatin. And yes, hospital dietitians are not so dumb as to serve the same shade of green jello every day, every meal. Just every other day, every other meal. Sometimes maybe red and (Surprise!) without the Cool Whip.
Whoopee, what a spice of life variety that has to be.
Meals post-discharge are now futile attempts to eat within the strictures of a cardiac diet limited to 3/4 of a tablespoon of salt per day. Try this. I guarantee you like me won't ride long on that tasteless wagon.
Not too exciting this cardiac recovery lifestyle, but hey no question it keeps me on the right side of the dirt. And anytime it's brown dirt six feet down and not up, it's a great day.
Yours truly and ridiculously
From across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Hospital Cuisine, Part I
High point of my hospital stay was Happy Hour, not Breakfast Hour. When casting votes for "Best Of Presbyterian Hospital, Category - Cuisine", I'll pick Demerol-Morphine cocktail hour over breakfast time at the hospital - and the ubiquitous scrambled eggs.
Honest, we should try force-feeding hospital scrambled eggs to Al Qaida detainees instead of water boarding. It couldn't hurt to try. Got to work on at least a few. And not just eggs.
Ever try on something you must endure, an Abe Lincoln self help move ("People are about as happy as they've made their minds up to be")?
Try it on a serving of green hospital jello. On the 3rd time served. Cool Whip topping doesn't much cut the wickedly whacked taste of nutritional "additives" smuggled into the gelatin. And yes, hospital dietitians are not so dumb as to serve the same shade of green jello every day, every meal. Just every other day, every other meal. Sometimes maybe red and (Surprise!) without the Cool Whip.
Whoopee, what a spice of life variety that has to be.
Meals post-discharge are now futile attempts to eat within the strictures of a cardiac diet limited to 3/4 of a tablespoon of salt per day. Try this. I guarantee you like me won't ride long on that tasteless wagon.
Not too exciting this cardiac recovery lifestyle, but hey no question it keeps me on the right side of the dirt. And anytime it's brown dirt six feet down and not up, it's a great day.
Yours truly and ridiculously
From across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Monday, June 22, 2009
Episode Two: Hiccup The Recovery Wonder Dog
Recovery Escapades: A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Hiccup The Recovery Wonder Dog
Science shows cardiac patients with pets far out survive and far out recover those without one. Biggest variable by far above education, family support, even prior fitness level.
So to hijack odds better in my favor, I got a pet. An Old English Pocket Beagle puppy, now 16 weeks old. 'Hiccup' is the Beagle puppy's name. Full title: 'Hiccup the Recovery Wonder Dog'.
Hiccup & I, we met at the pet store in one of those "Getting to know you" booths where potential customers interact with the merchandise. You know, like the speed dating scene where you have a defined station and time limit to chat, impress, interact. Sell yourself, basically.
Hiccup was a kid about to "age out of the system" - become an older piece of store inventory, a liability. Hiccup as inventory on the shelf, perceived as old despite why just yesterday it seemed was sold as young?
Hey, I can totally relate to that. Before cardiac surgery I had worked myself into a level of fitness that felt/looked 12 years younger than my flesh-age. And now in post-op life I felt a dozen years older than the accepted chronological measure of my lived life.
In the puppy Speed-Dating pen, Hiccup goes for the shoelaces. Two "Uncle Thunks" on his haid is all it took to cure him of attacking shoe laces. He now stops in front of shoe lace temptation, showing signs of sentience and conscious deliberation before backing away. Cautious but as trusting as he is smart - now cured of cravings for shoelaces.
Hiccup was so named in honor of the several days of chronic hiccups I survived after heart surgery. These hiccups were side effects of post-op meds aimed to soothe side effects of other post op meds. Flowers are nice but not so nice this daisy-chain of cascading side effects. I quit post-op pain meds as soon as I could stand it to put a halt on that side show.
Hiccup the Dog is a happy-making handful.
True, other puppies did catch my eye - by a prettier coat or a pair azure blue collie eyes. And I am one big sucker for cute eyes packaged along with a happy smile. Translate smile into a wagging tail on man's best friend and you have chemistry between man and dog. Also attractive was the discount on his retail list price.
Cute, trusting, smart, attentive, playful, demonstrably affectionate and energetic. Good qualities for a companion.
