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I’m not a movie producer and I’m not an athlete.   At least I wasn’t an athlete before heart surgery.

Others can create better short films and ride bicycles faster and better.  I know this, but amazingly I am able to do this.

And I’m just a dad…

The screech pierces my ears. What little protection my earbuds offer is a gift. The music is on very low, but it shields me from the banshee-like sound that would damage my eardrums. There’s a bang and the saw kicks back. The wood is wet and swollen and hard to cut. I pull an earbud and I’m greeted by the sound of mowers bagging leaves and leaf blowers running in the darkness. I’m bathed in a swath of light from halogen lamps in my backyard. The air smells of decaying birch and elm leaves and a slight hint of stench from rotting mushrooms.

My camper is parked on wood to keep it level through the winter. The wood decays into the ground. The decay is aided by the bacteria in the earth and when conditions are right, those bacteria sprout up those tiny tendrils that reach up to the sky to greet the day light, producing the mushrooms that surround my camper. Their life is short, but they produce more spores that go into the ground and will lay dormant until conditions are perfect yet again. For now, they’ve done their deed and consumed the wood that’s in the earth and are now collapsing back into the ground.

This is fall in New England. Darkness creeps in early and my chores are not done. Therefore, as night falls, I cut pallets with a circular saw to use as kindling. The wood is dry and hard. It lights easy but burns hot. This saves me from splitting up good hardwood that’s used to fuel the woodstove that heats my house. I’m Scottish so I know somewhere up in heaven an ancestor is smiling down on me; pleased that I’ve saved a dollar and not wasted my good fire wood.

My neighbor gets closer with his lawn tractor. It’s a beautiful orange Husqvarna and he’s bagging leaves as he rides. Its LED headlights cut the dark like a scalpel. He comes through my yard as a favor. He knows I’m cutting wood so he tells me to stay and finish while he does the rest. I am fortunate to have Frankie as a neighbor and a friend.

I still have to winterize the camper. There’s no antifreeze in the lines. The water heater is not emptied, and the freshwater tank may still have a few gallons left in it. I’m behind schedule on this task. I don’t have to cover it yet, but it should be prepared for freezing weather. My chores never stop. My daughter calls to me and it’s time to rush inside.

“Dad, how do you make this thing work?” My daughter is trying to make hot chocolate from the Keurig. I want to raise my voice and ask her why she would interrupt me for such a foolish task. Years ago I may have.

But I am different now.

I am not a perfect husband, and I am not a perfect dad. I have a string of failures behind me a mile long, but I am trying. So, I show her where the switch is on the side and show her how to change the cup size and change the temperature. Heather is learning to make her own hot chocolate. She’s young but industrious. She is strong and she is beautiful, but I’m her dad so I take these things for granted. Fortunately, tonight I have caught myself and I’m correcting my errors. She beams with pride as she makes another cup and offers one to me. I decline and tell her to give it to her younger sister instead. She bounds away cheerfully, proud of her accomplishment and the new thing she’s learned how to do.

I hurry back out into the cold to continue the wood cutting. My wife will need kindling to keep the house warm now that she’s going to be working from home most of the time. The camper is still waiting for winterizing and the cord wood needs stacking. Someone has a fire and I can smell the oak wood burning as the soot and smoke drift up through the air and traverse the neighborhood.

It’s time for the chainsaw and I rip the cord to fire the engine. You drop the saw and give a quick upward yank on the cord to spin the crankshaft and start the combustion process. Three years ago, I was still healing from two previous surgeries. Three years ago, I was a month away from my third surgery. Three years ago, starting this saw would have been pure agony. Use of this tool was an impossibility that humbled me and made me feel useless. My rib cage would have screamed, and the soft tissue would have cried out in pain.

Today it’s just a saw. One of several that I use as tools to make work easier. How lucky am I? Three years ago, I was unable to do the chores that were necessary. Today I look forward to the chores. I look forward to the ones that are hard. I use them to build strength and cardio. I use them to prove I’m still here.

The darkness engulfs me as my work continues. I think about how I was afraid that I had no future. As I work and cut, I think of how I feared that I had lost the ability to take care of my family. I feared I would not be able to provide.  I feared I would not be able to guide. I feared that I would not be able to teach.

Tonight, was my opportunity to fix that. It’s not just cutting wood to heat my home, and it’s not winterizing a camper or installing running boards on my wife’s truck. It was about that stupid coffee machine. One silly little coffee machine, but that silly little coffee machine was everything to my daughter in that moment. That was my make-or-break moment. Was I going to do everything I said I wanted to live for, or was I going to get lost in some stupid chore that could be continued in another 15 minutes? The right thing was to pause and put my current task on hold. The few minutes with Heather were more important than anything else I had on my plate today.

