A Mother's Son

I was surprised to see that my last message was posted November 1st. I was out of town for a week on a solo trip to the Sierras and ....ooops....that was before Halloween, and therefore not an excuse. Anyway, I have been very busy, so please understand the lapse in attention to the blog. I have probably lost a good number of regular readers because of the apparent abandonment of the blog and the to-be-expected fall-off in interest because of the lack of high drama due to my recovery from the heart and cancer scares.

But the reason for my resumption of the blogging (is that a word?) is personal....it continues to be a means to the end of healing and to the expression of my thoughts about things and events and people and situations.

I booked tickets earlier in the week for the performance of Gustav Mahler's Ninth Symphony....a complex work that is vexing and sublime. Gustav never heard the composition, not because he was deaf, like Beethoven at the latter's debut of his Ninth, but because he died before it could be performed. Prior to booking the tickets I went to YouTube to listen to exerpts of the different movements of the symphony. That way I would know what I was getting for my money.

Anyone who spends anytime cruising the YouTube site knows that there are sometimes hundreds of related videos on a topic. One of the quirks in the presentation of those video choices is that a completely unrelated video will pop up in the scroll column, leading one to wonder what the heck is "that" doing there. While looking at the choices on Mahler I saw a frame with the bloodied head of Moammar Qadaffi while he was still alive. This is how one is led astray and ends up spending hours on YouTube viewing God-knows-what. I went to that video....a cell phone video recorded by one of the anti-Qadaffi rebels in the crowd and saw the last minutes of a brutal dictator's life.

The cheering and jeering crowd of rebels were on Moammar like a pack of terriers on a rat. It was a jarring and a brutal display of utter contempt for a man who had brought a pall of darkness over a country and its people. Dazed and incredulous that he was being treated with blows and jeers instead of some kind of deference to him as the all-powerful leader he thought he still was, Qadaffi kept reaching up to the wound on his head and looking at the blood that covered his hand. Perhaps he was begging for mercy. There was no mercy given. Mockery, slaps, kicks, punches, insults, a pistol to his head, hair grasped to turn his bloody face to a camera....again, a rat at the mercy of a pack of terriers. He was dead shortly after that video was made. It ended with the old fool being dragged off to his fate. There was a glimmer of sympathy in my heart for the man as a victim of such brutality. That was short-lived as I thought of the terror he had used to keep a people and their hopes subdued or denied.

But the reason I write of this is the other videos of the Libyan reality that I viewed that night.

A young man, probably in his early twenties, wearing a striped t-shirt, jeans and sport shoes....husky like a football player...dressed like so many young men around the world....a short tuft of carefully trimmed red beard on his chin...lay on his back, arms upturned as if in surrender, his face looking up at the desert sky.
He was probably handsome, I want to believe that, but the bullet that ripped away his nose and passed through his head made that difficult to determine. He lay dead, executed on the side of a road along with five or six other young men. They were not soldiers. I presume they were rebels or possibly some young men rounded up on the suspicion they were anti-Qadaffi rebels.

The image of that young man haunts me still. I think of my own sons...young men...and know the anguish I would feel if that young man in that desert was one of them. Tears come to my eyes for that young man and for my sons....

.....and tears come to my eyes for a mother far away. A mother who has lost a son.

SRH  

Another Milestone Passed

My last session in Cardio-Rehab was this last Monday. I gave my farewells to the Re-Hab crew with eyes a little misty from the emotional realization that some milestone had been reached and that I must go forward with the exercise program on my own.

I left a note of thanks with a box of See's Candy to be shared by the crew. By the look on their faces I could see they were happy. Maybe I should have given something  more "heart-healthy" -- like a box of unsalted nuts. But I think a little sin doesn't hurt..

I will continue to exercise every day; I have found a conditioning room in a re-hab business within a mile of the house. I have vowed to never let my body get to the condition it was in prior to my surgeries.

I must go now......I will not abandon the blog. I know my entries have diminished in number, but I will post more often.

