Here is this year’s Valentine tribute to my wife, who has been so very supportive and loving this past month following my open-heart surgery. She stayed with me at the hospital, sleeping several nights in a chair and has been at my side throughout this ordeal. As is the tradition, I bought her a Limoges Box that unfortunately arrived broken. It’s a London Phone Booth, where we spent our last vacation. I tried to repair it but ended up just adding a Band-Aid strip. I’ll eventually buy her another one to replace it, but I think it’s fittingly appropriate with my broken self still on the mend.
Heart Felt
I’m on the mend,
The phone booth not.
My Valentine’s gift,
Is broken and shot.
It was a reminder,
Of better days.
Our London stop,
And Marriott stay.
No problems there,
Unlike your last.
As I continue,
To recover fast.
Fewer pills,
Goodbye Sky Walker.
My numerous scars,
Still quite the shocker.
I can’t drive,
Even Fifty-five.
In fact, I’m lucky,
To be alive.
The best I can do,
Is a longer walk.
Though breathing hard,
There’s time to talk.
For your loving care,
It can’t be ignored.
You should win,
A Daisy award.
Unlike Humpty Dumpty,
I’m back together.
A leaky valve,
My storm to weather.
I’ve been patched,
A brand new start.
This Valentines Day,
A stronger heart.
Thanks for being,
My special Valentine,
Lucky for me,
That you are mine.
My love for you,
Will get me through.
Heart felt gratitude,
For all you do.
Broken things,
Can be replaced.
And mars and cracks,
Can be erased.
Just add a Band-Aid,
And all is well.
What once was broken,
Can hardly tell.
Copyright 2024 johnstonwrites.com
I’m writing this for a neighbor and friend, because it’s a story that needs to be recorded for posterity. In today’s world, there is so much hatred, disrespect, and misunderstanding when it comes to immigration. In the United States, most of this resentment stems from the Mexican border and a fear that jobs will be taken, safety compromised, diseases spread, classrooms crowded, natural resources strained, increased terrorism threats, illegal drugs distributed, and unwanted financial obligations absorbed. The Solution: Let’s Build a Wall!
Let’s face it, most of these are selfish concerns. There are already too many walls, and not enough doorways. We are a nation of immigrants, so it’s hypocritical to exclude “outsiders.” There are so many great benefits that have come from accepting people of different races, backgrounds, religions, and cultures. I just want to tell the story of one couple and how in the long run it has positively affected thousands. I’m writing it from the perspective of Peter Ambrus, whose parents were Hungarian immigrants but became Americans as a result of numerous twists of fate. Here is his story:
I was born in Hungary in 1951. As I grew up there, history reflects that the terms “hungry” and the country “Hungary” grew synonymous, under the ugly rule of Communism. Although obviously spelled differently, the two words are often pronounced the same. “Ehes vagyok – I’m hungry. En Peter vagyok – I’m Peter.” I think that it’s ironic that hunger actually helped my family flee from Hungary. But even more so, that they did it in a garbage truck and bribed hungry Soviet guards to cross the border.
Hungarians, like my parents, were poor, yet most of the food and industrial goods they produced during these turbulent decades were sent to Russia. As very patriotic people, this led them to resent the repressive Russian government They hated their censorship policies, and the strict Soviet control of what was taught in schools. They despised the vicious Soviet Secret Police known as the AVH (Allam vedelmi Hatosag), also called the State Protection Authority. These machine gun toting thugs ruled from 1945 to 1956, conceived as an external appendage of the KGB, in support of the Hungarian Working People’s Party, persecuting political criminals.
As a young child, I did not understand Hungarian politics, but I’ve since learned that following the defeat of Nazi Germany, Hungary became a satellite state of the Soviet Union under the leadership of Stalinist Matyas Raksosi. The fact that the words Nazi, Stalin, and Soviet Union appear in the same sentence, to me, says it all! My parents were right in wanting to get out of this hotbed of hate. They hungered for freedom.