I’m back outside and sawing like a mad man. The time passes and wood is cut and stacked. With my chore complete for the night, I reek of two stroke chainsaw exhaust and premix fuel as I enter the house. My oldest daughter is singing in her bedroom, the hot chocolate is long gone. My youngest still has a half cup of hot chocolate, now cold from sitting. She’s watching Mickey Mouse on the couch but jumps up and runs to me to give me a hug as I enter the living room. A cloud of sawdust bursts from my jeans as she hugs me. I want to tell her she’s covered herself in debris but that’s not the right thing to do.

She was born 4 days after I returned home from my CABGx3. She was still in my wife’s belly when they wheeled me into the room to try to fix me.  I said a silent prayer that I would see her grow up. So now is not the time to scold her. She’s done nothing wrong. I am the fool who traipsed into the house covered in debris and bringing the acrid stench of outdoor work. She hugs me hard around my neck and says, “I love you Daddy!” The debris and the odor are no barrier. They are no match for the bond between us. For I am her daddy, and she is my window to happiness.

This is the moment I longed for 3 years ago. To still be here. To have chores. To do them. To support, to lead and to teach. And yes, to get a hug and hear, “I love you!”

There are dishes in the sink and I can’t wait to do them. It probably sounds silly, but it’s a chore. The average person cannot appreciate it, but a heart patient fully understands. I have a chore. I have a glorious chore that I am here to do. I am still alive and there is work for me to do. I don’t hate it. I am grateful for it. It’s silly to write it and it doesn’t even make sense, but it’s how I feel. I am still here and there are still things I can do. How wonderful is that?

I head back outside to complete the cleanup. I’m bathed in darkness as I return the chainsaw to the shed. Mowers and leaf blowers still sing out in the night telling the story of an Autumn evening in New Hampshire. The chores beg to be done. I wonder to myself if there’s anyone else out there in the night that is so happy to have a task that they can do?

Are these noises in the distance emanating from places where people are thankful to still be here? Are these people rejoicing in their opportunity to get something done? 

As I close the shed door I am surrounded by cool air and darkness, but my soul is drenched in light. Fall is upon us, and I am reminded once again how fortunate I am. I am an open-heart surgery survivor and yes I wield that chainsaw, and I’ll cut that wood by swinging that ax, and I’ll use the air tools and put the running boards on the truck, I’ll paint the house and I’ll do the dishes. I will do the chores and I will take the hard tasks. I have been given another day to get things right and I am thankful for it.

I think about the mushrooms as I walk past my camper. When the conditions were right, they reached up out of the earth begging for daylight only to live a brief life. Their chore is done and the wood in the earth is broken down, but when conditions are right, they’ll be back again.

If you’re new to this fear not.  Recovery is slow and painful, but your future can be bright. Post surgery I wondered what my world would entail.  Would I ever be able to approach the man I was before or was I doomed to be a feeble shadow of my former self? I was so wrong.  I have been granted the ability to be far more than I ever was.  More grateful, more humble, but stronger and with more resolve than ever.

Tomorrow I’ll reach out for daylight, thankful for the day and grateful for the chores and tasks that I can accomplish. If the conditions are right, I’ll be back again.  Doing my chores. Performing my tasks. Reading your stories and celebrating your victories. I will be thankful for the day above ground.

Fall New England Ride – Ride with me.    

Because life gets better…

(The song is called Circle with Me – by Spirit Box)

https://youtu.be/F8ata-N5glo

I cross my left foot over my right knee. My sneaker’s logo glows in the night. I begin to tighten the laces and the still is shattered with a loud pop. There’s hissing. An ember lands at my feet. I’m a bit too close to the fire pit, but the warmth is welcome. It’s cool and the calendar tells me it’s no longer summer. I’m a little saddened by this fact as I gaze into the fire. Summer has passed too quickly, and I haven’t accomplished all I wanted. Summer fires look pretty but drive you back with all the heat. Fall fires pull you in with their luxurious warmth. It’s 55 degrees and the heat is a gift this evening. I watch the colors in the coals as they flicker. White scatters to yellow, orange, and red without warning. It’s brilliant and comforting. I like my time at the fire.

I see the fire light in my daughter’s eyes as she tells me of her classmates who sit in the quad of desks with her. We discuss the issues that challenge her, and I feel my time is well spent. When you’re a dad, you want to fix things. When you’re a daughter you just want someone to listen.

Earlier this evening we took a trip around the neighborhood together; me in my sneakers and Heather on her scooter. I made sure to buy her a new scooter with LEDs in the wheels when she wore out the old one. At night it’s impossible to miss the dizzying array of lights as they go round and round. She thinks it’s cool. I think it’s a safety feature. I watch the colors in the wheels as they flicker. Green scatters to purple and red without warning. It’s brilliant, and comforting. As the wheels spin and my sneakers plod she tells me of the characters she’s created in Roblox. She tells me she loves singing and wants to be a singer when she grows up. She beams when speaking about her art projects at school.

