asimplefellow

I was lying in critical care.

After five hours under the cardiac surgeon’s care, I have to say it was bliss in intensive care. The pain drugs flowed freely though the multiple number of lines entering into

Let’s see…this one leads to the…ummm…..ummmm

my neck and wrist.  Forget that my bed space and the area around my body looked the back of my High Definition TV set and home theatre. There were cables and lines and diodes everywhere…pain killers and beta-blockers and blood thinners and catheters and heart telemetry and blood pressure cuffs and pace maker wires and saline drips and chest drainage tubes, and who knows what else, were exiting and entering my body through a Medusa-like tangle.

I was wired for sound and without exaggeration, it took my nurse almost 20 minutes to untangle and create order from the plastic and rubber kitten’s ball of hoses and tubes. And honestly, I could care less,  I was as high as a  red-faced Metropolitan Mayor!

But eventually, Nurse Judy fought through the tangled mass and treated me to a wonderful bird bath, getting rid of the pinkish disinfectant – and the odd dried blood spot – that I was slathered with during the op.  I took stock of the 35 cm incision from collarbone to sternum and the 25cm incision down my left forearm, the IV in my neck and I chilled – a kind of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds chill – which was okay, because as you remember, Ringo Starr was supposed to be one of my surgeons (see Act VI).

I had visitors…my wife, my brother, and my Mom and Dad came to see me and spent some time chatting. At least that is what it sounded like in my brain. I have no idea what came out of my lips…gobbledygook for all I know. But it’s okay, they had a babel fish with them – or at least they smiled at the right times. I think I lasted about 7 minutes before I was too tired to form any semblance of words. My body was telling me to shut up. And rest. So I did.

But don’t worry; even after everyone left I was never alone.  I had a new friend that I had to carry 24 and 7, and that I never wanted to be without.

No – not morphine or other opiates

I was Linus van Pelt. I had my new security blanket. It was (and still is) my chest pillow.  I hugged my “chest pillow”… a heavy flannel sheet that was folded and folded and folded and folded like an origami swan, and then tucked into a pillow case. Hugging that pillow with every ounce of my strength was the only thing that stopped me from feeling like my chest was splitting wide open when I moved, which was rare, or when I coughed – which unfortunately wasn’t as rare as I would hope.  Moving I could control. But the cough…unexpectedly and inconveniently, I coughed the weak cough of the injured, as my lungs tried to take over responsibility for providing me air and getting rid of the phlegm in my lungs – an unfortunate side

I love my pillow…

effect of intubation and having a machine breathe for you for over 5 hours.

I enjoyed my private room and around-the-clock care. I even had a great chat with one of the Veterans of the Battle of the Bypass… a blue vested cardiac volunteer (obviously wearing the smock prepares one for a future career as a Walmart Greeter).  Funnily enough, we had served together in the past and he had just recently celebrated his Depart with Dignity ceremony from the Canadian Forces – a medical release due to the operation. I had not even considered how this whole episode would likely end my Army career. Eeeek!

We talked briefly, once he overcame his shock over the fact I was a fellow member for the Zipper Club at 48 years of age. As I would find out later, once you become part of the Club, it is like you learn the “secret handshake” – there are just so many of “The Bypassed” out there. Every time I turned around, there was someone else telling me how they had blocked arteries and that a bypass had changed their lives.

Great news.  I just wish I wasn’t 20 years younger than them.

I was pretty content in my little drug-infused hamster ball.  But, sadly, nothing lasts forever – not even the super-drugged up nirvana of post-surgery opiates. And despite the wisps of hope that I would stay in Intensive Care because the cardiac post –op ward was full, it was not to be. A bed came free in “general population”’; I hope it was because someone was discharged, but no one could tell me.

So I was moved from my deluxe single accommodation to a semi-private room.

Now I have not written much about the several room-mates I had over the course of my almost two weeks in the hospital. For the record, I had five with a joint age of 324…the youngest at 45 and the oldest clocking in at 84. And save for one, the average stay together was for almost three days at a time.

I tell you, if you want to learn about people – hang around with someone who is scared to death but tries not to show it. I learned a lot about the human condition of those who face the prospect of open heart surgery. Yes it is routine – but it is complex and there are risks. And apparently you want to get a lot of your chest (no pun intended)

Firstly, there are no inhibitions or privacy…the flimsy little cotton curtain between bed spaces is not very sound proof. Whether you want to or not, you learn a lot about bodily functions, diagnoses, prognoses, family, lifestyle and a host of other things that you would never, ever, ever care to share with a stranger – unless you are a stranger sharing a hospital room and something critical in your body is not working properly.

I learned about my roomies’ relationships – as couples, with their children, with their families, with their friends. I learned about regrets and a few things that would change when the operation was all over.  I might have even shared a few thoughts myself…though I am more of a listener than a talker. It is amazing how a few well placed “tsks, tsks” and some reflective listening will calm the soul.

But back to post-operative care…

Being in general population sucked. I went from one-on-one care to one nurse caring for 8-12 patients. And at night, the ratio got worse. Funnily enough, CBC carried a

Noise…noise…noise…

news-piece just after I was discharged reporting on the noise levels in a hospital ward. They reported it was terrible; hardly conducive to rest or sleep or recovery.  I can tell you it is brutal – day or night. Between alarms, call buttons, PA announcements, jovial staff, the food carts, cleaning staff, patients in pain, it was a wonder I slept at all. Add to that the sad and unnerving coughing of the post-operative smoker trying to rid their lungs of cigarette goo in their lungs, it was absolutely hellish.

I slept on and off – more a series of three-hour cat naps between the oral doses of pain killers. Unfortunately the pain killers came every four hours. It is funny – actually, sad – how your body knows it is time for another dose. I can only imagine the pain of the junkie as the glow wears off; I became a clock-watcher – especially at night. For the last hour, I slept in fifteen minute bursts hoping for the nurse to magically appear with the little plastic pill cup that contained another three hours of pain-free sleep. During that last 45 minutes of hell, I tried shifting into a comfortable position, by raising my back, or lowering my legs, or shifting on to my side, or arching  – but as I was weak and in pain, I could not even manage that to get relief. Several times I had to call the nurses to untangle me from the absolutely tortuous positions I had managed to slide into.  I tried to be brave, but I have to tell you, it pushed me to the limit. I tried to hold out as long as I could and wait for the nurses to help me, but more often I gave in, and pushed the call-button forl help and relief. I did not feel empowered or healthier or stronger. I felt weak and vulnerable and unhappy.  And I was a young, fit, robust fellow. I can only imagine how my elder room mates were fairing.But over time, things got better. My sense of humour never left me – it thought about being snarky and mean – but that is not me.  Plus, no sense in pissing off the pain relievers! As I got better, I learned to enjoy the little things in life: peeing without a catheter, orange Jell-O, a shower, clean socks, sweatpants and a hoodie. And I walked…first just to the toilet; then 10 m, then 40, and finally being able to walk to the nurses’ station to grab an apple juice and make toast.  Like I said, the simple things – smelling burnt toast without having a seizure – made every day better.

I often thought that I was not ready to go home – I had pain, my chest bone was still healing, coughing hurt like no one’s business, I had 60cm of stitches, and I had three holes in my diaphragm from various removed hoses that were trying to patch themselves up. I couldn’t imagine being without my meds and staff to move me.  But after 72 hours in general population, I was ready. I could not stand being there – eating steamed food that tasted like cardboard, sitting among the sick and injured, listening to the pain and agony, and trying to keep up a happy face. I wanted to be in my house, with my wife and my stuff. So after showing the staff that I could climb up and down and a flight of stairs, I was granted parole.

Hallelujah!  A quick visit by my Surgeon and I was sprung free. With discharge instructions that included restrictions on how much I could do, how much I could lift, how much I should eat, I was allowed to leave. My wife helped me out of the hospital, and as I waited in the hospital lobby while she went collect the car, I was dazzled by the sheer volume of noise and activity around me: conversations and food line ups and questions to the Info Desk; the smells of Tim Horton’s coffee and muffins. Though my life had been on hold for over two weeks, for everyone else the game of Life had gone on. I was like a country farm-hand in the Big City, marvelling at the chaos and cacophony. I was no longer a patient, I was just a guy.

And off we went into uncharted territory. Armed with only a few manuals, some well-intended verbal advice, a couple of 8.5×11 sheets on post-operative issues and pain management techniques, we headed off. The ride home was nerve-wracking for both my wife and me – I had the resiliency of a raw egg. The only thing between my breast bone and the seatbelt was my “issue heart pillow/security blanket” – a cheerful, red, overstuffed pillow the size of a kids’ rugby ball, snuggled firmly in place to absorb any jostling, bumps, sighs, sneezes or coughs. I hugged that pillow like it was toilet paper from the Carnival cruise-liner Triumph.

And that was the tone for the first few days of recovery: angst, hesitation, worry…every ache and palpitation, every heavy heart beat, every sharp pain, every perceived redness or soreness around an incision was a siren call to my internal hypochondriac. I imagined misaligned grafts and an over-taxed heart or rampant infection. I was not that strong mentally or physically, despite what my external face said.

But that did not last forever. With the strong support – physically and mentally and emotionally – of my wife, my kids, my parents, my brother and sister, and the multitude of friends far and wide who sent me positive energy, I moved through the yucky bit and beyond.

And now, here I am at Surgery plus 16 days: full of vim and vigour and appetite. The strength has returned and so has the humour. I walked almost 2km today. And I am getting better.

And with that, I will sum up the Coronary Chronicles.

It has been a wild ride. I hope that my exercise in self-indulgence has entertained you as much as it has helped me. I also hope that I have been a cautionary tale for some of you – especially for you guys out there who are in my age bracket. Alpha male or not, recognise we are not invincible and immortal. Many of us have been ridden hard and put away wet.