Dictator Raksosi de facto ruled from 1949-1956 and established the AVH. In the long run, his heavy-handed style of communist government proved counter-productive to the interests of the USSR in Hungary. “His government’s policies of militarization, industrialization, collectivization, and war compensation led to a severe decline in living standards.” During his regime, according to various accounts, approximately 350,000 officials and intellectuals were imprisoned or executed by the AVH. Freethinkers, democrats, and dignitaries were secretly arrested and interned in domestic and foreign gulags. Some 600,000 Hungarians were deported to Soviet labor camps where at least 200,000 died. Hungarian citizens like my parents lived in fear.
As I now understand, following the death of Stalin in March of 1953, Imre Nagy, a moderate reformist, ascended to the premiership of Hungary while Raksosi was partially demoted by the Soviets to First Secretary. Nagy’s revolutionary government began to reign-in the AVH and ultimately dissolved the organization by 1956.
“Nagy promised market liberalization and political openness.” Hungary then joined the Warsaw Pact in May 1955, as societal dissatisfaction with the regime swelled. By early 1956, Rakosi managed to discredit Nagy who was replaced by the more hardline leade, Erno Gero with expectations that protests would decrease. However, by July, Rakosi was forced to resign while people began to further complain about the repressive nature of the government and low standards of living. Following the firing on peaceful demonstrations by Soviet soldiers and secret police, and rallies throughout the country on October 23rd, protesters took to the streets in Budapest, initiating The Revolution.
To add to the political confusion, in 1956 Imre Nagy became leader of the Hungarian Revolution against the Soviet-backed government, for which he was sentenced to death and executed two years later, following a failed attempt to flee to Yugoslavia. Approximately 3,000 Hungarians were killed, while 200,000 more fled abroad and became refugees.
On November 4, 1956, Soviet tanks rolled into Budapest to crush, once and for all, the national uprising. Vicious street fighting broke out, but the Soviets’ great power was too much to overcome, and as a result Hungary remained a communist country. As time went on, the Soviet Union weakened by the end of the 1980s, the Eastern Bloc disintegrated, and the People’s Republic of Hungary eventually transitioned in 1989 to a peaceful, democratic system. By then, we were all living in New Jersey.
The country of Hungary was a mess in my childhood, as evidenced by these extreme shifts in leadership that spurred civil unrest. As a five-year old, I was naturally clueless as to what was going on around me.
Surrounded by all this political disruption, paranoia, and violence, my brave parents began to plot their escape with the Garbage Truck. This is their heroic story that needs to be heard. I’m sure they never thought of themselves as courageous, fearless, or especially heroic. They were simply desperate and with desperation comes inspiration. They wanted a better life for themselves and their family and were willing to accept any of the consequences, including imprisonment and death. Because of them and the risks they took, my life is better.
Hungry Soviet guards were easily bribed with food and in this manner the Ambrus family members escaped the country but never lost their pride in being Hungarian.
To Be Continued….
Now that I’ve spared no detail on the hospital stay and copied all the notes off my phone, it’s back to daily reports on my recovery. I met with the surgeon a few days ago and everything is progressing as normal. My blood tests were “perfect,” and he confirmed that the EKG showed no signs of the initial Afib (Atrial Fibrillation) concerns, they took me off the blood thinner Eliquist, and took some of the restrictions off about my salt-free diet. I am going to have to go in for another ultrasound because there is an area of my lungs that may be retaining some fluids from the pneumonia. They may have to drain it, meaning another night in the hospital, or it might go away naturally. I had my last Bay Care physical therapy session and now making arrangements for Cardio Rehab.
I still won’t be able to drive for another few weeks, so my patient wife continues to act as chauffeur, chef, nurse, and motivator. Her family is now back in Portland, with her sister due next week. I’ve gotten plenty of attention, including today’s lunch with some of the Borrego Boyz while our wives celebrate Valentine’s Day together. She insisted that there be someone here to keep an eye on me while she’s gone for a few hours. We continue to take two long walks a day together, traveling a little further each time, and I try to work with my breathing tools every hour as instructed. I can feel a burn in my legs that I haven’t experienced in a long time from being inactive these past few weeks. I’m not using a walker but still feel a bit unsteady on my feet.