Full Moon Tonight

I stepped out tonite to enjoy the cool evening air. Dancing with the Stars was dragging a bit, though I do like Julianne Hough A LOT. She is so cute. She had a guest spot on the show.

Anyway, I noted that a full moon was in the sky and that the leaves of the Liquid Amber trees were reflecting the silvery light almost as if mirrors had been hung among the branches. I believe this is the seventh full moon of the Journal.....and it marks the sixth month since I stepped into the gauntlet. However, I am not quite sure when I emerged from that gauntlet....perhaps two months ago? One gradually realizes that the body is capable of performing some activity that was difficult just several weeks ago, and maybe impossible two months ago. I still have a compromised set of chest muscles as well as a puffy stomach from the abdominal surgery. However, I think I am physically stronger than before the surgeries..

The Moon has waxed and waned as it always has. It is magical, I think. The illumination casts shadows in the night.

Don't take any of that beauty and mystery for granted,

SRH

Candles

Have you ever sat in darkness, watching a candle flame sputtering as it drinks the last drops of wax in a dying effort to remain alive? Flickering shadows dance about as if anxious to overcome the waning light. A sadness rises within me when I see the last flare of light yield to the dark. There is an ending ....of light and warmth, and of comfort, and of security. Something is over...maybe the evening party, the birthday, the quiet evening, or a time of meditation. A candle flame mesmerizes the watcher. The mind wanders and wonders in thought, oblivious to all distraction. There is a loneliness in the watching and the flame is a companion fending off that loneliness.

There is so much in life that is like a candle flame....burning brightly and then waning and a final sputtering out.
It could be the end of childhood and the loss of innocence; or the ending of a love affair; or the passing of a parent or a friend; and, of course, the end of a life. You will know what I mean if you have had the experience of watching a person die, as I did with my father. One can literally see life flicker out as if it were a candle flame.

A business acquaintance made a point of seeing me about four weeks ago. We hadn't seen each other since my surgeries and recovery...well over six months. After the handshake and hello's and some banter, I noted he had lost weight. Pulling me aside he confided that he had lost weight, but had not been trying to, and that he was not feeling well and was to see his doctor the next week. This last friday I was informed that he had died the previous week in the hospital....some two to three weeks after I had spoken with him. I knew he was ill after that meeting...he as much as said so, however indirectly. His flame was sputtering as I stood there and talked about life with Lee. I sensed it and walked away knowing it.

These are some thoughts....I am not in a dark place. I think of the life I have had, the people I have loved, the people I have hurt and the one's I have made happy...sometimes they are the same. My flame burns brightly and I look forward to an illuminated life.

But none of us knows how much wax remains to fuel the wick.

SRH

Slippery Slopes...

Several readers have reminded me that I have made no entry to the blog for several weeks. I am flattered that there are still people reading the thing, of course, and I feel an obligation to keep it up, but I am afraid my energy and my creativity is being increasingly absorbed by the realities and demands of my "old" life, to which I have returned full time. Additionally, I have been keeping a highly personal journal of my thoughts about and my observations of life, love, tragedy, beauty, nature and the human condition. This is therapeutic.
There are books, many books, about the healing power of keeping a written journal of one's life . I have found this to be true, and I write whenever and wherever I can.

The personal journal is invigorating. It is a form of release. And time spent keeping it is minimal.
What I find alarming is the all-consuming demand of my energy and of my thoughts at work. I titled this blog message "Slippery Slopes", because I feel the pull of gravity created by that demand on my personal resources. This is not where I want to be in my life at this time. What we do is not always what we are.
I have been fortunate to have been given an extension of the gift of life...to have been brought back from the abyss. I realize this more than ever. I want to think there is some higher purpose to my survival. Maybe an "angel" will reveal that purpose. But I think the real work is cut out for me.

I do appreciate those who continue to check the blog-site for my latest message.

