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Retirement is not without Hassles: Broken Things #2481

My wife does not like to keep things that are broken, but I always think they can be fixed. Maybe this is why I tend to be a pack rat, reluctant to throw things away? I have several tubes of Super Glue in my desk drawer, ready to repair anything. Years ago, it used to be gray tape that was the fix-it-all, but glues have now taken center stage. In fact, right now, I’m held together with glue. It was a lot better option than staples or stitches because the potential of scarring is reduced. After my recent open-heart surgery, there is a foot-long incision that runs from just below my Adam’s Apple to about 3″ above my Belly Button. It’s slowly healing but still sensitive to touch.

As time goes on this scar will become less pronounced, at least I hope so. However, there will always be the reminder of these days of recovery – sometimes painful. Today, I walked a little more than a mile, but still find it difficult to balance. I tend to weave, much like I’m on a floating dock or maybe had a few too many. It’s been over a month since I’ve had a drink – but that will change soon. I’ve also been driving again – making progress. 

Yesterday, I definitely overdid it! By bedtime, I was totally out of it – quiet, despondent, and irritable. I had gotten up at 6a to escort my granddaughter to the bus stop. However, she was sick the night before, so she stayed home for school and plans to get together as a family for dinner last night also changed. Just when I thought I might have a restful day, the school called my wife in to substitute, and I drove her to work. Tally rode with us, so I stopped at the dog park on the way back home for her to see her friends. A neighbor then came over and we discussed more details about our book project, “Hungry in Hungary.” After he left, I updated the rough draft and made some phone calls. 

I made myself some lunch and headed out to the rehab center to drop off some paperwork from my surgeon. After discussing options, we decided that it won’t start until after I get back from our cruise in mid-April. In the meantime, all I can do is walk. No running, lifting, or raising my arms above the top of my head. I certainly don’t need to make the long drive to the trainer for simply a supervised walk on the treadmill. I can do that on my own on the neighborhood streets. The same may be true for any weight training in the future that I can get accomplished at the nearby fitness center. Cardio rehab may very well be on my own. Next!

It was then time to pick up my grandson, Gavyn, at the bus stop and drive him home, as I once again put on my Uber cap. Once that grandfatherly duty was completed, I picked my wife up at school and we headed home for my afternoon walk and dinner. She was justifiably disappointed that I failed to get my honey-do list done. All these modifications in my schedule, book writing, and multiple errands proved to be exhausting. I was already beginning to nod-off as we watched TV, so bedtime came early. I’m definitely still tired and broken, joining the other broken stuff that we own. These include my glasses, the Valentine’s gift I bought, a sentimental Austin snow globe that mysteriously fell apart, the towel rack in our guest bedroom, the cable-TV box, and a cabinet door. I guess I’m in good company, waiting to be repaired. 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hungry in Hungary Part 3 #2480

Continued from Post 2477:

At no point was there likely ever a conversation between the six new refugees about going to the United States. They were convinced that they would settle somewhere near Hungary, likely Germany, and probably never return to the comforts of their homeland. Country, friends and family were reluctantly left behind by all of them, but only my parents were forced to  abandon a precious child. This had to weigh heavily on my mother. Wherever they eventually landed, this tight group would always stick together, having already gone through so much trauma, already bonded for life. They were now probably “living,” if you could call it that, in a Viennese camp in the center of Traiskirchen, the former Artillery Cadet School built in 1900 and undoubtedly huddled together with other Hungarian castaways. Their names were at the very bottom of a long waiting list of those requesting to go to Germany.

Hungarians were typically loners in the European circles because they speak a tongue that is not associated with any other European nations. After all, their alphabet consisted of 44 letters. The Hungarian language belongs to the Uralic family, most notably Finnish and Estonian. Linguistically surrounded by alien nations, Hungarians always experienced a sense of isolation through much of their history, perhaps befitting their landlocked location, bordered by Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Austria, Ukraine, and Slovakia. Their homeland was one of nine countries behind the Iron Curtain that was built in 1949. Too often, older, more established immigrant groups treated Hungarians with disdain, ridiculing their dress and Old-World ways. It made them reluctant to speak their native tongue.