Last night was “Date Night,” my second non-medical outing since I’ve been home. We went to the Red Grouper Tavern, so I enjoyed some more fried foods. We traveled to Tampa General two days ago, an odd way to celebrate our 25th “Eddiversary” together, marking the occasion of our first date. We stopped at Freddy’s on the way back so I could have a cheeseburger and chocolate shake. I’ve put on a couple pounds these past few days, so I’ll have to watch my salt intake. Weight control will be an important daily monitor, especially since I’m no longer running every day. TV is now my chief form of distraction with shows like True Detective, Death & Other Details, Masters of the Air, and Yellowstone Season 5. Old movies fill the gaps. I’m also slowly able to focus more on reading as I finish up Why We Love Baseball.
I have little pain, but sleeping is still an uncomfortable experience. Between the diuretics, burning sensations, prostrate issues, and tossing & turning, I’m up practically every hour. A rare two-straight hours of sleep is worth celebrating. I’m not looking forward to tonight’s I.U. basketball game at Purdue, although we have a Super Bowl Eve Party to attend. We booked a Disney weekend in Orlando to take my granddaughter to see Bluey in mid-June before we fly to Portland for my wife’s birthday. I also made arrangements to go to the Braves’ Spring Training Opener against the Red Sox in a few weeks, so slowly but surely, I’m adding activities to my relatively sedative, day-to-day, life on the mend.
W
Working on the computer remains a daunting task. I haven’t been able to clearly focus on a single task, struggle with finger coordination, and shiver & shake from the blood thinners. My digits are often ice-like, needing to be warmed for even a proper blood oxygen reading. Most of this writing was done on my phone and transferred to this blog. I wanted to make sure to document this adventure while it was still fresh in my mind. I’d spend a few minutes on taxes, shift suddenly to baseball card organization, try to make a phone call, attempt to pen a poem, answer a text, pay a few bills, fill out another medical document, and then collapse for a nap. I did the daily Wordle, but any other of my regular card and word games took a back seat. All these once routine daily chores exhausted me, and I found myself unable to finish an entire chapter of a book or frequently confused on the plot of a TV series. They say that being heavily sedated for those two straight days of surgery had taken its toll and I needed to remain patient. Not so good of one, I’m afraid!
I returned to my role of grandfather, accompanying my wife in getting my granddaughter to the school bus and dropping off a belated birthday gift for my grandson. The bumpy car ride made me sore and the short distance seemed to stretch forever. I collapsed back in bed once we returned home, but failed to fall asleep, much like the restless effort before the 6a wake-up call. A shower, lunch, and shaky walk were next on the agenda before another boring afternoon of watching movies and attempting naps. I’ve come a long way in these first full three weeks since surgery.
Neck and back muscles ache from another restless night of trying to find a comfortable sleep position. Last night was nothing more than a series of short naps and trips to the bathroom. I often feel like there is a hole in my chest from a Howitzer blast. The surrounding skin remains sensitive and sore. There is a constant chill running through my body, but today is my last dose of blood thinners, so maybe my fingers and toes will finally begin to thaw. I continue to work the spirometer to strengthen my lungs and help warm my body. The cool Florida temperatures are not helping. I would like to sit outside in the sunshine but the air still gives me the shivers. Combine this with the existing tremors and my hands struggle with dexterity. I’m not much company for our guests that leave this afternoon.
I was buoyed by the IU basketball victory last night, after a first half performance that I can only describe as buffoonery. The team showed resilience, something that I need to get better at in fighting through this recovery. Everyone has been so supportive and I hate to let anyone down. Preliminary speculation is that my most recent EKG report no longer shows the irregularity of Afib. More frequent and longer walks, breathing exercises, a positive attitude, and a healthy diet are the keys to healing. I still feel like a Weeble-Wobble toy when I walk, unsteady on my feet. My thighs even burn as the leg muscles have obviously deteriorated from inactivity. I hate being out of shape, as my arms remain uselessly dangling at my side while raising them causes pain and stress on the repaired breast bone. I once again sit here starting at the TV screen while not really absorbing the content.