Ishmael

Old E-Mails

While searching for an old e-mail to verify some issue of memory, I happened upon a group of messages dating back to mid-April. They were from various friends, acquaintances and family members expressing alarm, sorrow and concern about my heart surgery. Reading them again, some eighteen weeks later, touched me deeply. It was the first time I entirely sensed the impact of that event on the lives of so many people. I don't think of myself as some iconic symbol, but I am, in no particular order...... first born, first son, oldest brother, husband, father, uncle, nephew, in-law, boss, neighbor, customer, friend, godfather ...and so on. I can't think of anything else right now...........


I'm just me

Some Gentle Prodding......

That is what I will call a reminder that I received about the fact that I had not written in this blog since mid-August. Coincidentally, I had been thinking about the "The Journal" over the weekend and the need to sit down and just write my thoughts. They begin to flow easily if one simply begins...

Reading some of the earlier August entries about our travels reconnected me to the Missions Sue and I had seen on our road trips. There are radically divergent views about the nature of the missions and the impact the Spanish efforts to convert the native populations had on that population. The dark view is that the Mission system was akin to a Gulag, or concentration camps for enslaved Indians, who were forcibly made to stay on the Mission property to slave away in the fields, the bakeries and in the construction gangs. The opposing view is the romantic "Old California" lifestyle as depicted in movies, books and television.....think "Zorro".
I don't know the reality, but I think it is somewhere  between the two extremes. One mustn't forget that the drive to save souls was mandated by the Spanish Court. Forceable religious conversion was all too common in the world back then......in Spain, in Europe, in the spread of Islam...as was religious persecution. The Europeans saw the native population as savages and heathens....to be saved from the darkness of their ways.

Anyway, we traveled to Santa Barbara over the weekend to see an art show featuring impressionist paintings from the Armand Hammer Museum in Westwood, L.A. It was an excellent show. We walked the shops on State Street afterward. The city is a charming place and State Street is lined with unique shops and eateries. Earlier in the year we had searched out an Irish bar on the beach end of State looking for an Irish coffee. I wrote about that in the blog...if you remember.

On Sunday morning we arose early and went to the 7:30 mass at the Mission. The mass was celebrated with great formality in a beautifully restored interior. While walking the grounds after the mass we happened upon a plot of land newly planted in olive trees....all young. The stations of the cross had been set up on paths running through the grove. Spotted around the grounds were still-flowering golden poppies. I picked a few blooms and tucked them away in a book when we returned to the car.

All the missions have been restored to their present state. Many were virtually nothing more than eroded adobe walls just a few feet high. I believe the main drive to restore the missions began  in the 1920's when
a great love affair with the beauty, climate and history of California began....and the romantic view of the Missions' place in California's past took root. Buried in the cemetary behind the Carmel Mission is a man who devoted almost his entire adult life to the restoration of that Mission. One can see his advance in age documented in the many photographs of the restoration efforts he led for decades. His grave is marked with a simple granite headstone no more than two feet high. I was touched deeply. His body ended up resting
just feet from the stone walls he had helped to restore. There were poppies growing nearby. I would like poppies on my grave.

I must find that book. Where is it

SRH

I promise to write more often for those who care.

Another "Full Moon"...

Saturday night marked another Full Moon cycle since I started this blog. I think it is the fifth full moon that has risen in the eastern sky to mark the passage of time in this journey. I have found that the memories of the last six months are so scrambled that it takes a real effort to sort them out within a timeline. I often find myself using my fingers to mark the weeks since one procedure or another. I am sure of three dates...just as I am sure of my birthday: April 12th, April 14th and May 24th. The dates stand for, respectively, the angiogram procedure, the bypass surgery, and the cancer surgery. Everything else falls somewhere before, in-between, or afterward....logically enough. The other day, upon not remembering involvement in some project at work, I joked that the lapse in memory must be a result of the anesthesia. The retort was "How long are you going to run with that excuse?" I replied..."Oh, maybe another few years." General laughter rang out....but I really wasn't involved in the project and should have had no memory of it. Actually, I am still pretty sharp.

I sent Dr. Amersi an e-mail this morning. I told her that "fate can abruptly bring people and events into our lives. It brought you." I thanked her for her kind caring and the level of expertise she brought into our lives. She responded within three hours . That is the kind of person she is.