How can you not want to take that home, even though it was just infatuation after a first date?
More on Hiccup to come in later updates.
Yours truly and ridiculously from across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Hiccup The Recovery Wonder Dog
Science shows cardiac patients with pets far out survive and far out recover those without one. Biggest variable by far above education, family support, even prior fitness level.
So to hijack odds better in my favor, I got a pet. An Old English Pocket Beagle puppy, now 16 weeks old. 'Hiccup' is the Beagle puppy's name. Full title: 'Hiccup the Recovery Wonder Dog'.
Hiccup & I, we met at the pet store in one of those "Getting to know you" booths where potential customers interact with the merchandise. You know, like the speed dating scene where you have a defined station and time limit to chat, impress, interact. Sell yourself, basically.
Hiccup was a kid about to "age out of the system" - become an older piece of store inventory, a liability. Hiccup as inventory on the shelf, perceived as old despite why just yesterday it seemed was sold as young?
Hey, I can totally relate to that. Before cardiac surgery I had worked myself into a level of fitness that felt/looked 12 years younger than my flesh-age. And now in post-op life I felt a dozen years older than the accepted chronological measure of my lived life.
In the puppy Speed-Dating pen, Hiccup goes for the shoelaces. Two "Uncle Thunks" on his haid is all it took to cure him of attacking shoe laces. He now stops in front of shoe lace temptation, showing signs of sentience and conscious deliberation before backing away. Cautious but as trusting as he is smart - now cured of cravings for shoelaces.
Hiccup was so named in honor of the several days of chronic hiccups I survived after heart surgery. These hiccups were side effects of post-op meds aimed to soothe side effects of other post op meds. Flowers are nice but not so nice this daisy-chain of cascading side effects. I quit post-op pain meds as soon as I could stand it to put a halt on that side show.
Hiccup the Dog is a happy-making handful.
True, other puppies did catch my eye - by a prettier coat or a pair azure blue collie eyes. And I am one big sucker for cute eyes packaged along with a happy smile. Translate smile into a wagging tail on man's best friend and you have chemistry between man and dog. Also attractive was the discount on his retail list price.
Cute, trusting, smart, attentive, playful, demonstrably affectionate and energetic. Good qualities for a companion.
How can you not want to take that home, even though it was just infatuation after a first date?
More on Hiccup to come in later updates.
Yours truly and ridiculously from across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Episode One: Demon Demerol Does The Talking
Recovery Escapades: A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Demon Demerol Does The Talking
Morphine-demoral cocktails are what I miss most after coming home from the hospital. The hottest nurses did daily X-Rays instead of sponge baths. Whoop de poopy doo. Nothing there to miss.
This weren't my first time at the health care rodeo. Before checking into the hospital I knew at times I'd feel as if under attack on many fronts: hospital cuisine, bad TV, drill sargeant nurses and other agents of foul spirit. Attitude decay from hospital jello alone seemed certain and rational.
These musings led to thinking that Preparation, somber and thorough and capitalized for emphasis, was in order. Lay up an arsenal for counter attack, lay down some lines of defense. This being America I needed some Emersonian self-reliance alongside the pain meds. What to do, how to hold the line, to keep at bay those backslider moods of morbidity?
Answer: Call upon Team America.
Team America is - one brave Rubber Chicken and his two finger puppet sidekicks. Occasionally joined by a Tyranosaurs Rex dino-nose, but mostly Rubber Chicken man. Tommy the Can-Do Toucan and Garrett the Green Frog Friend Extraordinaire - they are the talkative finger puppets.
These guys have seen action, rough times, and know how to hang on. "While the Rubber Chicken's on board, this ship don't go down". This was the motto oft mumbled to nursing staff accustomed to bedside Teddy Bears.
But not a bedside Rubber Chicken.
Some nurses got what I was saying about my Rubber Chicken.
The more serious ones didn't.
Not at all amused by finger puppet small talk?
No sensa humor in the night shift, eh?
Well nurse guess I can't help you, to help me, to help you help me.
Late at night, in the wee hours it was just me and Rubber Chicken on our own, keeping afloat the attitude boat. But the day shift was different - much more amenable to mirth.