A neighbor reminded me that “the surgeon’s knife is a year long.” I can see where it will take that long to make a full recovery but will continue to do my best to make it shorter. I’ll fill you in on the surgeon’s report as to my progress after I catch you up on the trials and tribulations of I.U. basketball and “The Magic of 60.” I need a short break from the gory details of surgery, so why not focus on the equally ugly details of I.U. basketball.
The next few days in the hospital were like “Groundhog Day” with the exception of two more room changes. My wife slept dutifully in the chair beside me, while they carefully monitored my progress. I was finally able to poop and began to eat the tasteless meals they served, learning quickly to generously add the artificial sweeteners and syrups provided. Every morning at 4a an oriental woman would swoop into my restless dreams and extract more blood. I struggled with pneumonia and numerous x-rays were taken. A heart-shaped pillow held tightly against my chest was supposed to ease the pain of coughing.
At some point, I began to read the hundreds of messages on my phone and angrily filled-out the Westin survey. I began to walk the hallways, learning to properly use my new friend, “Sky Walker,” and not slumping my shoulders or looking at my yellow socks. I referred to them as “Chiquita bananas,” not realizing that Chiquita was the physical therapist’s name. The catheter was also removed and I was forced to pee in a plastic urinal, once again insulting my dignity. I could walk but was restrained by a network of wires and tubes. Plus, the call button for nursing assistance was often never to be found. Urine, sweat, and food stains made my gown even more uncomfortable.
And so it continued until Tuesday when they wheeled me down the seemingly endless hallways to have an EKG, pending my release. I was going home after 8-sleepless nights at Tampa General Hospital, waiting patiently in the Departure Lounge for a friend to drive me home. An athletic woman named Bernadette wheeled me out of the building and positioned me safely for the ride back from Tampa.
We were made aware that our small Lexus convertible would have been too small and potentially hazardous for transport, so my wife drove home by herself while I sat in the back seat of an SUV, providing fewer worries of an air bag exploding on my chest. Both my wife and I had concerns about how I would function in our home without 24-hour nursing assistance. Coughing made it difficult to converse on the way home and the bumps in the road were painful, but I was soon miles away from those obnoxious beeping monitors and eventually peacefully snuggled in my own bed.
Little did I know how uncomfortable I would remain at night, even at home. Pain pills, more Lidocaine patches, and muscle relaxants helped some, but I would toss and turn until morning light finally dawned. I often got up to read but had difficulty focusing on the content. My brain was functioning slowly, with lapses of memory loss. My chest was on fire, feeling as if I had a floor or sun burn. I was finally able to look at my scars in the mirror but touching them was difficult. Surprisingly, there were few stitches with only glue and wire mesh holding me together. Most all of the once loose threads had been trimmed away but the foot long incision was evident from where they reattached my breastbone all the way to my stomach. All I could think of was the “Z” of Zorro emblazoned on my chest or the “Y” brand of Yellowstone, and then I laughed realizing it really looked more like an “L.” The surgeon’s name was Lozonschi – perhaps he signed his work like Vincent van Gogh. The surrounding skin remained sensitive as nerve endings begin to rejuvenate.
There was a scary moment that next morning while sitting at my office desk. The room was spinning and I thought I might pass out. Out of instinct, I dropped to my knees in case I lost consciousness so I wouldn’t hit my head on something hard. It was the wrong thing to do, as I felt the painful strain on my breastbone. I then slowly rolled into the living room with my arms firmly at my side within the imaginary protective tube around my body they taught me, while the dizziness passed. I just needed some water due to dehydration from the Lasix diuretics I was taking -it was nothing more.
A nurse or therapist visited nearly every day, monitoring blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels and pulse. They provided guidance and exercises while encouraging me to walk and regularly utilize the provided breathing devices like the spirometer and vibratory mucus clearer. Sky Walker and I traveled a little further down the street every day, accompanied by my wife and cheering neighbors. May the force be with me and not so many bills!