More..........Later

SRH

"It Feels Good to Feel Good..."

I think readers may wonder how I am doing physically and emotionally. I am constantly asked "How do you feel?" or "Do you feel better than you did before surgery?" by family, friends and aquiaintances. Some people ask the question gingerly, fearing the question may be too personal or the answer may be less than positive.
I can see it in their face and posture, but I understand. My answer is straightforward. Some venture further with the subject, others are easily satisfied and switch to more pressing issues. There are a few who have gone through the same gauntlet as I.....and then a more personal and deeper discussion ensues. There is a mutual recognition of that bond that exists with the other. Of course, I have the distinction of having passed through two gauntlets so I have more possibilities to "bond" than most others...too bad it isn't like poker where I can raise the stakes in the game of conversation.

One early morning, just days ago, I was walking with Sue through the streets of Carmel.... up the hills, down the hills; block after block in that charming town. I turned to her and said thoughtfully...."It feels good to feel good!"

If one counts the "miles" walked and cycled in re-hab sessions and adds the actual miles I walk out of re-hab then it isn't unusual for me to have walked six or seven miles by the end of that day. I have also started lifting
weights to restore lost muscle tone. It is all invigorating, and I now recognize that I am feeling physically better than I did prior to heart surgery. The incision is healed completely, but I still feel tingles and pressures around the scar as the internal healing continues.

My heart surgery looms larger in my mind and day-to-day activities than the cancer surgery. In fact, the cancer surgery has receded so far into my everyday thinking that I was surprised when I thought of myself as a cancer survivor. It simply hadn't occured to me to think of myself in that way. When I asked Sue if she thought of me as a cancer survivor, a flash of emotion crossed her face and she answered "yes". So I guess I am a cancer survivor. Of course, if I had to undergo some regimen of treatment, as so many others do, I would have that as a stark reminder of the of the condition.

I am fortunate.

I saw a whole new crop of cardio-rehab rookies Friday morning. It was touching to see the expressions on some of their faces....wariness, confusion, hesitency...as they took in the room full of treadmills and exercise equipment. While I sat cooling down from an exercycle session, I observed one of the new recruits, a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, being introduced to the treadmill. There was a mask of utter fear on her face. As it was, the treadmill was set to something like a quarter mile per hour and it took all the concentration she could muster to keep up. She was not enjoying the experience. I'll see if I can ease her fears when I see her next.

I am always surprised to see a woman's heart surgery scar; the "brand" as I call the dark pink incision down the breastbone. It mars her body and perhaps her pysche. My brand is almost hidden by the chesthair that has grown back. Lucky me.

It Feels Good to Feel Good...

SRH

Garden Gates

Why Do You Weep...
What Are These Tears Upon Your Face...

I saw these words carved in a stone lintel over a garden gate while on a walk in Carmel one morning. They caught me and I stopped dead in my tracks. I could not walk away without committing the lines to memory. I fumbled around for a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote them down. They have haunted me since that morning over a week ago.

What do they mean.....are they something said to comfort a child, a lover, a grieving parent, an old friend, or even oneself?

I subsequently found the source of the lines. They appear in an Elven poem written for the Lord of the Rings by Tolkien. They are beautiful in their mystery and tenderness.

The garden graced by these stone carved lines was a special place. Gardens are therapeutic and bring peace of mind, I think. A garden is a refuge.

That is why those words were carved into stone....

SRH

Angels....?

Do you believe in angels?

I am not quite sure what triggered the thought of angels. But I sat back and the idea of angels and peace of mind came to me. I don't mean the hovering, smiling winged angels of our Christmas cards or manger scenes. I mean invisible forces, or voices in the mind, or perhaps a stranger who affects us in some significant way...a stranger never to be seen again...leaving you wondering who it was and why were you so touched. Perhaps we have all had such an experience, or know another who has revealed an experience. I say "revealed" because what I am talking about happens on a very personal level, and not all are willing to talk about it.
When it happens, you know it. It may not be explainable....or it may be very explainable logically or circumstantially...but there is a feeling that logic is not enough, like an aftertaste of something flavorful or sweet. I think it is spiritual.