Her eyes are blue, like her mother’s. It’s an unusual slate blue, and when she’s in low light or super excited about something, her pupils grow into crazy huge anime black with a thin slate ring. It’s beautiful and stunning and I know when they glow like that she’s speaking with real passion. She speaks of Minecraft and the amazing house she has built in the game. It’s foreign to me, but I listen because it is important to her. I treasure these moments knowing I’ll never get the time back, but it’s time well spent. Still she qualifies her achievements by saying, “it was just done in creator mode, not survivor mode.” Interesting.

I’m a heart patient so time is precious to me. I became acutely aware of my own mortality and have investigated all the statistics about longevity post op. There are flaws and gaps in the data, I know. There are also things my doctors have yet to discover about me. What other surprises are waiting inside me? I am aware of this, so I know the amount of time I have left here is anybody’s guess. I think about this while I sit at the fire.

How long do I have?

I went to a concert recently with a friend. I made the statement that the headliner is getting up in age and won’t be doing this forever, so we need to see him now, before retirement, or before he’s gone. The show was fun as expected and I’m glad I got to see the performance. On the very long ride home my friend spoke to her past days in an intra-business softball league. It came up a while ago, so I asked her to tell me more about it when we had time. I could tell this was important to her. On this night I would get her story.

As she spoke her eyes illuminated in the same fashion as my daughter’s. An injury keeps her from playing today, but the passion is there burning inside her. I could hear it in her words and see it in the same brilliant eyes as my daughter’s. Hers are almost gray blue and perform the same anime trick when she’s speaking from the heart. There’s a flicker in her eyes from the dashboard lights and it changes without warning. I heard all about her love for playing and coaching the team, and even writing the newsletter. The highlight was where she was called the best pitcher in the league, and it was backed up by a supporting crowd during an argument on the field. “Dude, you’re up against the best pitcher in the league, just take the strike.” Many would want to brag, yet she spoke of it with grace and humility, citing that it “was just an after-work league, so…” “But, yeah, I loved it.” Inside, I questioned why she would minimize her ranking by using the after work small league qualifier. Many would just say, “I was the best!”

As I listened, I thought how fortunate I was to hear what each of these ladies loved most, straight from the heart. In life we learn to guard ourselves and our passions. They open us up to attack and expose our vulnerability. Hearing people’s innermost thoughts requires mutual trust. Trust takes time.

How long do I have?

I’m a heart patient. I question how much time I have left.

Carl Sagan is the one who said, “And after the earth dies, some 5 billion years from now, after it’s burned to a crisp, or even swallowed by the Sun, there will be other worlds and stars and galaxies coming into being — and they will know nothing of a place once called Earth.”

We speak lightly or talk down to our own accomplishments because they’re not as great as our supposed superstars. It’s a shame, because five billion years from now our greatest all-time pitcher in Major League Baseball will have records that mean nothing to the rest of the universe. What matters is here, and now, and how that relates to us. Your accomplishments have value. They mean something to you, and they speak to where you sit and what you’ve accomplished within a group of peers. It has significance to each of us, so it means something. I wanted to hear each story because each one is important, and now I can see why. I’m glad both shared their thoughts with me.

I don’t know how much time I have left on this Earth. Do I have a year, two years, ten years? Just a few days? It’s easy to count in days and think there’s a lot left. If I live ten more years, I will have 3650 more days. If I live to be 90 that means I’ll have, what? Something like 11,000 more days! But at some point in this timeline, I’ll have only 30 days left. And unlike a video game I won’t be able to just add more lives or add more days. There is no hack to purchase or get around this. It’s not a game.

If we knew we only had 30 more days left, would we look back and question which days we wasted? When I get down to 30 days, I won’t care about Sandy Koufax’s baseball stats. The title of the league won’t matter. I don’t need 5 billion years to know that what will matter is that on a couple of nights I lived life and got to spend it with the greatest singer and video game player, and greatest pitcher in the league. Those days, those nights, and those people matter. Here. Now.

11,000 days. 10,998 now, with two days not wasted. I’m good with that, because 5 billion years from now our most popular and highest paid vocalist won’t be here and Sandy Koufax won’t matter. He won’t even be a blip on the radar.

-But right now, my friends and family, and extended family of OHS survivors here, matter to me.

The outline of a bird on my sneaker looks orange in the fire light. Only the small leaves of birch and elm have fallen. Oak and maple hold fast in early October. The small leaves have their own early fall scent as they collect and decay. The soft aroma of burning oak and pine in the fire pit permeates the air, mixed with just a hint of small leaves. My daughter is asleep with her head on my shoulder and her pad sits in her lap playing a sea shanty. Her white-blonde hair glows orange in the fire light. I watch the greatest singer I know as she sleeps and breathes. It’s late as I write this. The fire needs another log or two. The summer slipped past and I’m still not ready for it.

I have so much left to do. How long do I have?

I want to thank each of you, the heart patients who share your stories, your fears and your dreams. Thank you for trusting and putting yourselves out there. I love life. This, and you, matter. Here. Now.