Listen to your body…get things tested…check for bumps and discoloured moles.  Early warning will increase the odds; go into hand with pocket Kings and show the House that it can be beaten.

And now on to bigger and better things…when I write again, I will be just be a regular simple fellow…albeit a little more battle-scarred.

Later,

ASF

Ground Control to Mister Pal…

During heart surgery, the beating of the heart is temporarily stopped and life is maintained through a cardiopulmonary bypass (also called CPB or the heart-lung machine). The heart is stopped either through decreasing its temperature or through the injection of a preservative. The heart-lung machine then keeps the blood pumping through the body, adding the necessary oxygen and nutrients.

I guess, if you consider a beating heart as a necessity for life, I was technically dead for a few hours. I suppose my brain was alive; but if you asked me what happened between the hours of 10am and about 3pm on 2 November – I could not tell you. Those five hours did not exist for me.

But as for the hours surrounding that…

Having just been bumped due to a higher priority heart emergency on 1 November, at about 10pm I had enough of Friday. I brushed my teeth, and readied myself for bed hoping that tomorrow they would fix my heart. I was still nervous. I was also very tired. Almost 24 hours of mental preparation for the postponed operation had left me fatigued.  And though I had a verbal promissory note that Saturday would be the day, as I had experienced today, there were no guarantees when it came to affairs of the heart.

So after asking for a sleep aid – as I figured sleep might be a bit elusive otherwise –  I toddled off into bed after an iodine scrub shower, feeling very pink and very shiny.  And I slept.

I’m here for the surgery…

I dreamed that night…and while I do not recall all the details, I do remember that it had a surreal quality to it. Sort of a Beatles animated movie

Clickety-clikey

feel or a Tim Burton feel – alternating between Ringo Starr and Edward Scissorhands as my surgeon. Freaky…

I must have slept well because promptly at 0600 hrs, it was vital signs’ time  and the start of The Wait Part Deux. It was dark and the rest of the ward had not woken up yet. There was a sombre, suspenseful feel to the air  – I can only describe it as that slow motion period in The Terminator when you know Arnold Schwarzenegger is going to come around the hospital corner into the shot, but the frame continues to be empty. I knew what was coming, but I was dreading it slightly.

I contemplated what would happen next – trying to create a mental image of the words I had read and the steps that would happen, much like we are taught to mentally rehearse our actions for specific drills to prepare ourselves for the task at hand. Adding to the surrealism,  I could hear the occasional snort from my roommate who was having a lie-in. He was not on until Monday.

And soon I heard footsteps in the hallway. And no, it was not Arnold.  It’s funny, when you lie in a hospital bed for long enough, you get pretty good at discerning who is who based on their footsteps. Their gait, their strike, their pace, their footwear, the noise of the equipment they are pushing or pulling, are great clues as to whether it is the floor nurse, the ECG technician, the blood work technician, the food lady or the cleaner. In this case, it was neither. First it was my daughter, then the comforting clack-clack-clack was my wife’s, accompanied by my parents and my brother. They made it in at 0630 hrs if I was whisked off promptly at 0700 hrs.

I am glad they made it in. I can imagine nothing worse than not being able to say, “Good luck. See you later. I love you,” as you arrive too late and are faced with an empty hospital bed.

But that wasn’t the case as we settled in to wait the last call for the surgery. Before too long, Dr Payne arrived, offered his good mornings and told me that he had a quick procedure to do first and that I was on for 0930 hrs. I smiled wanly, I had heard this refrain before. But I also saw a determination in his eyes that he had no wish to leave me twisting in the wind. So we waited.

There were no new skills learned overnight that made the wait any more bearable. It was still tense and uncomfortable. We all knew it was risky and invasive. We all knew what could go wrong. But we also knew, as we did the day before, you gotta start before you can finish.

And at about 0900 hrs, a stretcher rolled down the hallway, flanked by the cardiac surgical nurse. My chariot had arrived. I had a nervous pre-game pee, and then said my

Mom and Dad…18 hours after surgery. Benefits of a good drug program…

bye-byes to my family. Now while I am an affectionate fellow, the family has demonstrated various degrees of physical affection depending on the circumstances.

Sometimes the hugs can be in short supply.

But on this day, the hugs, kisses and “I love you”s were not held in reserve. I could see worry on my parents’ face, my daughter’s, my brother’s and most sadly, on my

wife’s. They were all being brave. We all know that not showing your fear and worries is the Unwritten Rule in such cases.  I climbed onto the gurney, ass flapping in the breeze, and after another quick round of farewells, I was wheeled to the Operating Theatres, flanked by my wife.

Now a hospital is a maze at the best of times, but I remember thinking, I hope my wife is leaving a trail of bread crumbs, because I have no idea of how to get back. And selfishly I added a personal post-script – “I don’t need to, because I’ll be out of it when I head back this way.”

As we continued the long trek into the bowels of the 2^nd floor operating theatres, I couldn’t help but look at the passing fluorescent ceiling lights and hear the clickety-click of the gurney without thinking I was in some cheap grainy made-in-Canada TV special. It was like I was watching a bad movie.

We arrived in the operating waiting room and I was greeted by the Chief Surgical Nurse, Tammy, who checked my identification and files and bracelets and asked me questions to determine if I was of sound mind and right body, and briefly explained that in a few minutes we would head off to the operating room and meet the remainder of the team. When she had finished reviewing the huge red binder that was my hospital life, she left my wife and me alone for a few minutes to say bye. There were no violins, no tears – at least that I could see or feel – and with a hug and a kiss, off she went.   I hoped she could find her way back to the Family safely.

And I began another four-minute roll to the operating room where my heart would see the light of day – or at least the fluorescent lights of KGH OR.

The next five minutes were a dizzying flurry. In a rapid series of staccato 5-second introductions I met the anaesthetist, the heart-lung machine maestro, the artery harvester, the surgical resident, the head surgical nurse, the second assistant and a couple more people who I have no idea about. I was asked rapid fire questions about my health and my weight and some other general questions. I was befuddled – who do I answer first? Let me think, dammit!

We’re reaaaaaaaadyyyyyy…

All these questions!

I was asked to move from the gurney to the operating table – which let me tell you – is not built for people with girth like mine. I felt like I was going to fall off at any moment. Soon my arms moved to my side in the crucifix position and I felt pokes and prods and pushes. Checklists on bodily function, equipment readings, drug solutions, IVs, telemetry outputs were being read out confidently and rapidly, and confirmed and repeated by assistants. Soon a confident reassuring voice, probably coming through a smile if I could see past the surgical mask, said,

“Pal…it is time. We’re ready. Are you?”

In that five minutes it had taken for the team to get everything ready, they had overwhelmed me and stunned me into mental paralysis. Between the sedatives to ease the anxiety, and the questions to keep me distracted, I had not even thought of what was going to happen now – man, they are going to harvest arteries from my arm, then cut my chest open, then saw through my breastbone, then crank open my ribs, then retract my chest to open the cavity, then transfer all my breathing and blood circulation to a machine, then stop my heart and then sew things to it, and then close me up. I had not had one negative thought or forgiving during that entire time that I had entered the operating room to the moment that I was going to be rendered unconscious. Man they were good!

And with a last look at those cheery eyes, I went under the knife.

Now I could jump to the post-operation recovery, but that would not be fair to my family, who had to find ways to occupy the better part of 5 hours. Thankfully it was early, so they all could while away a few hours eating a Fat-Boy special breakfast. And that they did. They also walked around Queen’s looking at preparations for the Science Formal that my daughter and her boyfriend would attend later that day. Apparently the 3-story castle the Engineer students built inside the Hall was magnificent.  But even after that they waited over another three hours…reading…napping…drinking bad coffee…making lame jokes…and mostly worrying and worrying. As for how they felt, you will have to ask them. I cannot imagine it was positive energy.

And then I surfaced. So I am told. I was wheeled into critical care, past my family, who depending on their personal desires, wanted to see me right away, or wanted to wait until I was looking more human and less machine.  My wife and my brother came in right away – I do remember playing charades, unable to talk through the intubation – and mimicking I was cold. My reward was a nice pair of winter socks. They felt grand.

Still freaks me out…

And then I fell under the spell of the anaesthetic and the pain  killers, and drifted in and out of consciousness. I vaguely remember the intubation being removed, I foggily remember my Mom kissing my forehead, my Dad looking stunned and pleased at the same time. But these could be just things I made up because like David in the minivan, I was not sure it this was real. But, as I was in for a long day and night of slipping in and out of consciousness, the family had a last word with the Surgeon before calling it a night.

Dr Payne was extremely pleased with the surgery – it went very well – despite my stubbornness in allowing him access to my harvested artery (which he apparently had to dig for like gold) and that my rib cage was tighter than a drum. Thank goodness he was a strong man, he needed every bit of his anaerobic strength to crack me open like a walnut! And while we had known that I needed a double bypass, in the end, he decided to add 50% free, just to save us the pain of cracking me open again in 10 or 15 years.

I was good to go again, completely re-tooled with clean hoses and valves, enjoying one-on-one nursing in a quiet, clean and calm intensive care hospital room with calm lighting. One little whimper, and the nurse was at my side with pain killing support and a reassuring word.

All that was left was the recovery. And thought at the moment, life was beautiful. I should have enjoyed it more.

Because, in less than 24 hours I was going to fall off my nice, soft, fluffy cloud and realise just what trauma my body had experienced…

End of Act Six

Later,

ASF

(Note: First post-surgery blog. Your patience is requested today, I don’t really care how well I am spelling or using grammar; save for omitting the Oxford Comma – when it comes to that, “misuse is abuse”.)