As a young boy I was told that my maternal Grandmother, while laying alone in her bed grieving the sudden death of my Grandfather, was filled with the awareness that a presence was in her darkened bedroom. A voice broke the silence and soothingly told her that Matt was alright and happy. A peace settled over her.

My father went through a traumatic experience when his business partner and he went through a very bitter and personal fight about the future of the enterprise. Dad was aging physically and his soul was withering from the anxiety and stress. My mother was supportive, but she knew that she could not make the
decision. Both felt locked in to a specific course of action that had been defined by a proposed agreement crafted by lawyers. To go forward with that decision would entail uncertainty and risk and a continued burden of responsibility. One night as my mother lay in bed beside my father praying for guidance, she heard a voice plainly tell her what they should do. It was the opposite of what everyone had expected he would do, and it was the wisest advice they had received.

And then there was the little grayhaired lady dressed in black. She had been assigned a seat next to me on a flight back to the east coast. She wore a small black hat over hair tied back in a bun, and a long black dress that fell just below her knees.  Her shoes were black and practical. It was like she was from another era. I didn't pay much attention to her at first. I was preoccupied with business worries and the objectives of the trip to a our new customer. We had been in business for only five years or so and I would often lay awake long into the night or wake up very early and worry about deliveries and cash flow. Anyway, we struck up a casual conversation, though I really did not want to chat. In time we were discussing the business, my worries, what I wanted to do, what she wanted to do, and any number of topics. Her observations and comments were wise. I don't remember her words, but we discussed life and what was important in life. What I remember is that a pervading sense of peace swept through me. And from that time forward I have
found it easier to face the ups and downs of existence with a sense of equanimity.

Upon landing she left the plane, little black suitcase in hand. I looked for her in the terminal (she couldn't have been more than thirty or forty feet ahead of me) but she had vanished. I wanted to thank her......

I think she was some kind of angel. She was a very special one, too.

SRH 

The Bones of the Earth.....

Started Saturday, Aug. 6th

I am still possessed, though having returned home earlier this afternoon, by the beauty of the Central Coast of California . The experience of this region is not one that is conveniently tucked away and put out of mind. It stays with you and only gradually fades as life's immediate demands once again rudely shoulder it aside and push to the forefront of the mind. But the memories are not entirely displaced. I don't think they can be......they are like a dream that leaves a lasting imprint on our waking hours.

We left early last Sunday morning with no defined travel agenda, other than visit as many Missions as practical and make "landfall" in Carmel by late afternoon to check in at the Hotel La Playa. After breakfast in Santa Barbara, we went over the San Marcos Pass, past Lake Cachuma, and into the Santa Ynez Valley.
Taking some backroads past Los Olivos we entered the flow of traffic heading north on Hwy 101. North of Santa Maria we pulled off the freeway to visit Mission San Miguel Arcangel, a modest structure, under some restoration, but peaceful and sunbaked. Our eventual destination on 101 was Greenfield where an obscure road that traversed the coastal mountains to Carmel Valley originated. I had taken that road many years ago and found it challenging. It coursed through beautiful hills and valleys.....true backcountry sparsely settled. However the road was not marked in any manner along 101 and we found ourselves backtracking to Greenfield looking for it, finally parking and going into a 7/Eleven for directions.

Greenfield is in a parallel world to ours. It is entirely Mexican. I saw about four other gringo's, all passing through, while I was in the town. Then it struck me that essentially the town of San Miguel, site of the mission bearing the same name, was Mexican. Then I remembered on an earlier trip that the town of Guadalupe was also entirely Mexican. I am sure there are many more such places in California. These towns are where the labor force that tends and harvests the crops we consume lives when not working in the fields. The towns and the people who live in them are largely invisible to the general public passing by on the highways. It was as if we had happened upon a camp of gypsies, so foreign was the feel of the place. Hwy 101 was no more than several hundred yards away from the main street, but it might just as well have been in another dimension.

