An Exclusive Club

This is a long one. Be forewarned.

If you read this blog, you know my politics. I am one of "those" liberals.

You know, those nuts that are trying to promote government spending on social programs. One of those who believes that everyone should have a fair shot at being treated for illness, whether mild or devastating. One who believes that a chance at education should not be restricted to those who can afford it. One who recognizes that not everyone can pull themselves up by their bootstraps, but may need a system which offers compassion and care. It would be safe to say that I believe in most everything that Sarah Palin does not. Are you fine with that Grizzly Mama? And yes, I probably have an agenda!

I was raised as a Southern Baptist after being tested for a period in the waters of the Pentecostals by a great aunt who feared for my hereafter. I can even quote Bible verses from memory. And yes, I attend church regularly. But I am a raving fanatical liberal. My favorite color is blue.

That entered in the record. It is time to confess something. I want it out there so that it doesn't come back to haunt me later.

I belong to a very restricted, very selective club. And I guess, since it is true confession time, I should also mention my hobby is sailing.

Uh oh!!!!!

I started this blog as an experiment at the suggestion of a friend. Its purpose was to acquaint myself with the medium so that I might impart a personal passion to those who might visit the website of an organization for which I have great interest. (www.thehomeworkproject.org) However, FOMS: Frustrated Old Man’s Syndrome has become an enjoyable adventure for me. I should be blogging more about Romania but since Oprah and Sarah continue to make headlines, I have no choice but to react. Sometimes a guy's got to do what a guy's got to do.

But I digress.

The very first entry in this series of rantings back in November of 2009 talked about dealing with atrophy and the body. It was the day before I was to go to my private, exclusive, and “toney” club.

First a bit of background information.

In February of 2009, it was discovered that I had been a very bad boy in the cholesterol department and there was some arterial blockage that could really cause a problem. So, I had angioplasty. Stents placed in the congested vessels pumping the key to life. More were added in March.

I have lived on the wildside of saturated fat.

My eminent cardiologist – and I believe him to be one of the very best – along with my general practice physician (whom seems to know me better than I know myself) both suggested that I should involve myself in a cardiac rehabilitation program offered by the hospital following the heart surgery. It is a gym-like program designed for heart patients and administered under the watchful eye of trained nurses – specialists in cardiac conditions.

But, I am headstrong. And besides, sailing season was about to begin and I reasoned that I am always very active during those many days out on Lake Michigan, so I didn’t really need to do anything more.

So I sailed and sailed and sailed. Fall came, sailing ended.

In mid-November, coming through O’Hare from a trip to see the little people, you know them as the grandchildren, and to pop into my place in Alabama, I literally thought that I would collapse somewhere between Gate F22 and Baggage Claim.

I was exhausted. I was winded. I was a bit surprised at my degree of “unfitness.”

So, contritely, I phoned my cardiologist the following day and meekly requested to be admitted into cardiac rehabilitation. I was like the drunk who had awakened in the gutter with a cheap bottle of ripple and no brown paper bag. I was desperate. The window for acceptance had closed so a “new diagnosis” had to be formulated.

But “he” is god and it happened.

Within 24 hours the phone rang and a voice that I now know well introduced herself and outlined what was involved. I agreed to begin on the following Wednesday. I had considered 7 a.m., but finally opted for 9.

Sometimes, you just have to ease into things, you know.

Now I am a person who does not like new experiences. It has to do with controlling my environment. No surprises. I abhor walking into a room as the “new kid” on the block. So going into rehab was a challenge. The walk from the parking garage seemed interminable. But I made the maze of corridors in a hospital that has “added on” quite a number of times.

Finally I was there. Go ahead dummy - hand on doorknob. It is not rocket science.

I opened the door and was greeted with people on treadmills, stationary bicycles, NuSteps, and a couple of guys having their blood pressure checked.

It was a buzz of activity.

Think Bally’s but add 40 years and double the pounds on all the participants. You don’t see a lot of spandex in cardiac rehab. Thank you Lord!

Immediately, Jean – one of the nurses – handed me a heart-monitoring device and showed me where the locker room was located so that I might “hook myself up.” Thankfully, the electrodes were white, green, and red. I could sort those simple colors out. Sometimes when I am given things that are acqua, lime, or lavender, I become lost in “color-nuance” land.

I am colorblind. That is not a statement about political correctness.

With electrodes attached, I returned to begin my new life.

Jean began logging me onto the computer program which would allow the staff to observe my heart rhythms. Before I could even sit down on the recumbent bike, I heard a “whoa!”

Now, there are things heart patients never want to hear. “Keep walking towards the light” is one. “Whoa” is another.