Also, despite my personal story, Please spare a moment to remember on November 11th, and always. https://asimplefellow.com/2012/11/08/the-11-hour-of-11-november/

At the end of the last installment of The Coronary Chronicles, (queue Newsworld Theme Music here…fade away from stock footage of Toronto’s Mayor’s latest media rant and inebriated stupor…), I had decided that I was All In. I had thrown all my chips against the House, holding a pair of Kings.  I am sure the more confident amongst you would say, “C’mon, it was Pocket Bullets” – taking into consideration my fitness, my age, a good surgeon, and how quickly we had caught the heart disease.

But, even Bullets can lose a hand of Texas Hold’em.  And, seriously, I was not a “poker-thlete”, playing for one of those bling WPT bracelets.

So after signing the permission papers for surgery, for transfusions, for medications, emergency measures AND donor card, etcetera, I left my fate to my very capable surgeon, the ironically named Dr. Payne, and the Hospital functionaries. And before long, I was scheduled for CABG on Friday 1 November.

My roommate, who despite his age, was holding a good pair of cards too, was also scheduled for Friday.

And with the practicalities now taken care, of, I entered in to the High Stakes World of Cardiac Arterial Bypass Surgery. Indulge me while I continue the sporty analogy –  the 1 and 2 of November (for those that have followed my case) were exactly like betting games.  Though this was 21^st century medicine, my fears, my decisions, my concerns, my rationalisations were all like trying to figure out the best horses for the Trifecta, or figuring out the betting line on the NFL.

Let me explain:

So my roommate, aged 68, and I were both scheduled for Friday: one of us at 0800

OK gents, first one there gets new arteries…

and the other at 1300 hrs. So how do we, when asked by the Surgeon, decide who goes when? Do we arm wrestle, do we run to the operating room at the sound of the starter’s pistol, do we draw straws, cut a deck? There’s no real protocol in these instances.

My internal Good Samaritan said, “Do the right thing…”

Others, good Samaritans themselves, but more pragmatic than me, would say, “Go as early as you can, mate. Timetables change.”

Now the right thing and the smart thing are not necessarily exclusive, but I was loathe to lunge out with, “I’ll go at 8, thanks.” It seemed unsporting…

But more than that…was it smart?

I mean, was the Doc at his best at 8am? Did he do better after a warm-up patient, like a baseball pitcher throwing a few fastballs before first inning, or a goalie after the pre-game warm up. I don’t know. Or would he be sharper, more fit, less tired at 8am? I needed a racing program to make an informed decision. I had no clue whether Dr. Payne was a “mudder” or “a sprinter.”

Booo!

And while I knew that none of these points were relevant – as I already knew he was a brilliant surgeon with a great ability to blend fact and tact –  my mind was not there. It was in that “throw-salt-over-the shoulder”, is the “bogey-man-behind-me frame” kind of space.

Regardless of the Flop, it was decided that I would be first, with my roommate batting cleanup. For me, I’d be lying in Critical Care, sipping Demerol margaritas by noon on Friday.

It was like being told you were in the starting lineup for this week’s big game. Time for the psyche.

First went the calls to family, and then to friends, and then workmates – which in the military is like one big mixed up group. The jungle drums quickly passed the news. And as before, well wishes came from many corners of the globe – the benefits a military career.

And as  the operation marched closer, I prepared myself. I knew enough about the operation; I was not into watching You Tube videos or Google Images of actual operations. That was just too macabre. I’ll leave that to the Walking Dead fans,

I was preparing, by staying away. I did all the proper stuff – perhaps just as macabre – but necessary. I called the bank lady, and talked finances with my wife. It was unpleasant – the actual act of explaining where our money was, where it would come from if the pocket kings weren’t good enough, and how it should be dispensed so she wouldn’t be homeless or future-less – was accepting that I could lose. An unpleasant thought,  but far less unpleasant that the thought of her trying to sort it out by herself while grieving and dealing with frozen accounts as my Estate was dissolved and distributed.

And I relaxed – as best as I could knowing that I as soon going to look like a stunt-double for the movie Alien.

And then it was Friday. I was expecting to be collected at 0715hrs, so the family could make it in, congregated in my room to wish me luck. And we waited. How do you describe that feeling? Well for those in the military, it is the 4 hours you spend in the waiting area of the Base Gym or Training Facility, waiting for the bus to carry away your loved one to a deployment. For those in the military, it is the uneasy mix of wanting to spend as much time as you can with someone because sometimes Fate is cruel, and wanting it to start as soon as possible  – because it can’t end if it does not start.

And at 0800 hrs the doctor told me had an emergency case. I was not off the roster, but I was second. And my roommate third. Chances of two surgeries on Friday – good. Of three? Poor. I commiserated with him. That was a kick in the jewels – but at least he could mentally stand-down. I still had to maintain game form and keep the stiff upper lip. And I could see the strain on my loved one faces, despite the smiles and the positive words that it’ll be soon.

And the hours dragged on…1200. No word from the Operating Room. 1300 nothing. At 1330 hours, I was told that if it did not start by 1600 hrs, that my surgery would be cancelled. But this time, my sportsman’s mine started to kick in. If I was at 1600 hrs, my man would have completed almost 8 hours of complicated heart surgery. And if the surgery had been successful, he would have been lauding a couple of game –changers that he and his team executed – but he would have to have been exhausted, mentally and physically. And if it had gone poorly, would he be reliving The Sports’ Network Turning Point as he was executing mine. Rationally I knew that answer, but as a patient waiting to undergo what would probably be the biggest procedure of his life, I was not rational.

And disappointingly, but mercifully, at 1430 hrs, they waved me off. My surgery was postponed. To when, who knew. His next window was Thursday – six days away.

I was dashed, but after a chalk-talk with my family, I knew it was for the best. I want it done – but I wanted my Surgeon at his best too.

And so I waited to go through the whole thing again, when at about 2230 hrs that night, the Nurse walked into my room. “Dr. Payne” wants you to start fasting at midnight.”

I guess the game was back on…

End of Act V

Later,

ASF

(Note: Surgery did not happen when planned; a sicker heart had priority and occupied my Surgeon for 8 hours.  Bad news: I was bumped. Good news: I can still wipe my own bottom.)

As I left you faithful reader, I had just learned that my heart was sick and that despite my age, outward appearance, physical activity, and general good health (at least compared to the others on the cardiac floor…) I had heart disease. Whether it was lifestyle or bad habits or a predisposition to generating plaque were irrelevant to the situation at hand –  my heart arteries were in need of some cardiac liquid plumber.

The angiogram was still a bit of a mystery, but the diagnosis was clear:

• My main heavy-lifting arteries were pristine, clear and showing no distress whatsoever
• A series of secondary arteries, that wrapped the heart, were bunged up; substantially, and for some length. In some places the arteries only had 15% capacity – that’s a shit-load of gunk lining the artery walls. Further constriction and the possibility of the plaque destabilising and completely blocking the artery were real concerns.

And the prognosis was clear: sort this out, STAT before it sorted me out.

But the question was how? The location, length and thickness of the blockages meant that the “Master AngioPlaster” would have her work cut out for her. This fix would need a lot of stents and in some uniquely, weird locations. And because some were near junctions of arteries and veins, the Doctor was unclear of second and third order effects on the major flow patterns. It was not a simple case of one, or two, or even three stents removing the pea from under the mattress. If it was angioplasty and shoring with the mesh stents, this was going to be the equivalent of a cardiac Chunnel.

This required a major cardiac huddle between the Interventionist and the Artery Plumbers to discuss options.

And so, with that, my femoral artery was closed up and I was wheeled back to my room and my wife.

Now it is not easy to look someone you love in the eye and deliver the emotional equivalent of throwing them in a pool of ice water. But I figured, since my face said it all already, it was best to take the Band-Aid off in one quick and rapid motion.

“It’s not good. I have several blockages that need more than a simple stent.  We’re here for a while.”

And with that, we entered a whole new realm.

A bypass?

Jesus.

I had heard about those. I knew that they opened your chest and stopped your heart and sewed some stuff on. And I had heard about singles and doubles and triples and quadruples. It sounded desperate and complicated and scary.  But honestly, I knew nothing. I only had notions.

There is a lot of good reading on the topic of heart health and heart disease, on heart maintenance and heart repair. And over the next 12 hours, between moments of sheer disbelief and bitter acceptance, I read a lot.  I read about angioplasty and stents; about all those drugs I was taking and all about coronary artery bypass grafts. I read about probabilities and risks and success rates and quality of life after.

And I thought. And then I though some more.

I asked myself is this all my doing. Did I just ruin the most important thing that I have been given; my heart. Did I ruin because I like eating the fatty bits of the medium rare prime rib? That I enjoy my fine scotches and craft beers? Love my occasional bag of potato chips? Cream cheese? M&Ms?

I have always believed that you can live a Wilde life: everything in moderation, including moderation. But maybe I was wrong. But how can this be? I just ran a half marathon five weeks ago. I quit smoking over 4 years ago. I dropped 30lbs from my heaviest in 2004. I was not exactly a poster child for the healthy heart foundation, but I definitely wasn’t a poster child for heart disease either.

And I brooded and worried and became stressed. In hindsight I expended a lot of energy wondering how I got here. It made me a bit of an angry man. I was experiencing all the stages of loss. I had moved through denial and was now working through the anger. I was bitter that this had happened to me. There were fatter and very idle people out there…how come they weren’t having heart attacks? Why were they out enjoying the weekend sucking on their cancer sticks, drinking Kilkenny’s, and scoffing down large bowls of gravy and cheese curd laden poutine while I had to decide between Cardiac Curtain Number One or Curtain Number Two. It just wasn’t f*cking fair.