As I sit by the fire thinking, I think that sometimes I need to think less. I’m a heart patient, but that doesn’t mean my life can’t be amazing. I spend my time with the people who matter and who add to the brilliance in my life. For them, I am grateful. When I get down to those last 30 days, I won’t look back on wasted days, but rather look back on the best life possible. I’ve been given an incredible gift. However much time I have left, it’s all a bonus. I don’t know how I’m going to conclude this. Maybe it’s just words that will go nowhere. I’ll throw another log on and watch my daughter sleep and finish writing this later.

The October moon has risen and greets me with all its splendor, as if to say, “Hey you fool. Stop missing summer. Fall is here, now, don’t let it slip by.”

I like my time at the fire.

It’s only 70 degrees Fahrenheit, but the sun on my face and skull cap makes it feel much hotter. Blake stands beside me with a GoPro Hero 8 mounted to his head strap. William is behind me with his team. Lois and Carl are in front of me in bright green. His Iron Man triathlon shirt tells you he is no ordinary gentleman. I don’t belong here. What on earth have I done? I fear I have made a big mistake and I’m kind of stuck now. I don’t belong here among these trained athletes. Standing alone.

Three years. Three arduous years. You can get an associate’s degree in that time or an accelerated bachelors. If you work hard enough and are dedicated enough it can happen. Maybe something else can happen. Some of you need absolutely zero encouragement. You are athletes coming back from OHS and you set the example for the rest of us to follow. You look forward to not only running a half marathon, but maybe even start training to do your 1st marathon, or maybe an ultra. Maybe you’re hiking all the 4000-foot peaks or looking forward to shoot trap again and keeping your club or national ranking.

But what about the rest of us?

We’re dads and moms. We’re grand ma and grand pa. We put our lives and hobbies on hold to have families and raise children. Then we’re slapped in the face with OHS and left wondering what kind of life is left before us. What kind of humble existence will we live for the rest of our days? Three years ago, I sat recovering at home with doubts and uncertainties about my future. I wondered what kind of pitiful husband and father I had become. How could I care and provide for my family?

Then I hatched a ridiculously stupid plan. What if I could run a 5k? Just a simple foot race to show my surgeons, my doctors, my nurses and technicians and all my therapists that they didn’t waste their time saving me.  Weeks later I would suffer failure and return to the hospital, my dreams temporarily dashed. Then I would return home still with problems and need yet a third procedure on my heart. The list of failures was piling up and my view grew dark and dim – about as dim as my future. Then the third surgery and success. My dream was suddenly a possibility, until alas as I was finally training to be a runner my knee failed – courtesy of that years ago motorcycle racing accident. Reconstructive surgery cannot undo all damage that we subject our bodies to. So while I could walk, I would never run. The final failure. The last dark curtain upon my vision. My dream was stolen from me, and I watched it disappear before my eyes.

I was almost crying as I left my orthopedic surgeon’s office. He said I will never run.

I was saved by a friend who told me to switch to cycling and I’ve been blessed with success. I became a cyclist, long distance cyclist, and century rider. Dreams were becoming a reality and my heart, though stitched up, was filled with joy. But I never got my 5k. However, success breeds success and sometimes success fuels other harebrained ideas. What if I ran a 5k with a stitched-up heart and a stitched-up knee? What if I ran in the dirt to give my knee a fighting chance and took breaks along the way? The break could be something far harder, an obstacle of some sort. Rope climb. Monkey bars. Ladder climb. Ice water plunge. Molasses like mud pit. Anything but knee pounding pavement. Make it harder. Make it soul crushing. Make it something to prey on every possible fear and discomfort – but give my knee a break.

I walk a 5k three or four nights a week. I can bicycle 50 miles without batting an eyelash. When I train, 100-mile ride is no problem. So, I started this ridiculous regimen. Swim laps to train other muscle groups not built-up during walking and cycling. Hike quickly up the steepest local hills to build muscle and then burn thighs on the way down. Do pull ups and free hangs to build grip and lift strength and callous my hands. Plunge my hands into a bucket of ice water for 60 seconds then do the monkey bars at the local school playground so I could learn to grip when I could feel no grip and my wet hands wanted to slip. Figure out my perfect swing to move rung to rung. Wear sneakers with orthotic insoles and a knee brace while doing hundreds of jumping jacks and jump rope – upon doubled up yoga mats to take the shock from my tender knee.

It. Was. Ridiculous. But I did it anyway.

Three years. Three very long years, that have gone by in a flash. I trained. I worked. Through rain. Through snow. Through heat and humidity. Walking. Hiking. Cycling. Climbing. Swimming. Bowflexing and free-weights.

