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.