But I am not by nature an angry man.  I like to think am rationale and at times I am a fatalist.  Que sera, sera. My mom always told me that things happen for a reason. We just don’t see it until later. And after a day or two, I started seeing it. It sorted came at me like a ship through the mist. Maybe this was an opportunity.

I talked to the specialists. As we all know, I could have helped myself by being a little lighter, by making a few smarter eating choices, but overall I understood and ensure that I got the necessary OMEGA-3s and grains and greens and vegetables and fruit and proteins. I was not a fast-food junkie or a cola addict. I ran and rode my bike. And though I enjoyed life and its finer things, I was doing all the things you need to do to be good to my heart – not dogmatically, but sufficiently I thought.

The only joker in the deck was my ancestry.

I am not blaming anyone, but you cannot run from genes. High blood pressure, diabetes, and stroke are part of my ancestral family medical history. But there is so much that is unknown – in pre 1960s India, people died and no one knew or cared why. There was grief. And then there was land to be divided. Who knew whether it was heart disease or not?  All I know is that I have heart disease. My body produces cholesterol and plaque and my body will continue to produce cholesterol long after my arteries are repaired.

Maybe, this episode, this minor heart attack, this signal, was the chance to start over again. To take stock, and assess the devil-may care attitude, and perceived invincibility of my youth and early middle-agedness, and decide if I could keep up that pace forever. And I could…if forever was 49 years. But in my vision, forever was much longer than that. Yes there would be moments of craziness, but I needed to make sure that “Crazy ASF” understood that in the future there would be some cheques he shouldn’t write – his heart may not be able to cash them.

So eventually, after a day to think about, I chatted with the cardiac surgeon. And I was ready. I had three options:

• If I was an 80-year-old man, who was unable to stand the rigours of surgery, and who was going to sit on his butt and do nothing but stare out the windows at the pigeons, then perhaps we could go with medications to control pressure and flow and rates and stuff…meds would buy the time for something else to fail catastrophically, like my liver

• If I was a relatively inactive fellow who was willing to live a relatively sedentary life of long walks in the rain, and wanted to always watch what I eat while taking a very large daily medical cocktail of anti-rejection drugs, cholesterol pills and a host of other heart regulating agents, then the stents would be perfect. Upside? Less intrusive, quick recovery. Downside? Second guessing every tweak and pain as I tried to live my life as I wanted would cause me mental distress. And anyway, a stint was like paving a pothole. Effective, but eventually you have to pay the piper and replace the road.
• And the granddaddy of the option, the coronary artery bypass graft (CABG). A complete new superhighway for my heart akin to replacing Montreal’s crumbling turnpikes. The downside? My chest would be displayed to the world as a machine kept me alive. Risks include stroke and infection and just bad luck. The upside? After convalescence, I would be the old me – minus a few bad habits. I would be able to run, to dance. I could even swim the dolphins if I wanted. I would be on a less strict regimen of heart pills, but I would be me again. Plus I would have a pretty wicked scar to show off as part of the Zipper Club

Go for it!

For those that know me, I am pretty sure you could guess which I would choose. Being active and full of life, being who I am, there were no half measures. As a young lad, with great prospects at recovery, and with a robust immune system, I was sure. And I decided.

CABG it was. I knew what I had to do.

End of Act Four…

Later,

ASF

“There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.”

Pale yellow light bathed my hospital room as I tried to figure out in which direction my home was. Call it my training or whatever, but knowing which way is North always makes me feel better. I needed to do what I could to try to make more sense of the world because right then my personal gyroscope was malfunctioning. I had no real frame of reference to understand why I was there, and what had really happened.

I guess once they have severed and cooked and served you your perception of reality on a plate, you grasp any straw you can.

Double Big Mac Supersize Me. Nom nom nom.

A heart attack. Un-buh-leave-ah-bel.  Un-f*-king-buh-leave-ah-bel. Morbidly obese people who chain-smoke and eat their Double Big Macs supersized with a barrel’o’coke have heart attacks. Frail old men who are at the end of their lives have heart attacks. And on the rare occasion, élite athletes who have doped, get heart attacks.

Yes, 48-year-old men can have heart attacks – but not this 48-year-old man.

I lay there beating myself up for almost 2 hours as I watched the sky lighten. Occasionally I became aware of my surroundings and wondered why my window provided such a shitty view of the inner bowels of the Hospital Courtyard. My only company was my new roommate’s snoring – the one I had yet to meet…no one is really friendly at 0430hrs. And as I found out later, no one even notices any noise on the floor – it is like hearing the sentry coming to wake you up for your 0200 -0300 hrs shift when deployed on manoeuvres. Your best bet is to pretend it’s a bear and play possum.

To add to the misery, I was starving, and there was no food forthcoming – I’d even take a cholesterol friendly rice cake. Breakfast may or may not show up – I was a late arrival at the starting gate so who knew.  And even though my mind was racing, I guess eventually even it had enough and so it shut down to let me doze off for a bit.

And later, after the new shift nurses took blood, my O2 levels, my temperature, my blood pressure, listened to my heart and lungs, made sure my legs weren’t swollen and I was not retaining water, I waited for someone to come and be with me. And then the day brightened and became more bearable the moment my wife walked in.

With a sheepish grin, I shrugged my shoulders and with my eyes said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to introduce this steaming pile of dog doo into our lives.  I wish I could take it back.”

And her eyes and body and hug said, “You’re an idiot. It’s not about what has happened it’s about how we fix it.”

Things are always better when you’re with the one you love.

After what seemed a long time, because time drags on when you are wearing one of those ill-conceived gowns and your world is upside down, the Head Honcho of the

I love the beer….

cardiology ward came in and chatted. His assessment was pretty fantastic! Yes, I had contributing factors – 10-15lbs, high normal cholesterol, ex-smoker, cream ales and red meat. But I had a lot of things going for me: I was a “runner”, an active fella, relatively healthy – I mean I aced the Forces’ fitness test (those in uniform can groan now); the only unknown was my ancestry.  As many find out, you can run from a lot of things, but you can’t run from your genes. But that is Act Four…

And we spoke. He was a runner, too, and a triathlete and he saw my numbers and my history and my chart and he was fairly confident. He talked about an angiogram – an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle for your heart – and from what I gathered, an angioplasty and stent would probably be enough to take care of any nasty constrictions in my arteries. He ended with a chuckle and a grin, closing with how I might need to do things in a different way in the future and told my wife that I should be back and running in 30 days.  The angiogram was scheduled in 48 hours, on Monday, unless something changed.

So I settled in. With Wi-Fi and my laptop and Netflix, I was set for a slow but not necessarily an unpleasant weekend.  I would rather be home, enjoying a weekend with my lady, but if I had a coronary incident, it was playing out rather tamely. I realised that heart attack may be too strong a word; what I really had was a heart “skirmish”. Things were ok.

And then things got even better. Mid-afternoon, I learned someone had a critical heart attack and Team Angiogram, led by the “Interventionist” (yes, no kidding, that was the term used to describe the expert who does the angioplasty. I prefer “Master AngioPlaster”…but I keep thinking of Mr. Wolf of Pulp Fiction fame.) was coming in and that they would be able to “fit me” in immediately after. And if all went well, I would be able to catch Sunday Night Football and all would be right with world with some follow-up and good care. I felt a wee bit guilty that someone else’s critical heart attack was making me happy – but, hey, you take your small joys where you can.

This heart thing wasn’t turning out so bad after all. Not great, but not at all as dismal as I expected. The health system seemed to have responded very well to all our triglycerides and trans fats and sugars and stuff.

And not too long after I was prepared with a happy pill, locally anaesthetised and wheeled into the operating room. As is my nature, there was banter. In the space of 10 minutes the angio team and I had talked about running and half marathons and how it was surprise I was there and how it was probably going to be a quick in and out and how an angiogram worked and the steps of the angioplasty procedure and the mechanics of the stent and an overview of the anatomy of a heart. And because I had been given joy juice to ease the anxiety, I kept up with the conversation and probably even increased the revs by inserting questions to keep the conversation going because I was nervous and a little afraid of the unknown.

Well, it’s a little smaller than this….

The angiogram was a lot like watching a military drone fly over a target area. The heads up display board of six TV monitors provided vital stats, some sort of spatial referencing system, catheter status,  and then on one main screen, a picture of my heart.  That looked like a thermal image through a weapons system’s lens or a pregnancy ultrasound – depending on your experience you’ll get the essence. The Doc gave me an aerial tour of my heart and she explained it all.  But it was like the Enigma code to me; I could not understand any of it.  To tell the truth, I was really, really lost. The Grade 12 frog’s heart I dissected looked nothing like this.

The banter continued and then abruptly, it stopped.

“Hmmm…that’s interesting…”

Those words mean so much in so many contexts:

• At home reading a magazine, it usually means, “Here’s an interior decorating idea we should use.”
• About the internet it means, “we should try this restaurant”, or “let’s go see this movie.”
• Amongst guys at the bar rail it means, “Sum up. Your story sucks.”

But in an operating room, while a cardiac interventionist is looking at your heart from inside your body, it sounds a lot like,

“Hmmm…you’re f*cked.”

And for three of four minutes she looked at my heart with all the intensity of a….of a… a….well,  with all the intensity of a heart surgeon, I guess.

And then she said, “you have a fair bit of arterial hardening.” And she showed me what can only be described as opaque lines in sea of billowing gossamer spider webs. I had no idea of scale or scope or whether it was the front of my heart of the back. I was hearing terms and references that were foreign to me. But this was my heart and I had to understand exactly what she was saying.

So I parroted back what I thought she was saying in terms in that I understood. And after that layman’s read back, I understood that while my major arteries were in fantastic shape, two smaller ones were heavily, and quite extensively, blocked.  At times all I heard was a Charlie Brown-like “bwah bwah bwah” as my mind scrambled frantically to understand what was being said.  Some words resonated, others didn’t:  heart disease, atypical, unique locations, awkward dispersion, angioplasty may not be the best option, must confer with my colleagues.