Three years ago, my dream was stolen from me. I finally stole it back. I got my 5k, but as a 5k from Hell. I ran a Tough Mudder. Up and down the ski slopes of Stratton Mountain Vermont. Over vertical climbs like Ladder to Hell, under barbed wire in Taste of Mud. Slogging through mud pits and mounds in Mud Mile. Plunging into ice baths like Artic Enema and then facing the upper body challenge of Just the Tip where slat boards are your monkey bars and trailer hitch balls are your pegs in peg boards.

Then the Berlin Walls. Flat faced with no grip surface. The black 8-foot wall looms large when you’ve reached the end of your 5k. Run straight. Leap high and grip the top. Keep running up and throw a shoulder over. Let that pull your body over and you’ll make it to the other side. Then to break your soul further, as you near the finish the Mudderhorn stands tall with its three-story open netting climb. Just to let you know this is not an ordinary 5k run.

I wanted to let every surgeon, every doctor, every nurse, every tech and every therapist know that they didn’t waste their time saving me. Three years ago, I looked at my future, but could barely see past the foot of my bed. Today I’m healing. Not from surgery, but from the torture I voluntarily put my body through last weekend. If you’re an athlete, you don’t need encouragement. You are already planning to crush your previous achievements, but if you are someone else like me. Wondering what possible life could be waiting and what possible future exists, I want to tell you that for many of us, there is more out there. Life is waiting for you to hit it hard with your new heart. It’s begging for you to come at it with all you’ve got.

I’ve attached a link to my daughter’s video. The run is routed through the village condos and shops as it comes down the mountain and nears the end. (Turn the volume down because Dee Snider is going to tell you, “I gave you yesterday, I don’t need it, because today is MINE!”) I was adopted by a team from Massachusetts. I was right. I didn’t belong there, among the trained athletes standing alone. I belonged with my new friends and teammates. Crushing our goals together.

https://www.facebook.com/1238300259/videos/888732272519649/

I got my 5k.

I finally got it. Every drop of sweat. Every tear. Every iced muscle. Every blister – was worth it. I’m alive and I did it. I’m not bragging. I’m not an athlete. I’m just a dad, but I’m telling you it’s possible. If you are new to this OHS life, understand that we all know it is scary. I was scared too; scared of the surgery and frightened of my future. I’m here to tell you, you can do this – and I can’t wait to hear that you did even better than me.

And for the rest of you. I didn’t get here alone. Every story of success and every word of encouragement meant more than you know. Thank you for the stories you share and the caring and helpful attitudes you display to one another. I carried photos of every person who fueled me, taped to my chest, over my stitched-up heart through all the mud, ice, and fire. I only regret that I didn’t have enough room for photos of all of you.

Hands at 10 and 2. I grip the wheel tight. Using my right hand, I reach down and press the call button for my wife. It’s OK. The car’s not moving. I’m idling in the parking lot outside the medical center. My wife usually accompanies me to important visits, but not today. I have to tell her.

I stare at the wheel while my brain frantically searches for words. Like a game show contestant in a money booth or cash blowing machine, the arms and hands inside my brain are flailing around grasping for words they should have readily at their fingertips, but instead the words fly by like a cyclone of dollar bills and my fists are empty.

“It’s you. Are you good?”

Like an early snow, the words gently fall on me. Suddenly I can say what I want with ease.

“Not entirely, but I will be.”

“You’re not in an ambulance. Is your heart ok?”

“I ran my ass off. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t take a deep enough breath. I couldn’t run as long as last time, but I ran enough. It wasn’t chest pain; it wasn’t my knee. I couldn’t take a breath deep enough. Wave forms look good. It’s not starving for blood. Echo is good – my valves are great.”

“They think it’s pulmonary. I get an inhaler tomorrow. He wants me to get a heart monitor for biking, but said I could ride. I have two weeks to clear my lungs and then we go over this again.”

“Honey. This is great news!”

“My heart rate wouldn’t go up. Even after 10 minutes. I’ve trained so hard. I’ve built it into a machine. It wasn’t stressed. He said my biking and workouts have paid off.”

“So you’re good?”

Not entirely, but I will be.

-Relentless

Sun sets and I hear hawks and turkeys in the distance. The fire crackles as it begins to burn low. I can’t throw a log on because my youngest is asleep on my lap. She’s small and warm and brings me the most true happiness I’ve known. How lucky am I that she puts all her faith and trust in me?

I feel off, like something isn’t right. I’ll be calling my cardiologist tomorrow. I hate to admit it, but I think I’m facing a setback. The guy sitting in the chair holding my daughter isn’t me. He’s weaker and winded more easily than me. A 50 mile bicycle ride that should have been a simple training ride kicked the crap out of him. Cleaning gutters took the wind out of him. He’s not me.

The turkeys have come to visit and feed on acorns and grubs in my yard. I can sit by the fire while they feed since they pose no threat, unlike the black bear in my buddy’s yard two days ago. The turkeys are elegant and resilient. A hearty bird capable of surviving New England weather. I like them.