To Rubber Chickens across the continent I say:
I meant no harm and it wuzn't me.
Not me doing the spanking.
And on my sister's iPhone maybe (probability > 99.99%) there is a video. With a dancing Rubber Chicken exhorting us all to eat more beef.
I neither confirm nor deny the existence of such videos.
Will the alleged videos go beyond restricted "Facebook Friends Only" to You-Tube (as threatened)? If so I say - all was said and done under a hazy cloud. Jacked on influences beyond my control. That's my story, and I am sticking by it.
As fantastic as Trainer Buddy and Cursedly Candid Sister have been during all this, I forgive in advance an expanded reputation for reckless conversation (beyond my current raucous rep) they will cause me.
Bottom line: wasn't me on them videos.
Not saying they were faked, but that flaked guy?
Definitely not me.
Demon Demerol and Mellow Mindbending Morphine - they were doing all the talking.
Truly Wuzn't Me,
Living Across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Demon Demerol Does The Talking
Morphine-demoral cocktails are what I miss most after coming home from the hospital. The hottest nurses did daily X-Rays instead of sponge baths. Whoop de poopy doo. Nothing there to miss.
This weren't my first time at the health care rodeo. Before checking into the hospital I knew at times I'd feel as if under attack on many fronts: hospital cuisine, bad TV, drill sargeant nurses and other agents of foul spirit. Attitude decay from hospital jello alone seemed certain and rational.
These musings led to thinking that Preparation, somber and thorough and capitalized for emphasis, was in order. Lay up an arsenal for counter attack, lay down some lines of defense. This being America I needed some Emersonian self-reliance alongside the pain meds. What to do, how to hold the line, to keep at bay those backslider moods of morbidity?
Answer: Call upon Team America.
Team America is - one brave Rubber Chicken and his two finger puppet sidekicks. Occasionally joined by a Tyranosaurs Rex dino-nose, but mostly Rubber Chicken man. Tommy the Can-Do Toucan and Garrett the Green Frog Friend Extraordinaire - they are the talkative finger puppets.
These guys have seen action, rough times, and know how to hang on. "While the Rubber Chicken's on board, this ship don't go down". This was the motto oft mumbled to nursing staff accustomed to bedside Teddy Bears.
But not a bedside Rubber Chicken.
Some nurses got what I was saying about my Rubber Chicken.
The more serious ones didn't.
Not at all amused by finger puppet small talk?
No sensa humor in the night shift, eh?
Well nurse guess I can't help you, to help me, to help you help me.
Late at night, in the wee hours it was just me and Rubber Chicken on our own, keeping afloat the attitude boat. But the day shift was different - much more amenable to mirth.
Nurse 1: How about looking in on Mr Sullivan?On my buddy Kenneth's cellphone there allegedly exists a video of me. Me, after getting hopped up on Demerol. Sitting up in my ICU bed, spanking my Rubber Chicken's behind saying "Slap that chicken, slap that chicken....".
Nurse 2: OK, time for the lunch time matinee.
Nurse 1: Double feature if you go in 5 minutes after pain meds.
Nurse 2: Yeah, then its dinner and a show.
Nurse 1: Get vitals. And don't forget to sterilize his Rubber Chicken.
To Rubber Chickens across the continent I say:
I meant no harm and it wuzn't me.
Not me doing the spanking.
And on my sister's iPhone maybe (probability > 99.99%) there is a video. With a dancing Rubber Chicken exhorting us all to eat more beef.
I neither confirm nor deny the existence of such videos.
Will the alleged videos go beyond restricted "Facebook Friends Only" to You-Tube (as threatened)? If so I say - all was said and done under a hazy cloud. Jacked on influences beyond my control. That's my story, and I am sticking by it.
As fantastic as Trainer Buddy and Cursedly Candid Sister have been during all this, I forgive in advance an expanded reputation for reckless conversation (beyond my current raucous rep) they will cause me.
Bottom line: wasn't me on them videos.
Not saying they were faked, but that flaked guy?
Definitely not me.
Demon Demerol and Mellow Mindbending Morphine - they were doing all the talking.
Truly Wuzn't Me,
Living Across Cardiac County Line Road,
James Sullivan
Episode Zero: Waking Up After Surgery
Many kind inquiries have been made for news about my recent heart surgery. This newsletter episode (episode zero) is intended to give folks a common baseline for later updates.
Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Episode Zero: Waking Up After Surgery
After heart surgery I woke up feeling like a beer gut biker drove his chopper across my chest, crushing my sternum. Or maybe it was a fez-festooned Shriner on a different kind of tricked out Harley.
Ever see guys in a parade with too many lights on every trim line of the bike? Shriner bikers don't look as mean as a chopper riders but the whole package weighs more. Yeah. That's what rode across my chest in the hospital halls, en route to surgery. With the ER charting it down as the real cause behind my cardiac surgery. Had to be a Shriner bike.
Otherwise, cardiac surgery went "swimmingly well". Blood now happily gurgles along within, sans worries about an exploding artery. Technically speaking this was a repair of a congenital defect - a rising aortic aneurysm. Docs replaced 2 inches of ballooned-out artery with artificial (dacron) tubing. I feel mostly good now but do shift into a dizzy lope at the drop of a flimsy paper hat.
Some days I stagger down the sidewalk next to my morning walk buddy (not condoned for any solo walks yet). Honest, I can walk-weave like a dude at happy hour who lives on a restricted diet of just salted tortilla chips and 3-for-1 Margaritas. I consume neither but I can amble about as if I did, to excess.
So I have a good day. Then I have a bad day. Then a good one. The moving average trends to the upside. Friends near and remote scold me, tell me to take it easy while I moan about having no vroom-vroom left for a 2nd or 3rd walk. I'm just now starting to agree I can slow it down and quit pushing so hard (for now).
Life now is trying to get in 9 hrs sleep at night, get up for a 25 minute walk after breakfast, do 1-2 simple errands with sister or buddy driving as chauffeur, then a snack and home for a nap before lunch, then an afternoon nap. Feels like kindergarten.
Mea culpa if all this is TMI /Too Much Information. But if I lay it down to excess in this baseline it is to conserve energy, on which nowadays I can run short without notice. Enough news for now, time to snack and sleep.
Again.
More updates yet to come from Yours Truly,
Living The Recovery Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
James V. Sullivan
Recovery Escapades:
A Newsletter Of 2nd Chance Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
Episode Zero: Waking Up After Surgery
After heart surgery I woke up feeling like a beer gut biker drove his chopper across my chest, crushing my sternum. Or maybe it was a fez-festooned Shriner on a different kind of tricked out Harley.
Ever see guys in a parade with too many lights on every trim line of the bike? Shriner bikers don't look as mean as a chopper riders but the whole package weighs more. Yeah. That's what rode across my chest in the hospital halls, en route to surgery. With the ER charting it down as the real cause behind my cardiac surgery. Had to be a Shriner bike.
Otherwise, cardiac surgery went "swimmingly well". Blood now happily gurgles along within, sans worries about an exploding artery. Technically speaking this was a repair of a congenital defect - a rising aortic aneurysm. Docs replaced 2 inches of ballooned-out artery with artificial (dacron) tubing. I feel mostly good now but do shift into a dizzy lope at the drop of a flimsy paper hat.
Some days I stagger down the sidewalk next to my morning walk buddy (not condoned for any solo walks yet). Honest, I can walk-weave like a dude at happy hour who lives on a restricted diet of just salted tortilla chips and 3-for-1 Margaritas. I consume neither but I can amble about as if I did, to excess.
So I have a good day. Then I have a bad day. Then a good one. The moving average trends to the upside. Friends near and remote scold me, tell me to take it easy while I moan about having no vroom-vroom left for a 2nd or 3rd walk. I'm just now starting to agree I can slow it down and quit pushing so hard (for now).
Life now is trying to get in 9 hrs sleep at night, get up for a 25 minute walk after breakfast, do 1-2 simple errands with sister or buddy driving as chauffeur, then a snack and home for a nap before lunch, then an afternoon nap. Feels like kindergarten.
Mea culpa if all this is TMI /Too Much Information. But if I lay it down to excess in this baseline it is to conserve energy, on which nowadays I can run short without notice. Enough news for now, time to snack and sleep.
Again.
More updates yet to come from Yours Truly,
Living The Recovery Life Across Cardiac County Line Road
James V. Sullivan
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