Wish mine looked this good…

And all I could get was that this was now a whole lot more complicated and that I was not going to be a “quick patch and go”. There was no easy fix, no small stent, no going home quickly. No Sunday Night Football.

My heart skirmish was telling me that my heart was not just pissed at me…no, it was telling me any more bullshit and it was about ready to go on strike! I was not just a guy who suffered a scare – I had some serious heart disease. And running, or eating better, or cholesterol medicine, or happy thoughts weren’t going to fix this puppy.

I was crushed.

Again.

But much worse than before because after the first news there was hope this was might be easy. Now, as far as I knew, that easy road had been cratered. I had no idea what to tell my wife, or my kids, my family.  And I was speechless.

All I could hear was the Rod Serling voiceover “…the Twilight Zone, the Twilight Zone, the Twilight Zoen…” over and over again.

End of Act Three…

Later (like after my surgery and when my Tyrannosaurus Arms can use a keyboard again…),

ASF

Stack ’em up! Roll’em out…

Fade into a crowded, burgundy coloured hallway – smelling of hand sanitizer and ventilated by a cold breeze entering from the frequently opening automatic doors – harshly lit by many fluorescent lights, and dotted with computer monitors, hospital stretchers, and paramedics in uniforms of various colors and hues, and nurses and doctors in trendy scrubs with paramilitary cargo pockets…

I lay on a stretcher in the full Emergency ward, parallel parked in the high traffic hallway stretching from the ambulance entrance to the Nurse’s Station.  As I was witness to the multitude of people who frequent the Emerg (note the use of hospital savvy jargon), I couldn’t help but remark how lucky I was – save for the fact I was possibly having a heart attack.

My lovely wife and I sat in that hallway, in single file, her at my head, because there was no room for her to sit beside me in the crazy corridor. We were together – yet slightly apart – and silently thought about what was happening. Though we shared occasional encouragements, and commented on the goings on in the ward, we were both worried. I was here because I thought maybe I had suffered a heart attack, but really I was hoping that they would tell us I was a fool – that it was massive noon-hour meat loaf or a not quite “best before” sandwich.

And about 20 minutes later, the doctor came to me with the results of my first blood test.

“All is good, young lad! Your numbers are great, and there is no sign of troponin – our first indicator of a heart attack.”

No issues whatsoever…

We were so relieved.

But soon my relief was replaced by a temporal resignation, and an internal voice saying “I told you so, you pussy!” as the Doctor told me to dig in and get comfortable. Cardiac protocol dictated a second blood test at about 6 hours after the first incident. Ugggh. I was stretcher bound until at least 1230am, the first time that they could draw more blood accurately.

Ouch! I pondered my kitchen stupor decision – but the die was cast. I was, as the pig says, committed.

So I got comfortable, asked for a blanket, and with a mind more at ease, I started looking around to occupy my time between the occasional social media creeping.

An Emergency room is a fascinating documentary when you are waiting – especially on a weekend evening. Since it wasn’t after school, there wasn’t the stressed line of parents waiting for the docs to pronounce on Johnny’s concussion or stretched knee ligaments after rugby practice.

Nope, it was the Friday Night Club: an airlifted and unconscious car crash victim on a backboard and neck stabiliser; the obscenity hurling drunkard who wanted to beat up everything – not just everyone – in his path, but thankfully was restrained; the possible drug addict who looked as if she had crashed hard; and sadly, the poor young university student who appeared to be the victim of a drug-laced drink – or 10 margaritas. She and her friends shared a convoluted story about how she met a guy over the internet and had joined him for drinks. Her case, among all of them, disturbed me most; she was catatonic. I honestly have no idea what happened to her and neither did one of the Kingston’s Thin Blue Line who was trying to piece together the puzzle that was her evening. As I looked at her, not even knowing the ground truth but fabricating one of my own, I felt shame as a man, and I felt anger as a parent. As I looked at my fellow citizens in angst and those charged with taking care of them, it was amazing how thick the air was with a tension and turmoil. If I had to describe the atmosphere as a colour, I would call it a mist of reddish-black.

I asked myself again, “What the f*ck am I doing here?”

And time ticked on…slowly. And my mind explored unconsidered thoughts and memories.

I remember reading newspaper stories of the elderly who die unattended in the hallways of the Emergency room. I never understood it, but I get it now. As I lay there, the staff moved to and fro dealing with this and that – every “that” more urgent than the previous one. They were busy. And when it was my turn to be looked at – to give blood, or have an ECG, or have vitals taken – the staff were friendly, responsive and professional. But then their attention diverted to the next priority and I became part of the landscape – a part of the furniture. And though it is tragic, and inexcusable, I could see that if something went amiss, like a misplaced file or misdirected lab result, that people could sit and wait and wait and slip through the cracks if they were unable to speak for themselves or cast nasty looks.  As the administrators and clerks and porters and cleaning staff and medics who had nothing to do with my case management went by their business, there was no salutation or warm comment, not even a sideways glance. It was as if a kind moment would divert them from their quest, would implicate them in some longer interaction that was just not helpful to their work day.  No water, no food, no nothing for six hours.

I fortunately, was ok. I had my wife with me, and I was fine – the first blood test said so!

But if I was a lonely, scared, and sick or injured person, it would be absolutely terrifying and an unbelievably shitty way to pass time.

And time continued to march on. Thank goodness for my smart phone and the hospital’s free WiFi. The hours whittled away as I Stumbled-Upon and Tweeted and had virtual conversations on Facebook.  I was convinced that I was wasting my time, the staff’s time and holding up someone who was really ill from getting looked at because I was a priority over the laceration or contusion.  In fact, we were so optimistic that my wife, feeling tired and not so well herself, went home to look after the dog.  Whether it was the nitroglycerine sprays, the baby aspirin, or just time, my chest stopped feeling funny and I moved to the dodgy tummy and gas stage. I’ll spare you the descriptions – but if it was a colour, think greenish-brown!

Then, suddenly it seemed, 1245am arrived and the clinician took my blood, all the while asking me if I knew her friend Sanjay, who was Indian, but born in the UK. Sadly I didn’t, and strangely enough, she found that surprising. She was sure that Kingston was not

I’m here, I’m here….

that big a town after all, you see.   And 45 minutes later, the hip looking senior medico – looking all young Bob Dylan-ish in his green scrubs and Levis – came to see me with file in hand, as if all of sudden I had pulled a Walt Disneyesque sleight of hand, and changed from a chest of drawers to a human being.

White dove and seas, man…

“Dr. Bob” looked a little surprised – and secretly I was hoping it was because he couldn’t believe someone would waste 8 hours of their Friday night for nothing. I was already dreaming of a nice hot shower and my comfy duvet, snuggled up to my wife.

But that wasn’t to be.

“Uh…mmm…wow. I would never have guessed it from your history, your activity level and your age, but…uh…the numbers for troponin in your 1245am sample seem to show you have had a ‘coronary event’…crazy, man.” (“Man” thrown in for literary effect…)

A coronary event – what the hell is that?! I don’t recall reading anything about that when they were talking cholesterol or blood pressure. Is it like the Farm Team version of a heart attack?  And if I heard it right – because I was a bit stunned – he explained it could be coronary arterial spasm (rare in men but possible), or angina, or a heart attack. He wasn’t ready to pronounce judgement as it wasn’t his specialty – I guess the answer was blowin’ in the wind.

The on duty cardiologist intern would check the data.

I remained stoic and calm and cheerful on the outside; but inside, I was a raging torrent of confusion. WTF? Seriously? A coronary event? My ticker was busted?

I guess it’s something to do with your heart…

So with that premium upgrade in patient status, I moved from “hallway hanger-on” to a full-blown patient of the emergency ward. I was moved from street parking and backed into my very own private parking spot. The curtain was drawn and I was left to ponder what just happened.

Being alone with such news is a freaky-deaky. Not for the last time over the next few hours, I asked myself again, “How the f*ck did I get here?”

Now, I know that I came to Emergency  because I thought I as having a heart attack, but what I really wanted was someone in green scrubs to pat my wrist and say, “There, there, Sir, the voices are just in your head. You’re fine…just lay off the fatty food and keep running.”   When it came to my read of my symptoms during the run, there was absolutely no joy in being right. It wasn’t as if I had just won a bet by looking up something on Google; I had just had a bloody heart attack!

Twenty five minutes is a long time to ponder such news. I dug deep and kept busy. As my phone was on its last 4% of power (ASF’s Top Tip: Free advice…if going to Emergency, grab your phone charger. You’ll probably need it),I did a quick assessment of who would need to know at 0330am that my heart was telling me I was an idiot.  And so followed a quick round of texts to my wife and e-mails to my bosses giving them the news – the first was necessary and needed; the second was because that is what we do in the Army. But, unfortunately I had to inform them that they would have limited opportunity to contact me on my phone because it was dying. In a burst of coherence, I changed “dying” to “running out of juice” –  dying may not be a good word to use when telling people you have had a heart attack.

And so at 0430am I was wheeled to the Cardiac Ward, pumped full of blood thinners and anti-coagulants, anti-clotting agents, aspirin, and beta-blockers and left in the quiet dark to ponder my fate.  It was late and I had been up for over 22 hours but I knew that there was not much sleep coming.

Again and perhaps for the final time of the day, I asked myself,  “What the f*ck am I doing here?” I did not have many answers.

End of Act Two…

Later

ASF

Seriously, a heart attack? Seriously?

I had a heart attack.

And as I think on it,  I don’t blame genetics, or an elevated cholesterol count. I am not mad at the few extra pounds I am packing or my penchant for BBQ and red meat, or tasty craft beers.