My first big outing was to the Fort Myers Airport to pick up my step-daughter and her husband on Saturday, 5 days after being released from the hospital. For the four previous nights I had dozed in and out of a restless daze, thanks to Tylenol and other prescribed pills. We went to Laishley’s for a sushi dinner, my salt content strictly monitored by my wife. It was just enough variety and exercise to get an initial decent night’s sleep. After longer walks the next day I slept relatively well again, without the muscle relaxants. I still flip-flop with shoulder pain frequently under the covers, get up too many times to use the john, and feel a burning in my chest, until daylight finally comes. Tally is my first walk each morning before she goes to the dog park and afternoon naps aren’t quite as frequent.
Another trip to the doctor, two weeks after the first surgery, as healing time slowly passes. I sometimes wish I could fast-forward, but don’t want to miss out on life like I did for the first two days of unconsciousness. My wife’s cooking, even without the seasoning, started to become more appealing as my appetite began to return to normal. There were more blood tests, an EKG, and chest x-rays in preparation for the surgeon follow-up in three days, once our company leaves. I’m now officially cleared to abandon the walker, hopefully someone else will find Sky useful – farewell to the force.
Day 3: January 18, 2024
I asked what day it was and was shocked to hear it was Wednesday. I remembered nothing about day 1 or 2 and couldn’t recall the names of my care staff. The one I called “Lexus” may or may not have been correctly identified on my part. A woman came into my room, claiming to be my god daughter. I did not recognize her, blaming it on the surgical cap she was wearing. The nurse said that she worked for the hospital but didn’t know who she was while my wife claimed that she had simply wandered into the wrong room. It would be hours later, that seemed like days to me, before the mystery was solved. In that timeframe, I was focused on my friend from Indianapolis whose daughter called me “The Godfather.” However, she was not in a medical work role, but her sister was, adding to my confusion. I also thought they had left me in the hallway and forgotten me, but instead I was still in my same Intensive care room with doors open and curtains pulled back. More confusion! An attendant gave me my first shave and shampoo so I would be ready for guests. I vaguely remember my wife being there before she left for the first time after three long days to drive back home and my son came to visit, clarifying the whole “Godfather” episode. The mysterious visitor was indeed my ex-wife’s sister’s daughter that I hadn’t seen since she was about two years old. We had a nice visit. At the same time, I do remember feeling obsessively upset and helpless once my wife told me about the Westin room screw -up. They then got me on my feet for the first time.
The first night of consciousness was filled with annoying monitor beeps, probing nurses, and what I thought was a loud party that went on for hours. I couldn’t believe how disruptive they were or that no one came to check on me. I could not sleep, eat, or feel anything but touched my chest for the first time, thinking of the potholders I used to weave as a child. Untrimmed threads of yarn were protruding from my wounds and I certainly didn’t want to look. Tubes of various sizes ran out through my neck and ear areas, closest to the carotid artery. There remained a soreness in my throat from the breathing tubes that were removed just after surgery.
Nurses and doctors were concerned that I had yet to poop and began to fill me with laxatives. The pain drugs were causing the constipation, although my wife was convinced it was all the cookies I consumed the previous weekend, worried they might be my last. One health professional jokingly mentioned “Mount Vesuvius” and I was worried about making a mess for days. I was already humiliated by flashing everyone with my loose-fitting gown. I didn’t want them to have to wipe my butt, as well, after removing the smelly diaper. I kept calling for a commode but nothing was happening. Fortunately, I was wearing a catheter, so I didn’t have to also worry about peeing the bed.
The catheter was a surprising relief, after trying to imagine the discomfort of a tube up my shriveled penis. With prostrate problems and months of getting out of bed nearly every two hours, it was a savior in the first few days of recovery, although at times it felt like I was soaking the sheets. A man in the next room moaned and prayed for hours. I tried to watch basketball but the players moved like molasses. A few days later the football playoffs were on but I couldn’t find the right channel. Thankfully, I couldn’t watch two IU basketball losses to Purdue and Wisconsin.