It seems that even before exercise my heart was in atrial fibrilation. The upper chamber was beating too fast for the lower chamber to pump the blood out. So the only exercise I got my first day was getting into the wheel chair to be chauffeured to the emergency room.

Well, I got some meds to control my racing upper chamber and returned to rehab a couple of days later.

Things went swimmingly for about two weeks. Then I heard another “whoa.”

This time the heart was beating too slowly. Back to the ER. I was about to request a free visit – you know, come twice and the third is free. You think about things like that in retirement. Its that “fixed-income” mentality.

This time, the god of cardiology decided to place a heart monitor on me and see what was happening over a twenty-four hours. I made a pledge to try to avoid driving, watching Fox News, or reading about Sarah Palin for this period.

I returned the monitor to the office so they might decipher the ways of the heart and proceeded on to rehab. Hooked up and ready to go, I heard another “whoa.”

Now Jean is a very great conversationalist, I assure you. Articulate. Experienced in her work. But with me, there was a redundancy that was becoming a bit bothersome. I was hearing "whoa" as often as a mule in cotton season in Mississippi.

Back to the ER. I guess this was my freebie visit.

The god of cardiology spoke and declared, “you are getting a pacemaker.” Oops there goes all my culinary skills right down the drain. Pacemaker = microwave. Memo to self: sell your Stouffer’s stock.

It was December 23 and I was being told to prepare to be sidelined for a couple of days by the installation of a very sophisticated device in my chest. But, as a church musician you know early on that Christmas Eve is a “never miss” event. And besides, I was flying to Alabama on Christmas Day, something I have done for years.

Well, the god of cardiology allowed me Christmas Eve but denied me going south. The pacemaker was installed the day after Christmas. Now, a computer in my chest was going to record each beat my heart makes. Say goodbye to the “swinging singles.”

I could imagine Janet, the pacemaker lady asking, “would you like to explain what was happening at 12:30 a.m. on March 18?

Following the surgery, I was instructed in great detail that my left side was to be practically unusable for six months. No lifting. No sleeping on the left side. And no raising the hand above the head. Thankfully, I am not a Pentecostal.

So I had some down time from rehab during the healing process. In early February I finally got to fly south and on to Florida to help my firstborn celebrate an important birthday. And yes, spend some quality time with the youngest of the little people, my granddaughter.

Now when we were all together in Dallas in November, she was very “stand-offish” toward me. Trying to avoid a repeat, my son had spent a great amount of effort in her looking at photos of the old guy and talking about granddaddy coming for a visit. So she came running to me with arms outstretched.

I grabbed her and lifted her up for a kiss. Bad granddaddy! Bad granddaddy!

I returned to rehab in mid-February and got hooked up on the monitor.

They say that things happen in threes. Not true. They sometimes happen in fours. You know what happened. Get ready.

“Whoa!”

I had pulled the leads from the pacemaker out of the heart muscle. The only pacing going on was the exasperated cardiologist who had never had a patient quite like me.

The pacemaker was reinstalled and I am still in rehab. I have even graduated from Phase 2 and am now an "independent contractor" in Phase 3. (No heart monitor.) I have had fewer "whoa" moments because of the great staff. They are lifesavers and they wear their mantles with great grace.

I like to think of rehab as an exclusive club. Not everyone can qualify. Some of those who do have had 911 moments. I have been fortunate to have been at the right place at the right time.

Like any club, some of our members are more driven than others. Mel, one of our guys felt quite proud of having three pieces of pound cake for breakfast. Mel is diabetic and I thought the nurse would choke him. Mel, sometimes you just got to lie.

Jean left us for a job closer to home and a great opportunity. But that great lady, Colleen, who first called me to set everything up and get me started is still there patiently shepherding us all. She is our membership chair. Our gatekeeper. She remembers the little things. She asks about sailing. We talk about her son the singer who just started college. Tomorrow we will probably talk about separation anxiety.

I cannot think about a better club to which one could belong. My kids do caution me to always say “cardiac” and not just “rehab.” I think it is a Lindsay Lohan thing.

I like to think of myself as finally finding the “purpose driven life.” (Sorry, Rick Warren.) It is nice to decide to add another ten minutes on the NuStep while discussing a good book with my friend Mike. I love discussing the South with Bennett. Larry shares my passion for social outreach. Ted and I talk sailing. Hy just keeps whistling.

You couldn’t find a nicer bunch of clubbers.

I do get a strange look from Ruthie, the quiet one, when I respond to Colleen’s question, “how are you doing over there?”

“I’m walking for Jesus!” as I go for another lap on the counter. It's good to be alive.