I blame the Royal Family for my heart attack. Them and the Royal Canadian Signals Corps…

As it happens, on a crisp, cool Friday afternoon when I should have been hoisting a few pints with my brothers-in-arm, I wasn’t.

Yes, Your Royal Highness, they were hoping you would join them for a pint..

The Worshippers of Mercury – the Spawn of the Sappers – had invited Her Royal Highness Princess Anne to Kingston to celebrate some kind of antenna raising or something. And on the very night when I should have been enjoying the comforting oak panelling and leather of the Keg Room, quaffing Paulaner and munching on potato chips and popcorn, recalling my exploits as a young dashing Sapper officer in faraway places, I wasn’t.

All because HRH was dining in the Officers’ Mess later that evening there was no Happy Hour.  Mesdames et messieurs, la messe des officiers, elle est fermée.

Merde.

I suppose I could have gone elsewhere to imbibe. But I didn’t. I wanted the moral high ground and I did not need a pint really. So, I decided that I would take my faithful furry companion for a little joggle on the trails around the house and make room for a little weekend living.

And that’s when my royal pains really signalled their intent…and again, if I had  been to the mess, I would never had have an heart attack. If P then Q. (And for those that know, a small homage to Dr Ramkeesoon…)

Anyway, the run started nicely enough, confident strides, and an occasional stop to let Lola sniff the glandular calling cards left on the path by her canine neighbours. But after a steady 1500m, things went awry. I was no longer loping and enjoying. The run was harder than I thought it should be – even though I knew it had been a slog of a week. I was not enjoying it like I usually do. This time there was discomfort.

Not in my chest and not in my stomach, but in between.

In my diaphragm and lower sternum.

There was unhappiness around that barrier that protects me from the Scoville tsunami after a particularly challenging jambalaya or vindaloo. The barrier that says, “Hey man, smarten up! That capsaicin ain’t coming this way, but it sure is gonna sting coming out the other end.”

But I couldn’t really place it, I mean it’s not as if  it was like a finger at an awkward angle or a compound fracture. So, I sort of ignored it. Because that’s what guys do: “sort-of-do” stuff and “sort-of-ignore” stuff.

But after a few minutes, the discomfort moved from “this-is-just-a-shit-run-so-get-over-it-and-suck-it-up” to feeling funny. Not ha-ha funny. Funny in a “somebody-gonna-get-hurt-real- bad” kind of way. So, after slowing down, and then stopping all together, I did a mental inventory of the classic heart attack symptoms.

Now, let’s be clear. That I did an assessment in itself was an uncharacteristically mature reaction from me …nothing like the 18, 25, 35, or maybe even 45 year-old me – the one who would tell the rugby physiotherapist to add another layer of athletic tape on the disjointed pinkie, or tell his wife that a doctor is irrelevant as it has happened before and it would heal – eventually. You know the guy; the kind who would run a half-marathon with a pulled groin. (By the way, “ran” is bit of an optimistic term…)

And in hindsight, I think with that action,I have finally arrived at that age where I actually might be paying attention to my body’s flashing lights and warning indicators. I think Maslow called it “Stage 5A: Waking-the-F*ck-Up-ilization” which gladly is just mercifully short of Self-Actualization – which in this instance, unfortunately, would be reached with the exclamation of, “Oh, shit! That was a heart attack! Aaaaaaaaarghhh!”, clutching my chest as my essence headed towards the light.

I remember how, way back in 2007, I thought I was an Old Bull. Back then I felt as if I was tempering the actions of those young officers under my command. But really, I was still just a young bull myself – an older, young bull – but still a Young Bull.  But last week, on that Friday afternoon amongst the fading leaves and naked branches, as I forced myself to execute this self-triage, while bathed in the sickly unease that maybe I had jogged a step too far, I realised I may have finally earned entry into the Old Bull Club.

Sadly, however, the only cow in the lower pasture was me…

I did the run through of all the symptoms I remembered:

• Sharp pain in the left arm – nope.
• Radial pain in the back – nugatory.
• Shortness of Breath – nada. All systems check.
• Clamminess, sweating? Who knew, I had just “run”, and it was cool out.
• And I just did a half marathon four weeks ago – really…you can’t be serious!!!

I then started rationalising. No, it couldn’t be heart attack. There just weren’t enough symptoms. But then again, it just wasn’t right.

It was not as if Sweet Daddy Siki was sitting on my chest, but it sure wasn’t that loose rack of man-boobies that it always was before. So I wimped out, screwed the run and

Bring it on Sweet Daddy!

walked the short way home (all the while carrying a plastic bag full of Lola’s doggy doo – because that is what responsible pet owners do). I fed the dog her little princess meal of Caeser’s (dog food, not cocktails) and Royal Canin – and then I thought briefly of making dinner.

And then it got weird, time sort of became elastic. I stood in my kitchen – staring at some Italian sausage that was supposed to form part of a delicious pasta for me and my beloved – and I thought to myself, I don’t feel well.  I don’t remember if it was a minute, or twenty…

And I debated with myself. There was no way I wanted to spend 8 hours in Emergency on a Friday Night, waiting for some Attending to tell me it was nothing but an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato….more gravy than grave. “Take your antacids and stool softener – don’t forget the fibre and drink lots of water. Cure thyself, kind Sir!”  I was not keen on that idea.

But then I looked at the other possible outcomes. What if it was having a heart attack? Did I want to laying in a heap on the kitchen floor, hoping that my dog would dial 911.

“911, Emergency, can I help you?”

What’ s the number for 911, again?

“Grrrrr woof, woof, woof. Bark, woof!”

“Right, got the address Lassie, your Master. Stuck in the well out back?…Oh sorry, heart attack on the kitchen floor? We’ll send an ambulance right over!”

Just the thought of my wife finding me on the floor, all useless and damaged in a puddle of sweat, foaming at the mouth, was enough to convince me that being told “it was nothing” was worth it. So I sent the text that tried to downplay and diffuse what I knew could only be received with panic.

“Feel funny. Going to hospital. Tightness in my chest. Can’t shake it.”

And so I drove myself to the hospital. Now, as an aside, I think there is a common law of relativity, alongside Einstein’s E=MC² that:

Quantity^{(Red Lights, Assholes, and Sunday Drivers)} ∝ Urgency ^{(desire or need to reach the destination quickly) 2}

I cannot believe how bad drivers are – the 30kph in the 50km zone, the light is not yellow yet, dammit! But even in a heightened state of concern, I was a courteous Canadian. Only three honks to get people moving when they were dillying instead of dallying. But I digress, car driving habits would take a whole blog in itself, and I am supposed to keep my heart rate down. So moving on…

Now, after parking the car in the lot that is far, far away from Emergency – because I knew my car would be staying where it was for an indefinite period, and I did not want to create any parking turmoil as that would be rude –  I walked the 300m to Emergency, plunked myself down at the Registration and said, “ I think I am in cardiac distress.”

Prompt attention.  Use that if you want to be seen quickly; but be prepared to stay for a while.

Paperwork started at quick time. And my wife arrived moments later, having had her Relative Physics moment of Asshole Drivers Theory en route. And after looking at her face and her demeanour, at that moment I was not so sure who was having the heart attack. Leaving her to finish off my registration, I walked into the very, very full emergency ward.

I stripped off all my top layers of running gear – in the public hallway – and put on the very fashionable, useful, and most modesty-protecting hospital gown. And after showing all my ink, and middle-aged man hairy back to the lovely elderly couple who shared hallway accommodations with me, I was given my supper – two orange flavoured baby aspirins . Surprisingly, those bad boys taste just as lovely as they did when I was a kid. Some blood was taken and then I lay me down to await the medical onslaught, amidst the cacophony of paramedics wheeling in drug overdoses, car accidents, university RUFFI victims, and the generally unlucky – it was a great way to relax my heart rate and share some tender moments as I contemplated life with the person who is closest to me.

And then, my wife and I waited.

End of Act I…

Later.

ASF

It is still the first day of school, though this time it’s university and it’s forever…

Tomorrow, the youngest will head off to the university to start his next stage of learning. He will leave the house after 17 plus years of being fed, clothed and nurtured.  And though going to Queen’s in the same town, he will head off to meet a new crowd of similarly minded young adults – sharing a dorm room with one of his high school mates, and a dorm floor with potential best friends for life.

For me, he will be so close – but then again, so far.

Like his sister who started university three years ago, and now shares a house only 10km from me, the distance that will emerge between us cannot be measured in mere kilometres. I am guessing, based on my experience, we will be worlds apart – just as I was with my folks.

I think back almost two decades, to the early days of child-raising – a time when I, as a parent, was the centre of their universe. A time when kids thought that spending time being cuddled, or watching TV and drinking hot chocolate, was nirvana. A time that I was always right and I was the font of all knowledge.

“It has to be true. Dad said it was.” – the mantra of the young child.

And even through their teen-hood – when I regressed to being a simple and flawed mortal, subject to the occasional constant eye-roll, sneer, or snarky feedback — through to their young adulthood, there was always some way or another in which Dad was needed: help with homework, a ride to a friend’s house, a meal that included a vegetable, sorting that never-ending pile of laundry, or constant nagging about one thing or another. It was the timeless dance of parents and their offspring.  The constant see saw-battle of “I can do it by myself” weighed against “I don’t want them to get hurt”.

And in 24 hours that will change. Soon I will have absolutely no clue what happens in their daily lives. I will not know about their successes, challenges, failures or fears. Unless they tell me. Our overlapping Venn Diagrams of life have just experienced a tectonic shift.

And even though it causes me a little stress, it is right. It is, to quote Timon, “the circle of life”.  This is one of the last steps they will take in getting ready for the rest of their lives. The last time that they let go of the coffee table to take a few tottering steps with me watching, hands at the ready. They eventually have to “fly from the nest” – or is it “swim without water wings”?