I was convinced that they quickly moved me out of Intensive care on Wednesday eve because they didn’t want to deal with the stench of Vesuvius. I vaguely recall being uncomfortably positioned on a table in a room full of monitors with a pan under my butt. They were monitoring my Afib and I was surrounded by students and visiting physicians asking questions, hoping that my angry bowels wouldn’t explode. I felt like I was on display as a specimen to the medical world. An attendant brought me dinner but I had no interest. I just wanted to poop. I also remember being moved to another area where it seemed like they were painfully pressing BBs into my neck muscles. This combined with the bowel discomfort was unbearable. Neck pains became my greatest discomfort going forward, applying Lidocaine patches to ease the strain. Finally, I was wheeled to my hospital room where they said was a real toilet but I was wired to get only to the commode next to my bed. My wife settled into the chair beside me after returning from home for another long night of beeping and poking.
In a cloud of confusion, Westin security informed my wife that the reservations had not been properly linked together and the room was shown to be empty, despite the fact that we had keys and confirmations. The question is why did this have to be dealt with in the middle of the night, when had already taken such precautions? It goes back to the cliche of what happens when you give a man a badge and a gun?
On the eve of my second night of surgery, my wife is bullied into opening her door, proving who she was, and why in that room. The answers were all clearly in the paperwork at the front desk. By the time things were sorted out, she wouldn’t get any sleep and the only consolation she received was from the valet when she went to get her car for the drive to the hospital. This is one of the first things I remember from waking up and it made me helpless and furious. You would have thought by that time there would be apologies and flowers. Nothing.
My wife drove home on Wednesday to retrieve some clothes and try to get some sleep while I was recovering. As a Marriott Rewards loyalist and Club Owner, I was never notified of this horror. Mother Marriott had let us down, while I had pneumonia and in a helpless state to get this resolved. I thought for sure there would be an e-mail or phone call from management with an explanation that I could deal with when I got out of the hospital. Instead, there was a standard follow-up survey that I filled out in a drowsy state that went on to evaluate our dining experience. I gave the restaurant a bad review and the Food and Beverage Director was all over it, incensed by the 1 rating.
I somehow needed to get through the fog of yesterday’s first post-surgery post. It feels like a major victory after eventually composing just a paragraph at a time over three days. Hopefully, I can move much faster now that I’m not having to correct each and every word written. My finger strokes are approaching normal while my sluggish brain is better cooperating. It’s much like running when it takes a number of steps to settle into a coordinated rhythm. Just another foot forward!
With any major surgery, you need to get your house in order. Updating wills/medical directives, planning for pet care, pre-paying bills, arranging transportation, packing and making lists are some of the basic steps involved. Since my surgery was in Tampa, two hours away, and in the early morning, I also needed hotel accommodations. The popular Gasparilla Festival was going on to further complicate these plans. I began making reservations two-months in advance, trying to utilize points, and searching convenient locations nearest the hospital. We wanted the comfort and familiarity of what we fondly refer to as, “Mother Marriott.” This is why I have a hard time digesting what ultimately happened! I ended up making two separate reservations through Marriott at their Westin location. My wife was justifiably upset with me that I couldn’t get the smaller, closer Marriott properties and more nights. I had apparently waited too long to do this, but in my defense, the points would not be available in our account before mid-December. With all the pending medical expenses, I admittedly was trying to save a few bucks. This came back to haunt me!
We went to Texas Roadhouse the Sunday eve of surgery for my “last meal.” I didn’t have much of an appetite, so my wife took ribs back to the room. I had just gotten my final instructions from the surgeon to be at the hospital at 5a for 7a surgery, at least the events would not be delayed for a few hours as once thought. We double-checked at the Westin front deck to be assured that my two reservations were linked together and that my wife would not have to switch rooms. No problem! It was a hotel we had stayed at several years ago for Santana/Earth, Wind, Fire concert that would celebrate my 70th birthday. We ended up being a year early! (See Post #1786).
Before going to bed, I thoroughly scrubbed my body with the prescribed disinfectant cloths, a process I would repeat after finishing a mile-plus on the treadmill at about 3:30a. It was consecutive run #5,497 and the end of my running streak. The Westin was a little further than we hoped from the hospital parking and no more than a five-minute drive since no one else was on the sleepy, dark streets. All went smoothly through check-in, and I was soon sedated for two full-days, unaware of what was happening back at the Westin after my wife returned for her second night – this time alone.