They were unique, these proud Magyars, with a history dating back to the Kingdom of Hungary, while sharing a common culture, history, ancestry, and language. They were part of a group of people who originated in the Urals and migrated westward to settle in what was now Hungary back in the 9th century. My parents were two such Magyars of the some 200,000 that relocated from Hungary to Austria in that era – nearly 2% of the population. Getting out of the country and away from Soviet control was becoming a popular activity. Where would all these Magyar refugees eventually settle?

For the stranded six, the answer soon swooped down from the sky. A large U.S. Army plane landed nearby, and the pilots asked for volunteers to fly to America. There was little time to decide, and my parent’s group was still at the bottom of the list, so they all climbed aboard. Was this the first time that living in the United States was even contemplated? Their welcome to the United States did not include the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island, but rather at least sixteen hours in a non-pressurized, crowded cabin and a rough landing at an out of the way New Jersey military base. Immigration officials met them there. Sadly, were so far from home, with no way to communicate with those left behind but grand opportunities awaited.

For Niki, Maria, Bela, and Emmi the U.S. became a permanent home. Years later, the other couple, who remain nameless, returned to Europe. The U.S. was not for everyone. They were all then transferred by bus to Camp Kilmer Barricks, Livingston, N.J., on now what is the Rutgers University campus in Piscataway. This would become meaningful to me because it’s where I ended up going to college.

What had moved so fast during that split-second decision to fly across the Atlantic suddenly stalled. U.S. Immigration laws required everyone to have a sponsor, and none of this group knew anyone or even spoke the language. Eventually, a total stranger named Dr. Chikes, who held a doctorate in theology, came to the rescue through his church. It was just another miraculous twist in this fateful plot.

The good Doctor would assume the responsibility of trying to find jobs and housing for the three dump truck couples. It seems like the church leader always comes to the rescue in these great stories of families being uprooted. Under his direction, the next stop was Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, 28-miles northwest of Philadelphia. I’m not sure of the religious affiliation of Dr. Csikes, but my mother was raised as a Roman Catholic, as was I. Dad was brought up Lutheran, but none of us have been particularly true to our faith. We do look to the heavens for our good fortunes in life.

Bela was the first of the group to get established in Phoenixville. The rest temporarily rode on his coat tails. He had a degree in Chemistry from his studies in Hungary and quickly found a good position with a local Rubber Company. My parents lived with him and Emmi for a few years. My dad worked for a nearby steel producer but quickly learned that back-breaking work was not his forte. He then took a job as a surveyor and staked out what years later would eventually become his dream home, while taking some computer classes at Ursinus College. This led to a computer position and move with Fidelity Bank to Philadelphia in 1959 where he perfected his technical and programming skills. After those first few years in Phoenixville, the original group of six was now down to four, but their close bond kept them all in touch despite the miles apart.

For four years, they desperately tried to get me out of Hungary through the Embassies, but it wasn’t until the Iron Curtain relaxed before I was finally cleared to leave in December of 1960 at age 8. Much to the relief of my parents, I was in the newspapers as one of the first children to be released by the Russians. Maybe I wasn’t such a “bad boy” after all.

In 1961, dad got a job with RCA in Cherry Hill, N.J. as a programmer, moved to Moorestown and rented a house at 106 West Central Avenue. It was the biggest place I had yet to live. I couldn’t wait for grandmother to join me.

To Be Continued

Retirement is not without Hassles: Exchanging Valentines #2479


It’s now been four full weeks after surgery, and I continue to gain strength. I drove yesterday for the first time, following the one-month guideline provided in my recovery instructions, and could feel the strain on my arms and chest. I can’t really use my arms and try to keep them tightly at my side as directed, imagining that they are enclosed in a protective tube. Even cranking the steering wheel proved to be painful.

I try to walk a little longer each day, but my thighs burn, something I rarely experienced while running. Then out of the mouth of babes, my five-year-old granddaughter suggested that my biceps were soft, poking the saggy skin hanging from my arm. She’s right – it’s remarkable how out of shape I’ve gotten. No running, no sit-ups, no push-ups for a month. “It should be expected,” they say. “You’re doing great,” they encourage. Last evening, I made it to the end of our street for the first time but was grateful that the wind was at my back on the return home.