And I think back to 1983.  I remember the feelings as I left home over 30 years ago.  Opportunity, independence, promise, excitement all flavoured with a soupçon of anxiety. I was a little sad that I was leaving my home and the people who had formed me; from the family who had made me a priority and made sure that I never wanted for the important things. But this melancholy was only a light blemish on the joy I was feeling.

I was on my own and on my way to becoming worldly, to learning grownup things and sharing good times and laughing and living for real!

And now I sit here on the other side of the fence. Perhaps not as sad as my parents, because we have already practiced being apart. But I am sad none-the-less. It is the end of a chapter.

It is the end of the childhood – completely. Everything, completely everything that defined their childhood innocence has now evaporated. It has disappeared, just like the sweet morning breath of a toddler escapes eventually.

I wish my son a fantastic time at university – just as I had. There will be friends and fun. And it will be full of many character building opportunities – of seemingly insurmountable challenges in the shape of readings and mid-terms and exams, of fantastically crushing hangovers and temptations of all shapes and sizes. He will learn great lessons like how borrowing $3 or $4 from five or six people can fund a whole evening of debauchery that you never have to pay back, as no one tracks loans under $5.00 (thanks for that lesson, ‘Tosh); or the governing factor in the frequency of laundry is the pairs of underwear that are relatively clean – and that buying muted tones of clothes means you can wash everything in one load; or that when it comes to engineering homework, “where there is no pressure, there is no flow”. And most importantly, that perhaps the best things you learn and remember in university aren’t taught in the lecture hall.

The Venn Diagram of Engineering

But, it will be totally unlike the days when I walked him to the school bus, or asked him if he had done his homework as we sat for dinner. It will be unlike the days when I was able to see the struggle and offer my wisdom. Now as he faces his new dragons, with the support of his well-meaning but similarly inexperienced peers his only broadsword, he must eventually learn all the lessons and overcome all the challenges on his own.  That’s what makes you an adult.

And I will wait, patiently, as my parents probably did, for the time he will call me for help, for support, and to hopefully to hear the voice of someone who wants to share in his life regularly — but who knows better than to ask.  And when he calls, I will probably give him a hard time, because that is how Dads show love. I will tease him, and almost make him regret calling me. But in the end, after the joking is over, I will give him advice and the benefit of my experience. He can take it or leave it, because in the end, it’s his life and his victories.

I envy him, in a nostalgic sort of way. And I hope he exploits this for all its worth, because at this moment, the world is his oyster – and frosh week awaits!

Always a RMC Redman, but I’ll wave the Queen’s banner for my kids!

Good luck to all of you that are seeing your leave the nest.  Exciting and sad, isn’t it?

Later,

ASF

Credit: http://abesheet.wordpress.com/2012/02/22/eeny-meeny-miny-moe/

There are two cats and a dog in our house.  I have no clue how that happened.

As a young kid, pets were never really part of our household. Well I mean the kind of pet that can really make a kid all cuddly and warm. Sure, we had gerbils…those little sawdust smelling animals that stayed in their cage and occasionally roamed the house in the little clear plastic ball (imitating John Travolta in The Boy in the Plastic Bubble). And there was a long line of rapidly expiring Tetras – those electric blue and orange fish that lived in the hexagonal mini-tanks. How I enjoyed holding a mirror to the tank and watching Flipper puff and preen to defend his massive 625 cubic centimeters of territory (for the spatially challenged, that’s smaller than a pint glass). Oh, and a budgie or two that I believe we had – but can’t really remember specifically. And all our pets had those cute, highly imaginative kid pet names…Goldie the Fish or Tweety the Bird or Gerry the Gerbil.  Sadly, all of them were relatively short-lived and, save the birds, had prompt burials at sea in the downstairs powder room.

Whaddya mean, only a nickel?

I must admit, there was brief foray into the world of cuteness. My Uncle once saved a petrified wild bunny rabbit from a few neighbourhood dogs and brought it into our house.  And for a full weekend, we were in bliss – though Mr Fluffy did not want to play with us, He spent the weekend tantalisingly close enough to pet, hiding under the derelict basement hot water tank as we tried to coax him out with carrots and celery. But after 48 hours, my Dad had enough of the random chewing and the raisins all over the floor, and looked for ways to get rid of him. Eventually my friend Dominic, from a fine Greek family down the street, offered to take Mr Fluffy for the princely sum of a nickel. I guess that was the going price for black market bunnies in 1974.

The next day I asked Dominic how Mr Fluffy was doing. “He was delicious”, was the shocking reply.

Tears ensued.

And that was pretty much it for the pets for a while. Until I grew up. Then we had cats. Cats were simple. Fill their dishes, scoop their poop, enjoy their disdain. And the cats filled that gap of sort of having a pet and not having a pet.  You only interact with them when they want something.

And through attrition, we went from cats plural to cat singular. We are sad to tell you of the demise of “Butch Cassidy”, followed by “ von Bismarck”, and a longer survivor  “The Sundance Kid” (Sunny for short).  But evidently, cats are only cats and even to the very day that she passed away, Sunny did not fill the void completely; apparently my children fashioned themselves as dog people, not cat people. Even diversions like the aforementioned Tetras did not sway them from their goal – owning a dog.

But we, The Parents, weren’t buying into the Great Canine Dream and remained resolute. Funny enough, in a bizarre cruel kind of way, we did keep the Dream alive – not wanting to dash my daughter’s hopes so absolutely. Every year my daughter’s hopes were rekindled by yet another copy of the Annual Dog Guide nestled into her Christmas stocking – as if Santa was still toying with the idea of a dog. Finally one Christmas, a peeved 11 year-old opened her stocking and cried, “Oh Santa, why do you tease me so?!”  The Guides stopped after that.

And then in 2005, she finally got her dog. A cute chocolate miniature poodle.  And after a nerve-wracking week where the children learned that it is not all hugs and playfulness, that there is feeding, and poo and pee to be managed, there is whining and whingeing (from the dog, too) the relationship hit a steady state. Balance was restored in the world.

And here I am 8 years later – divorced, and happily remarried, with the two kids now enrolled in university. And for the first time in its young life, the original dog’s only constant companion will be my ex-wife. Which works well – they both love each other very much.

But do not fret.  As I already gave away, I am not pet-less.

In 2008, my wife and I made the common error of walking into the local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA). We weren’t sure we wanted a pet. We were there just to look. Because that’s what everybody does when they walk in to the shelter.

Look.

Just look.

Right?

Nope. Unless you are the most heartless, unfeeling, curmudgeonly person that ever existed,  you can’t help but be sucked into the vortex of furry, tail-wagging Littlest Hobos, or head-rubbing, big-eyed Mr Bigglesworths.  And they all look at you with eager anticipation and longing that melts your heart and you rationalise how you can adjust your lifestyle to accommodate the cat or dog or bunny or turtle (wait, nix the turtle) before it meets The Executioner.

Dirty double dog dare you not to adopt them…

And so five years ago, after our “just looking” session, we eventually walked away from the SPCA having filled out the intrusive and detailed application to adopt a cute male grey tabby. That is how we ended up with Pink Floyd, and a few months later, a two year-old female calico (or tortoiseshell in the UK) named Stella Artois.

How did I ever become a cat owner? I mean cats are so aloof. While Floyd has the soul of a dog – he is an attention seeker and loves to be with people – he still comes to you on his schedule and prefers at times to just sit alone in the sunshine, licking his male bits. And Stella, well she is a cat through and through. She only comes to you when she needs something; which is really only feeding time.  It is like having permanent teenage children.

Really, my self-image pegs me as a dog person. I mean I saw myself with a majestic Rhodesian Ridgeback or a Cane Corso or a Siberian Husky; I saw myself going for runs with De Villiers or Magnus or Tretiak.

But then, I thought about the other side of dog ownership – the massive poos, the huge plates of dog food, the shedding hair, the smell, the drool, the big vet bills that come with big dogs –  and I realised that I am a dog person on paper only.

Maybe I was thinking too big…some of the mightiest, toughest, meanest men I know have been unafraid to take their cock-a-poos or King Charleses for walks. Maybe, but I was not ready to be that fearless. My doggy doubt was raising its muzzle.

There have been many comparisons between dogs and cat people. Some funny, some unkind. I mean who could love a cat? Then again who wants to be burdened by a dog?  Kitty litter versus poo bags; catnip mice versus dog walks; cat entwined in feet on the stairs versus staring, drooling dog when you are eating; scratched furniture versus chewed shoe.  Who can decide on Felix or Max?

Not me. So I guess maybe I am a bit of both types of crazy.

Maybe I like the guilt-free living of a cat – guilt-free weekends away with the need for only bowls of water and cat chow. Oh and the occasional pat and rub.  But they are so stand-offish. So on the flip-side,maybe I like that a dog needs me completely to make it feel wanted and loved – which I guess makes me feel the same.

So that leads me to the next part of this long story.

After a couple of frustrating months of job hunting, my wife found a job at the Humane Society – the SPCA’s sibling. It was like a double-edged sword. Money…good; abandoned and forlorn animals…bad. It was clear that she would be constantly bombarded by cute puppies and kittens and bunnies. In fact, in a deranged psychological operations kind-of-way, the Society lets the little critters run free in the Reception area to guilt the visitors into adopting. We talked about the steely disposition she needed to develop in order to work there…a dispassionate, business-like demeanour to make sure our house did not end up as Dr. Doolittle’s residence or Noah’s Ark. She agreed and off she went to make life better for the furry and feathered and scaled.

And she did well…a whole three weeks until I received the dreaded text.

“There is the cutest shih tzu here…You should come see her…”

The alarm bells went off – the first wave had climbed the parapet wall.