I’m not worried about my health. I’ve been knocked down before and I’ve battled back. Challenges and setbacks don’t define me. Someone once said, being knocked down is not your fault. It’s got nothing to do with you. Getting back up has everything to do with you.

I get back up.

I have to get back up. I have two little girls depending on me. I need to set the example of strength, resilience, determination and love. It seems we’ve come to demonize men who are strong. Men who stand tall and fight back. I hope and pray my girls find men who have the guts and integrity to stand up and fight back. Men who will open the car door and any other door for them, not because my girls are weak, but because they are cherished and respected. Men who can face a challenge and figure out a fix.

My little one stands tall and stands up for herself already. She’s going to make one hell of a partner in a team one day. I want to see that. So tomorrow I’ll be on the phone with my people trying to figure out what to do next. It might just be a cold leading to a simple respiratory issue or maybe something bigger like a bypass has failed. It doesn’t matter. We’ll fix it.

I’ve been knocked down before. I will get back up: Because I have a wife that needs me. Because I have two little girls who depend on me. I will get back up because that has everything to do with me. I’m not smarter, I’m not stronger, I’m not faster, I’m not tougher than anyone – but I am relentless.

I will get back up.

I felt my own trepidation.  Holding the match close to the bottom of the test tube I was preparing myself for what was about to happen.  We had heated wood inside the sealed test tube releasing hydrogen gas through sublimation.   Quickly inverting the tube kept the lighter than air gas inside while the stopper was removed. In a moment the tube would make a loud bang as the hydrogen was ignited.  I needn’t have been worried.  It was more like a loud pop and in that instant my experiment was over and a got an A on my class project.

I watch the flame of the fire in the pit before me. Thanks to that class and others I know that the flame is not plasma, the temperature is too low to cause a reaction of much ion creation, but rather super-heated fuel or soot that is so hot it glows.  If you know this too, thank a chemistry teacher. The flame yields the familiar red and orange glow, and the heat warms me on this beautiful spring evening.  I’ve just come out to the fire to have my second or third of the year.  The previous being very early in the season, just so I could say I had them. I’m also here to fix my soul.  I’ve been feeling a little bad about how I’ve been doing with my workout regimen.  Fireside thought will give me a chance to recenter and figure out who I’m supposed to be.

I told my wife I feel terrible and that I’ve been missing far too many targets.  My goals have slipped, and I am afraid I won’t be in the shape I need and want to be in by the end of the month.  I confided this to my wife, and she sent me out here.  “You’re not failing.  You have a ridiculous personality, and you attack and crush everything you attempt.  You realize you’ve changed your work out routine twice in the last two months, right?  All to change up what you’re doing.  You have two very different goals this year and you’ve also added swimming.  My God! You just got a membership at the YMCA so you can use the pool and swim laps.  Are you forgetting that?  Are you forgetting your private swim lessons with your coach? You’ve got plans on top of plans and little time to fit it all in and yet you’re doing it and then you think you’re failing because you have to take two days off to rest and heal your shoulder!”

She’s right.  I am a grand pain in the neck to live with.  I must drive her bananas.  I’m thankful she doesn’t get emotional, although that too has its drawbacks.

I promised if they fixed my heart, I’d fix the rest of me.  I’ve been striving to keep that promise since my third procedure, since I saw success and improvement in cardiac rehab.  It was supposed to be a 5k, then my knee failed.  Then it was supposed to be riding 15 miles. Then 25. Then 40. Then 100.  Raising funds for the American Diabetes Association and Stop Soldier Suicide.  That would have been enough, but then I got even better.  I felt better.  So, I’ve kept pushing.

It’s me. I’m a pain to live with.  I know it.  My wife is easy.  She is levelheaded and doesn’t get emotional at all.  I jokingly call her the robot.  Her usual response to an issue is, “We will address that when it comes to a head.  Right now, it’s not a problem.”  Me?  I’m the one who throws a wrench through the garage wall.  My wife never gushes over gifts or anniversaries.  Her standard response is, “Nice.”

On our second anniversary I gave my wife a woven cotton blanket.  Simple. Off-white. Warm.  She said, “Oh nice.”  I looked for the disappointment and asked if she had any questions.  She said, No.  “It’s perfect.  Sometimes the house gets chilly in the winter when we don’t have a fire in the woodstove so this will be great on those nights.” 

“No. No.” I said, “You’re supposed to have questions as to why a stupid blanket.  It’s our ‘cotton’ anniversary. Get it?”  “Oh.  Nice” she says.

“No. No. There’s more, “I say.

“You’re going to need that to keep warm…”

“On our horse drawn sleigh ride…”

“To our bonfire…”

“Wine tasting…”

“And fireside chocolate bar!!!”

My wife smiles and says, “Nice.” Yeah.  That’s it.