This morning my shoulders are stiff and sore. In fact, I’m contemplating taking a muscle relaxant for the first time in a while. I am at least back to my normal sleep pattern, but this still involves a pee break every two hours or more. A night’s rest is still nothing more than a series of naps. Tally wakes me up at about 7:30a and I take my first steps of the day outside like clockwork, then gobble down a cup-full of pills. A new routine is gradually being established, as I move away from the addictive practice of running every day. Tally has her treat then begins to paw at my wife’s bedside, anxious to go to the dog park. Her substitute teaching the past two days have interfered with our dog’s favorite time of the day, when she is able to roam without a leash in the safe confines of the small dog section. 

I’m supposed to start cardio-rehab this week, following my release from home care a few days ago. I also have a radiology requisition for a procedure to drain fluids from around my lungs. In both cases, I’m still finding a lack of cooperation from our regional hospital in accepting orders from my Tampa General Hospital surgeon.  The excuse is that their systems apparently do not interconnect, so I have to make extra phone calls to get appointments arranged. In my mind, it’s the fact that they are uncooperative competition. It’s often become more painful than the actual surgery. I’ll be making more calls once I get back from my walk.

The walk at least took the focus off my tense shoulders and moved it to my feet and legs. For the first time, I returned to my standard running route, but only did a small section. My legs, like everything else, have weakened while my feet lack balance. At times, I feel a bit light-headed and unsteady. The beauty of walking over running is that I can actually stop and talk to people. I’m also not wearing my ear buds, so I can actually hear them. By next week, I should be able to make it a full mile, but now it’s just a matter of an extra block. There are no obligations today but a shower and shave. My wife has a tap class, haircut, and dental appointment. At some point, she and I will exchange Valentines. 

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Heart Felt #2478

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

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hungry in Hungary Part 2 #2477

Continued from Post #2476:

It was December 1957 just before Christmas, and the entire country was on Soviet lockdown following the riots and military strikes. I remember a final meal of Makos Teszta, poppy seed noodles and gravy, after just turning 4-years old. It would be the last that I would see my parents for many years. The day of reckoning finally arrived after careful planning. Nicholas Ambrus and his wife Maria Toth left me in the care of my grandmother, Nagy Mama, in the apartment they were about to abandon forever. My grandfather had passed away from TB years earlier at age 40. Kalmar Laszlo, my godfather, would play a role in my parentless care.

Grandmother was an entrepreneur, who once sold cooking supplies door-to-door. She would be my sole strength in the years to come, filling me with hope that someday we would all be back together as a family. I once had a pet chicken that quickly turned into dinner. We bought the staples of bread and noodles from the local vendors.

There would be no turning back for the six departing dissidents. My folks were joined by Bela and Emmi Nagy, their closest friends, and two other brave souls, prepared for a long journey to wherever destiny would take them. Bela worked for the company that owned a dump truck that he frequently drove from Budapest on the highways leading to the Austrian border. On this day, the plan was to abandon this about to be stolen truck and somehow bribe their way into Vienna. None of them knew really what to expect.

They left that fateful day with only the clothes on their back and a satchel-full of food. Perhaps the women hid in the bed of the truck under warm blankets while the men distracted the checkpoint guards. Bela was familiar with some of them because this was part of his regular route. He was the driving force of their escape plan, and they all trusted his convincing, story-telling skills.

My mother and father fell in love at a Danube River Club where they would kayak and swim. Niki, as many called him, worked odd jobs to include being a chauffeur, although he never owned a car. Soon he and Maria were married in Budapest where she did factory work. They lived in an apartment on the “Pest” side of town. It’s the eastern, mostly flat side of Budapest, comprising about two-thirds of the city’s territory. It was separated from Buda and Obuda, the two western sections of town, by the Danube River. Buda was definitely the classier, more residential side of the city of Budapest, population of 9,854,129 back in 1956. It was about to get six people smaller.

They loaded up the dump truck and hid what they could. There were several checkpoints along the way that Bela charmed his way through, telling tales and handing out food stuff. There were also reports of mine fields to stop any illegal border crossing, so this path to freedom was also filled with explosive danger. The final obstacle was the electric fence, search lights, and machine gun towers that marked the infamous Iron Curtain, separating East from West. This is where they abandoned the truck and walked into Austria. How they did it remains a mystery, but gregarious Bela had the gift of gab and continued to lead the way.