Then the coup de grâce, the death-blow…

“They asked me if we could foster her for a bit until they have room…It doesn’t mean we have to keep her”

Game, set, match.

It was over before it had begun. I knew that unless the dog was from Baskerville, it was inevitable – like I said, how does anyone visit the pound and come away empty-handed. I rounded the logic wagons…cost, lifestyle, vet bills, impact on our cats and readied the reliable and solid “there-is-no-way-we-can-keep-her” defence.

Then I met her. A pretty little Shih Tzu-Pekingese cross, with a tiny under-bite and a pleasing demeanour: energetic, but not dominant, and a cutie. I liked her. But the real test was yet to come – the cats.

Now I wish I could say that Floyd and Stella welcomed her with open paws and started grooming her like she was a long-lost sibling; that they rolled about play-fighting and frolicking and sharing toys. But I can’t. The cats are pissed – one of them even overnight-expressed a nice log cabin on our living room rug. No love there. Not for the dog, not for us.  I was disarmed. I needed to figure this out, so I looked for advice from the most authoritative source I know.

Google.  Dear Google, How do you keep your cats from shitting on the carpet when you bring a new dog into the house?

A quick check of the web and the consensus from The Authority was that unless they have already drawn major blood, chances are they will co-exist and figure out the rules

The Uneasy Truce

themselves. Sort of like marriage, I guess …

Anyways, with the hook set, and calls coming into the Humane Society about adopting a small dog, it was only a matter of time before I was reeled in.  Just to feel in charge, I created an analytical checklist of pros versus cons – really only a subjective list of wishy-washy feel-goods versus cold hard facts like money and lifestyle (overall, not a very helpful exercise – it was like comparing freshly baked cookies to toilet plungers). There was only one conclusion: I’m not sure. But all I know is that I am committed, and my wife is smitten.

Like I said …Game, Set, Match.

So pending the results of the personality testing, criminal record check, vet check, credit check, household inspection, pet compatibility testing, canine CPR class etcetera {kidding)  – we now wait to officially become owners of a five year-old Shih Tzu – rebranded as ours with the name Lola.

I am hoping that this now completes the animal adoption run – I feel I should buy a set of  those electro-static decals for the back of my car. Nah…can’t do it.

Anyhow, I’m heading out the door now – the dog’s nature calls. Can’t forget my little plastic bag…

Later,

ASF

2011 – Northwood UK

Last year I wrote about my Dad and tried to explain how much he meant to me and what a great example he set for his children. A year later, nothing has changed; he may be a bit greyer, and slower, and definitely more obstinate about using his hearing aids, but he is still the same good-natured fellow he has been for years.  He and Mom are off on a wee English holiday, so I have been spared the need to write him a card, or buy him lunch.  Too bad, because treating him to a meal is an easy choice – he’s a frugal, simple kind of guy (so I come by it naturally – the simple part, not the frugal bit), so I know Swiss Chalet would have cut it.  I wonder at what age I’ll start craving the Chalet Chicken and dipping sauce.

On the way to Boston – 2008

And my kids are away this weekend.  My eldest is in Ottawa with friends, and my youngest fighting with the stomach virus that is making the rounds – at our house at least.  He is at his mom’s, because sometimes, no matter how good your dad is,  you just need your mommy no matter how old you are. And my lovely wife is now dealing with that stomach flu…it should pass soon I believe – And hopefully not to me…

And it is raining…so there is no golf – if I was so inclined. Balancing the yin is the yang of not having to do any gardening or mowing. More importantly, there is no sitting on a sunny patio sipping a Hoegardens or Heffe-Weizen, which is more of what I would be inclined to do.

So instead of being fêted, or fête-ing, I have a day to introspect and to reminisce. I am doing the next best thing to being with my loved ones – I am writing a few things down.

Last year was about my Dad.  This year I am all about being Dad.  I am at that age  where more of my friends are fathers than not – some even crossing over to the “belt and suspenders” land of being “Grampies”. All of them are fantastic at it – of that I have no doubt, because taking care of the emotional and physical well-being of our kids just comes naturally to all the men I care to associate with.   Each of us, though belonging to the same brotherhood, is slightly different – with different wiring and motivations and desired results. And as a result, there are different types of dads…all of them leaving an indelible fingerprint on their children – both genetically and personally.  But in the end, we are all united with one common purpose: to do right for our children.

I look at my two grown monkeys and I think back to the wonderful, wonderful times we had together when they were little. And I admit as they got older, and as so eloquently put in the TV program Modern Families… in adolescence it was is as if they are in a spaceship orbiting the moon. Between the ages of 15-19 they are on the dark side of the moon: no communications, no understanding – just blackness.  Then at about 19, they emerge and all is light and comprehension – they are back! As I approach my 50s, I must say that we are mostly in around the dark apogee and “We’re back” (no, not like Poltergeist). And I like it.

I think back to the memories of being a new father. I remember when my ex-wife wanted to have children. I was not ready. I was still all about parties and beers and trips and free time. I was not about diapers and strollers and high chairs. I could barely take care of myself on a Friday night; how would I care for a child?  I knew nothing about teething or colic or diaper cream or burping a child. What if I broke It when I was changing a diaper? Or burned It when I was bathing It?  I don’t remember thinking of a child as he or she – the future offspring was still an It.  And after learning I was going to be a dad, I enjoyed my period of having a dedicated designated driver full-time, and I did all I could to enjoy my dad-free years. (Luckily I did not use up all my fun credits, saving a chunk for now!).

And then, 15 October 1992 happened.

I remember holding my first-born in my arms immediately after she was born during an emergency caesarean section – she was barely as long as my forearm.  All delicate and tiny…perfect little fingers that clutched my pinky, with fragile looking toenails on curved up miniature feet.  She was perfect…and loud!  I weighed her, I swaddled her, and I gave my baby girl her first bit of water as her mother recovered in post-op. And for the next three years, she was the centre of my universe. I quit smoking to protect her, I watched Barney for her and sang the cult-like ‘I love you’ song, I took her to see the Sesame Street Live Show at Calgary’s Saddledome, and I played My Little Ponies – what more could I do!  She was my girl. The first child, the first grandchild – surrounded by so many who were generous and thoughtful and proud.

And three years later, she was joined by her brother. A bruiser of a fellow who through the vagaries of modern science, arrived perfectly on time as the Obs/Gyn and I consulted our diaries to arrive at a mutually agreeable time for an induced birth! (I had to respect Weekly Officers’ Coffee for the raisin toast, and then attend Happy Hour later in the day!) He was perfect too, but not in a dainty, fragile way. He arrived with the powerful and awe-inspiring aura of a rugby number 8…promises of strength and power framed by smart-looking eyes and a beautiful toothless grin that could win over even the flintiest heart..  And all of a sudden, in the space of a few minutes, the universe had two centres. He was the one I could rough and tumble with, the one who squealed with delight as I held him by the legs and twirled him upside down, the one who sat on my shoulders like a jockey and pleaded me to bounce up and down – the one who eventually shared my insatiable love for meat and BBQ. He was my boy, and though for many years he looked like Odd Job, the bowler-hatted Bond villain, he grew up into a fine young man who possesses a level compassion, care, respect and joie de vivre that I hope I have demonstrated

What merriment it was to be a father. I enjoyed the playtimes and the bath times and the story times. I loved making them dinner, and cajoling them to eat a little. I loved the laughter and the faces and the giggles. I loved the toys – my second child hood, playing with blocks and Lego and little dolls.  I loved the smell of baby shampoo and talcum powder. And how a young toddler wakes up after a nap with hair all tousled and unkempt, with breath as fresh as meadow – happy to see you as you lift them out of bed. I loved being the centre of their universe. It put everything into remarkable perspective.

And as they got older, I was still important. A father was the one to help them with school work, to take them places, to play in the

Disneyland Paris – 2010

backyard with them, to watch movies and be a role model. To teach them respect for things and the importance of hard work and taking care of others. To show them how to throw a ball and Rollerblade and ride a bike and fly a kite; how to dog paddle or make shampoo faux mohawks and how to make the loudest armpit farts, or to burp the alphabet; to offer a finger to pull or to tickle them to point of exhaustion; to carry them when they could walk no longer, and most of all I loved executing that magic trick where they fell asleep watching a movie on the couch in the family room, and awoke the next morning all snuggly in their beds.

I can remember all the Disney movies from the 90s, using the VHSs as babysitters as I tried to catch a few more Saturday morning ZZZs on the sofa. I remember my complete joy when my children were capable of fixing themselves a bowl of cold cereal and turning on the Saturday cartoons while I slept in. And I remember being a complete wreck that the kids started venturing out on their own for movies and parties on their own – coming home long after I had fallen asleep.

And from that vantage point, I look at them now. The eldest living on her own, soon to be completing that last lap of the racecourse called University and the youngest, ready to fly on his own as he enters University next year.  The calls will be fewer, related to favours or cash or meals or laundry. Parents replaced by that inevitable gang of reprobates  that will form the foundation of that circle they will call the “friends for life”.  Time with Dad replaced by weekend cottage get-aways and concert festival weekends and road trips.  The Circle of Life continues.

And as I spend more time with my children who will continue to morph from wards to friends, I want them to know that I love them, that I am proud of them, and that I will be there for them no matter what happens; that with all the things that I have done in my life, the good ones and the crazy ones, the one that makes me happiest was being their father. I can’t believe that I ever doubted I could be one. It is so natural and so awesome.

And to sum up, I hope that when Thing One and Thing Two join me for supper later this week that one of them brings me a Popsicle stick planter or a papier-mâché objet of some sort – I liked those…

Happy Fathers’ Day fellas…Enjoy the day and all it brings. You deserve it.

Later

ASF