On our seventh anniversary I had just had a conversation with a friend who told me a supplier of his could plate anything.  Not just baby shoes, but anything.  They were making a ton of money plating pot leaves!  Oh, the wonders of modern technology.  Later I struggled with what to get for my wedding anniversary.  My wife has given up all her hobbies to become a mom and businesswoman.  What do I get for our…?  OMG!  I called my friend, “Hey, I need a favor!” and gave my special request. 

On that night, our “Copper Anniversary”, I would take my wife to the Copper Door restaurant.  I’d give her a card made from tin, brass and copper.  Then I presented her with a gift my friend helped me turn into a reality – an actual copper plated rose.  A real rose.  An actual freakin’ rose. Plated in gleaming copper.  For real. 

My wife smiles and says, “Nice.”

I can do nothing to sweep her off her feet.  Maybe it’s because I’m so hard to live with.  Maybe she really is a robot.  The answer lies somewhere in between.

I think about this and other things as I stare into the fire.

“It has to come off,” says the nurse, looking at my wedding ring.  It has now become a bone of contention.  “It doesn’t come off,” I reply.  “It never does.  I’ve worked on very high voltage and very high current and it just doesn’t come off.  Tape it up if you’re concerned about contamination in the operating theater, but it doesn’t come off.” She’s never had to deal with this before, I can tell.  She gets the surgical team lead. I tell her it doesn’t come off.  We argue.  Now, don’t get upset if your husband takes his off every day.  This is my own neurotic thing. It doesn’t make me any better or any worse than anyone else’s husband.  It’s just the way I like it, but it became a fight.  The surgical nurse is at the foot of my bed and says plainly, “It has to come off.  There’s no taping up in this one.  All metal off.”

I look at her with what I’m certain was the face of a wide-eyed kid.  “You’re going to kill me. Oh my God.  You’re going to kill me.  You have to restart my heart and you’re afraid I’ll arc through my ring to the bedframe.  Holy crap!  I thought you were holding me down with a fork and sewing my heart.  You’re going to kill me!”  She replies, “You still have brain activity.”

“YOU’RE NOT MAKING IT BETTER!”, I shout.  I am a pain in the rear.  I know it.  My poor wife.

I am promised it will be put aside.  In the drawer of the table beside me when I wake or else at the nurses’ station in Surgical ICU.  Either way it’s coming off, but they will have it kept safe for me.  The drugs take effect, but the argument continues.  These foolish people think I’m giving in, but they don’t know what they’re in for.  My wife pleads with me.  I won’t give in. 

It’s not gold. I was married before.  This time I vowed to do better.  My ring is better.  It’s made from some of the coolest material on earth. Titanium and carbon fiber.  Aerospace.  Land speed record. Top Fuel Dragster. Formula One racing.  They all beg for titanium and carbon fiber.  It warps itself around my finger with its combination of amazing properties.  It’s awesome.  It doesn’t come off.

Twenty-four hours later I awaken to take my 1^st walk down the hall.  I ask where my ring is.  My nurse has no idea what I’m taking about.  They check the drawer and the nurses’ station.  No one knows what I’m talking about.  I’m upset, furious, and full of “I told you so.”  I walk the halls toward the entrance.  I’m told my wife is here and I can hit the button to let her in and surprise her.  I turn left.  I turn right.  I turn left again.  I ask my nurse, “Where the hell are we going?  Is this a hospital or a clown car?  When do the halls end?”  I was sore, thus ten feet felt like ten miles, but I finally reached the doors and the big green button.  Funny.  I thought it would be red.  Maybe that’s just in Batman movies.  I hit the button.  The doors open.  “Tada!” I say in a wheezy post intubation voice.  My wife is aghast that I am walking and walking so far.

“They lost my ring.”  That’s not really what I said.  What I said contained the term ‘Mother’ and something else, but it meant the same.  Just with more anger and disappointment.

Liz stops me. “No. Honey.  You don’t remember.  You were so sedated.  You kept fighting with them until just before you went in.  You don’t remember. Listen. I stuck my finger to yours.  It had to happen.  Just before you went in, I slid your ring onto my finger.”  She holds her hand up, and there, above her engagement and wedding ring, sits titanium and carbon fiber brilliance.  She says, “Do you see? Your ring left you, but it never left us.”

I glance up and say what I’ve wanted to say for the longest time: “Nice.”

My robot smiles at me.  She knows what just happened. We laugh as we start the long road that that lies before us.

The temp has dropped to 43 deg F (6 C for everyone else).  I’m reaching out to the fire to warm cold fingertips as I type this.  An owl sings out from a tree top nearby, and I hear the cry of a baby, but it’s really a fisher cat making its presence known. My face is warm, but my back is cold.   The darkness brings cold spring air that sinks to the ground and transgresses the layers of my sweatshirt and sport shirt. Time has slipped past faster than I thought.  I should head in soon, but my wife told me to enjoy my time at the fire, so I stay a bit longer and reflect on how fortunate I am.  I’ve read the stories of those who go it alone through OHS and the requisite recovery. I’ve read the stories of those with partners who provide no support and yet others who have partners who demand they return to normalcy within weeks or even days. I’ve been blessed with understanding.  I’m not bragging.  I’m grateful and appreciative because I know the struggle that some face is far harder than what I have been given.  I beat myself up for failure to make goals or because I pushed myself into muscle and soft tissue strain. As I fight in the ring and I land each blow, I’ve got a combination coach/medic in my corner.  Ready to tape my cuts, sooth my pain, and guide and reassure me.  She never sheds tears of joy when I do stupid romantic things and she never gets overly excited about anything.  I’ll just keep doing the silly things I do and know I’ll be greeted with, “Nice.”

