It Seems Like a Dream

It has been less than a month since I had my triple bypass open heart surgery and much of it seems like a dream. The time I am faced with the reality is when I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and see the zipper looking scar in the center of my chest. Looking back, I had little to do with the decisions for my open heart surgery. The first indication of the journey that lay ahead was at my primary care physician’s office. I was there for follow up over the Christmas holiday. She’d finished her examination and was on her way out of the room when I nonchalantly asked, “I have one question. Why can I shovel snow for half an hour with no problem, but when I walk the 35 yards to my mailbox do I get chest tightness?” She came back into the room saying, “You haven’t had a stress test since 2016 and I think you should have another one.”

Her office scheduled it and I failed miserably. Three minutes and forty seconds on the treadmill caused me midsternal chest pain. The failed test led t a cardiac catheterization with possible stent insertions. As I lay there on the table, my cardiologist showed me the films and said I needed to make a decision. He could put in six to eight stents, but they would probably re-occlude because of my diabetes or he could recommend open heart surgery. I had a healthy heart and he suggested the latter. As I lay there his warning to me was that I needed to make the decision right then. He couldn’t in all good consciousness allow me to leave the office without making the decision.

Again I chose the latter and was admitted, having surgery on the eighth of March. My family usually shies away from major decisions in March. Nineteen years ago on the twenty-forth of March, my wife Cindy passed away and on the third anniversary of her death, my mom Sybil Miner Beck died.

I didn’t have much of a choice left to me. I capitulated to the idea that I was no longer superman. The surgery and my recovery have gone well. It is hard to believe so much has happened since then. A flurry of visiting nurses, therapists, and doctors’ appointments has sped by in a rapid sequence. I still chafe at the restrictions placed upon me, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t pushed the envelope. I am walking forty minutes each day, dragged baskets of clothes to the basement and washed them, and even drove my car to church Sunday morning and evening. I am still living, so I must be living the dream.