Even common mortals are capable of super-human feats regardless of their size or strength, like lifting a car off a accident victim. Nicholas stood a slender 5’8” and Maria was 2” shorter. She was a beautiful woman. I strongly feel that escaping from life-threatening circumstances falls into that category. Weighing those possibilities takes strength and cunning. Most children, like me at the time, couldn’t possibly envision their parents in that situation when adrenaline supersedes logic. Imagine the sleepless nights before and the guts it took to go through this together. Especially having to leave me and my grandmother behind for years. That must have been heart wrenching. This is why I’m particularly proud of my mother and father. Could I have done it myself? Could you?

Secretly discussing their plans with friends and relatives required nerves of steel, knowing they would need discretion and support. The Secret Police were undoubtedly a nasty concern, as well as fear of informants. Adverse conversations about leaving Hungary had to be kept on the hush-hush. After all, they were risking the rest of their young lives stuck in a filthy gulag, separated from everyone they loved. All those dreams of freedom could quickly turn into nightmares with the wrong words to these guards.

How could they be certain that life would be better outside their native land, so far from home? After all, none of them had ever been outside of Budapest. They might be on the run for years, homeless and scared, maybe a worse situation than prison. What if they got separated? Where would they get food and water? Plus, who could they trust after finally getting on foreign soil? Soviet propaganda had kept them in line their whole lives.

It’s also quite likely the secret police found the abandoned dump truck and went back to question Bela’s employers about their role in this escape. Torture might even have been applied for answers and fines imposed. They would have been shocked by his disappearance and disloyalty to both country and company. Or, they could have even secretly applauded his rebellious actions.

In this moment, they were six scared people joined in a common quest for freedom, about to face their destiny. Would everything go as planned? Butterflies were all that filled their stomachs since food was scarce and they would need what they had to appease the greedy guards with their hands out. At last, welcome to Austria. Now what?

To Be Continued

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hungry in Hungary Part 1 #2476

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….

 

 

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Day-to-Day #2475

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

Old Sport Shorts: I.U. vs. P.U. #2474

I continue to emphasize the importance of getting to 60 points first in the game of college basketball. Due to surgery, I was unable to watch the next few games as three-straight I.U. opponents took advantage of “The Rule” and handed the Hoosiers a trio of BIG losses. The first was Purdue who led 60-51 with just about 13-minutes left on the fast track to an 87-66 victory at Assembly Hall. According to reports, Zach Edey The 7-foot-4 senior “drew fouls, made shots and even chased loose balls,” finishing with 33 points and 14 rebounds while leading the second-ranked Boilermakers to the 21-point rout. Trey Galloway scored 17 points and Mackenzie Mgbako had 15, but Indiana trailed for the final 37 minutes, most of that time by double digits, after falling into an early 25-13 hole and a 51-29 deficit at halftime.

 Indiana has gone entire seasons without losing at Assembly Hall, including 1973, 1975, 1976, 1987, 1992, 1993, 1994, 2007, and 2016. This loss to the Boilermakers ranked fourth on the list. Here are the worst home losses in the modern era:

  1. February 25, 2010 – 32-point loss to Wisconsin

  2. February 25, 2009 – 22-point loss to Northwestern

  3. November 10, 2017 – 21-point loss to Indiana State

  4. January 16, 2024 21-point loss to Purdue

  5. January 27, 1977 – 19-point loss to Minnesota

  6. January 24, 1990 – 18-point loss to Michigan State

  7. March 6, 2004 – 18-point loss to Wisconsin

  8. December 31, 2010 – 18-point loss to Ohio State

  9. January 6, 1977 – 17-point loss to Purdue

  10. February 19, 2009 – 17-point loss to Wisconsin

  11. December 12, 2009 – 17-point loss to Kentucky

  12. February 10, 2010 – 17-point loss to Ohio State

  13. February 3, 2024 – 14-point loss to Penn State

There was then no rest for the weary as the Hoosiers traveled to Wisconsin for a 91-79 beating. Max Klesmit scored 20 consecutive Wisconsin points during a second-half span of just over 4 1/2 minutes, and the 11th-ranked Badgers prevailed. To add to the ugliness, this time it was C.J. Gunn who was ejected as the Badgers won the “race to 60” with the tally showing 61-47 and13:07 left. Wisconsin (14-4, 6-1 Big Ten) had now won its last 20 home games against Indiana and hadn’t lost to the Hoosiers in Madison since 1998, the Kohl Center’s inaugural season. Indiana (12-7, 4-4) was missing top rebounder and second-leading scorer, 7-foot Kel’el Ware due to a lower-leg injury. Malik Reneau scored 28 points, Mackenzie Mgbako 17, and Trey Galloway 10 for struggling Indiana.

It was then on to Champaign and another thrashing 70-62 by the #10 Illini. After a 60-56 Illinois lead at the 3:01 mark, Terrence Shannon Jr. made six free throws in the final minute. Indiana actually tied the game at 62 to keep things interesting with 1:29 left on a basket by Mackenzie Mgbako, part of his 12-point contribution. Malik Reneau, who scored 21 points for Indiana (12-8, 4-5), fouled out with 3:02 left. Xavier Johnson had 14 points while Ware once again was sidelined.

Iowa then came to town and IU managed to top the scoreboard 74-68 despite squandering a 17-point lead. It was Anthony Leal’s time to finally shine, scoring a career-high 13. Kel’el Ware returned with a 23-point effort including a free throw at 5:43 for a 60-58 advantage. Iowa came back to tie it at 60, but the Hoosiers prevailed in spite of both a Reneau ankle injury and Xavier Johnson’s banged-up elbow late in the game.

The Nittany Lions then came to Assembly Hall but I.U. couldn’t capitalize on the home court advantage, adding Penn State to the list of worst home losses.  Malik Reneau came back to play, after missing practice while Johnson remained out of the lineup. Penn State (10-11, 5-6 Big Ten) hadn’t beaten Indiana in Bloomington since a 66-65 win on Feb. 12, 2014. At 11:05, the hot-shooting Nittany Lions were up 61-48 on the way to the 85-71 upset. 

Kel’el Ware scored 17 of his 25 points in the first half for the Hoosiers. Malik Reneau added 16 points, MacKenzie Mgbako 13, and Trey Galloway 12 for the Hoosiers.

After this disheartening 1-3 stretch, the team headed to Columbus. Xavier Johnson didn’t dress, and I.U. trailed by 18 points twice in the second half, 47-29 at 18:58 and again 49-31 with 17:39 remaining. The Buckeyes even won the battle to 60, cruising to a 60-47 lead at 10:33 on a Dale Bonner three and all seemed futile. Then, the resilient Hoosiers mounted an incredible comeback by a 29-13 margin capped by Anthony Leal’s two free throws to win 76-73.

Here’s what Coach Woodson said after the game: “I thought tonight Gallo was huge in the second half. Our defense was solid in the second half, you hold this team to 31 points, that was the difference in getting back into the ballgame. Gallo coming down the stretch and Anthony making the big three was huge. Then getting the stop we needed when we stole the ball. It was big.”

Thus, the tale of two halves: Ohio State shot 50% in the first half and just 32% in the second but finished 24 for 27 at the line. Indiana shot 33% in the opening period and 55% after halftime. Galloway scored 19 second-half points and Reneau added 16 for the Hoosiers, combining for 51 of IU’s total points. Ware played just 10 minutes in the first half before picking up two fouls, and four total fouls in the game limited him to just 26 minutes. He then awkwardly landed on his leg and limped off the court. Ultimately, the careless Hoosiers gave up 22-points on 12 turnovers but still managed to win.

It didn’t get any easier as the wounded Hoosiers (14-9, 6-6) then traveled up I-65 to West Lafayette and once again squared off with #2 Purdue (21-2, 10-2). The Boilers were a perfect 11-0 at Mackey, so fan expectations were low. Would there be magic or more misery?

Retirement is not without Hassles: The Surgeon’s Knife #2473

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. 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Slow Path to Recovery #2472

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.

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