Sitting by the fire I recall those first waking moments after OHS and how grateful I was to be on this side.  I express my gratitude for all who saved me, coached me, guided me by keeping my promise.  I don’t want a single doctor nurse technician or therapist to think they wasted their time saving me.  So today I push a little harder.

Photons are emitted from the high temperature particles.  They dazzle with their beauty as the night sky morphs into dark blue.  Flames climb high as if reaching toward the darkness above and as I gaze upward, I’m rewarded with the glimmer of the first stars of the evening.  Fireside brings me peace and comfort and the time to think. My thoughts wander and I know I must give thanks for all I have. I am a royal pain to live with.  It would probably be easier on my wife to have someone who would sit in the rocking chair eating bacon after OHS.  The problem is, I made that promise.  If they fixed my heart, I’d fix the rest of me.  I still have a long way to go.  I’ll continue to work out but find a way to make this fit more easily.  Anything worth doing is worth doing well, so I’ll figure it out.  I owe that to my family.

Battle on Warriors.  You’ve fought hard thus far, and others fought hard for you.  Make them glad they saved you.

A while ago someone asked about lessons learned and silver linings. I’ve been seeing posts about fear of surgery, outcomes, and its worth. These are good and valid questions. In that regard, although late to answer, I thought the time appropriate to do so.

One major lesson – tomorrow is not guaranteed. Spend your time wisely, you can’t get it back.

I knew I needed to be here for my wife and kids and nothing on earth was as important as that. I decided if they fixed my heart, I’d fix the rest of me. I found out it’s not about deciding to run a marathon tomorrow. It’s not about swimming a mile next time I jump in the pool. It’s about making the commitment to enact change and being dedicated enough to do what I promised. It’s easy to say you will walk every day. BUT – It’s much easier to say it’s too dark, it’s too cold, or it’s raining. Then you learn that anyone can make an excuse. It’s those who are dedicated who commit to make each step happen; those who are steadfast enough to keep each small promise to themselves. You’re not going to run a marathon unless you can run a half marathon and you’re not going to run a half marathon until you can run 10k. If you can’t run 5k you are not running 10, so you better damn well start walking. If you can’t be dedicated enough to walk when you say you’re going to, then the marathon is just a pipe dream.

It’s not comfortable, but no one ever achieved greatness through comfort.

No one cared about my goal of running a 5k. It meant nothing to anyone but me – but that was enough. Some say there’s no reason to change your diet, there’s medication for that. There’s no reason to work out and work harder, you’ll live as long as you are expected to. I say that’s for folks who choose the easy way out. I may die early, but when they’re putting me in the ground, no one will be able to say I didn’t put the effort in. So, I changed everything. It began with changing how I ate and then changing how I exercised. I walked, I ran, and I bicycled. I worked out. I made it so that I rode my bicycle 100 miles, 10 months after I started training. It cost me time with my family and time with friends, but it has given me back much more. I have learned how to be successful and push through discomfort. I’ve been granted the ability to be the uncle to who takes the kids on hikes to see things they never imagined. I paddle them across the lake to places they never witnesses from a power boat, and I spend quality time with my kids, doing things that should require a much younger man.

Change is possible and we can experience the life that’s promised us, but no one is going to hand it to us. You must be smart enough and determined enough to take the opportunity and run with it. You need to commit, and you need to have dedication.

My nurses told me, it’s going to take hard work, commitment, and discipline. It will hurt. It will burn. Sometimes it will be lonely – but it will be worth it. So far, they have been right. I stress over little things less. I look at the big picture more. I smile when I see my wife’s successes and celebrate things that she doesn’t think are important. I laugh over silly games with my kids and look forward to coloring pictures and drawing mermaids with my daughter. I look forward to more adventures and experiences and less toward things. Heather and I draw mermaids while sitting on the front steps, because some things in life are more important than finishing the sheetrock or putting in a new vanity right now.

Two and a half years ago I asked for one more day. I got this. I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste it. If you’re new to this journey, know that you have a choice. For the majority of us there is an option to get better. How far you take that is up to you. Life after OHS can be amazing – and for me it has been. I’ve been hit with challenges, but I’ve fought through them, and each battle has taught me the value of today. You’re a Heart Warrior – you are already amazing. You have an opportunity to be even more spectacular than yesterday.