Surgeons were texting her throughout the day with updates on my condition, and she got back to the room, knowing that I would not regain consciousness until the next day. A second day of surgery was necessary to fix “the roots.” I’m sure she was exhausted and on pins and needles while eating her warmed-over ribs. She had just gotten to sleep when she got the first phone call on the room phone at 12:30a. It was confusing to her why that phone was ringing and not her cell phone, so she ignored it in the process of searching her mind for an explanation. A few minutes later the phone rang again and the banging began on the door. She was terrified that someone was about to break in or that something was wrong with me, but could hear the muffled words, “It’s Security…Who’s in that room?”
Continued…
Today I start a new routine, as I woke up in my own bed for the first time since open heart surgery just over two weeks ago. There are still many cobwebs in trying to reflect on this remarkable experience, and given some time all my good, bad, amazing, and ugly stories will be captured on these pages. I’ve just turned on my computer, hoping to reestablish some coordination in my fingers. Everything is at a much slower pace while I fumbled many times to get into a rhythm. It was so frustrating and exhausting that this was the furthest I could go.
The running streak stopped without any regrets or even memory, since I was heavily sedated, waking up confused as to what day it was. When they said it was Wednesday and surgery initially began on Monday, I immediately knew that I missed a day of running after 5,496 consecutive ventures. The surgery team opened my chest, prepared for hours of patching, stitching, and rerouting. They then had to delay the closing an extra day, to finish all the gruesome details. They did have me back on my feet immediately as I met a new friend that I nicknamed “Sky Walker.” “May the Force be with me,” as I began to navigate the hallways of Tampa General Hospital on its stiff rubber wheels.
I was given three tools to fight the battle for breath: an incentive spirometer, Acapella Vibratory PEP Mucus Clearance Device, and a hand-made heart-shaped pillow that appears to be a child’s stuffed toy but is actually a pain, saving, chest-support for violent coughs. So far, it has taken three days to write these three paragraphs, due to focus issues, low energy levels, and typo corrections. I try to push on, so bear with me. At the same time, I’m slowly making my way through a hard-bound book.
Pills define my daily routine. My wife puts them all in cups labeled 8a and 8p. I simply have to make it between those two stretches of with short strolls, leg exercises, tv shows, well-wisher e-mails, personal hygiene, a shower on my new safety stool, meals, naps, restless sleep, and supplemental pain treatments. Speaking is exhausting and often leads to coughing spells from the pneumonia in my lungs. Please don’t make me laugh! I have managed to schedule some follow-up doctor appointments and speak with a customer service manager at the Tampa Westin Waterfront, the first war story I need to tell.
Continued…
I guess I’ve been watching too much Lawman: Sam Bass because I’m beginning to liken my surgery tomorrow to a hanging. Obviously, the outcome won’t be the same, but the anticipation certainly is. I’m currently eating my last meal, sausage & eggs, before the restricted diet comes into play. It’s certainly not a pleasant experience trying to plan for a life-changing event. I will be glad when it’s over and friends stop worrying about me. I’m trying to process all the well-wishes, prayers, and goodies. “The Streak” stops tomorrow at 5,496 days, but I’m still harboring hope that the rope will somehow break.
Surgery has been moved to later in the morning tomorrow, so I won’t have to run my final mile in the middle of the night. I’ll have the option of going outside or using the treadmill. Then, if I can even barely pick up my feet and cover a mile by Tuesday midnight, I could get to 5,497 or more. It’s probably a pipe dream, the same hope that any hanging victim might have in waiting out the hours and anticipating the questionable.
This morning’s mile-plus was cold and windy, but not like the conditions of last night’s NFL Wildcard game in Kansas City. We’ll make the drive to Tampa in a few hours as I continue to contemplate my fate. My wife’s daughter, the Cardio PA at Stanford, just called to advise me to move as much as possible after surgery despite the weakness. However, the other implied message is not to overdo it. A mile is probably out of the question the day after surgery, but the intent is still there.
I will not be able to continue my reports for a while and will not take my laptop with me into the Hospital. I might jot a few notes down on my phone, if that will even be allowed in Intensive Care? Just know that I will run tomorrow, likely for the last time on this particular streak. Beyond that is the unknown! Will there be more running miles ahead?