The 7/Eleven clerk looked up from his last transaction and was a bit surprised to see an "Anglo" standing before him. He looked uncomfortable, but gave directions in broken English and took the money for my bottle of water. The road was two blocks down the street, still unmarked..... we turned and drove into the West  toward Carmel. Once out of the valley flatlands and across an old steel bridge spanning a river gorge we climbed rapidly into a world of rugged beauty...oak studded hills the color of straw and valleys green with sycamores, willows and twisted, ancient white oaks adorned with dripping tendrils of spanish moss.

Past memories of this road included a tight curve ascending seemingly into the blue and a lone live oak rising to the right, silhouetted against the sky. It was if it were a paved path to heaven for it took the breath away with the expectation that there was nothing beyond the horizon. That same curve and the oak tree is still there and they measured up to the memory, confirming that it wasn't a fantasy. I last saw that scene almost thirty years ago, perhaps more.

That stretch of road marked the crest of the coastal mountains and the descent into the Carmel Valley began.
It is out of this valley that the Carmel River begins its run to the sea. Higher up the stream is narrow and tumbles through banks covered with oak, sycamore and willow. Poison oak seems to be the predominant understory so there was no straying from the road to streamside when we stopped for a stretch. About a quarter mile of the road and adjoining stream was a preserve for a species of newt that was peculiar to the area. We had a good laugh at a message posted on the roadside trees....."Watch for newts crossing the road in damp weather".

Carmel-by-the-Sea, for that is the correct name of that special village set among cypress and pines, touches the soul of all who have visited the town. Memories are made there, memories that stay with one for a lifetime. Every visit is memorable. Every visit is too short. Every parting is reluctant and regretted.

I think twenty years have passed since we last saw Carmel. The boys were very young, but old enought to travel. Upon first look it has not changed much. There are more stores selling $20,000 wristwatches than I remember, and there seems to be many more galleries. It is out in the residential neighborhoods that one can see subtle changes. Many of the original cottages built in the twenties and thirties have been leveled and new homes erected in their place. Most of these newer homes are done in good taste and replicate the old "stone and wood" rustic look demanded by the environment and the planning commission. A large number of homes were on the market and priced in the millions of dollars. The closer to shore, the higher the asking price.
It wasn't unusual to see homes posted with four to seven million dollar price tags.

Within sight of the Carmel beach is a promontory jutting out into the sea and forming the protective southern arm of Carmel Bay. It is called Point Lobos and it is a preserve. It is here where the crashing surf breaks
against the towering rock of the bluffs. They are like ramparts manned by cypress and pine standing sentinel against the wind and waves that eternally assault the lower walls.

I liken these dramatic rocky cliffs  to bones projecting through the thin veneer of life that sits atop them. The bones of the earth reminding us that we are small and shortlived. Walking along the water's edge of a small cove I could see the eroded stone strata turned vertically and exposed like so many ribs after the waters had eroded the softer layers of stone between the harder. The ocean surged back and forth through a small slot and revealed a section of rock that had been worn to a knob.......the pattern of erosion determined by the shape of the knob, ironically.

Whatever footprints I left behind were gone in hours, washed away by the tide.

                                          
                              "...and a lone live oak rising to the right..."

                                 
                                 "...oak studded hills the color of straw..."


SRH

                                    

Carmel

We will be vacationing in Carmel and environs through this coming week, and then traveling down Hwy 1 to
Cambria and Moonstone Beach for a few days. It is our first real vacation for quite a while. I will attempt to post messages in the coming week using Sue's laptop.

SRH

Call Me Ishmael....

This opening line from Moby Dick has always riveted my imagination. There is expectation and foreboding wrapped in these three words. I don't know why this has been with me for the past days. The words keep coming to the forefront of my mind and I sometimes say them aloud when no one is in earshot. Were I to have the opportunity now, I would name a son "Ishmael", and maybe even get away with naming a daughter "Ishmaela". I'd have a little explaining to do later, but I think once the literary distinction was explained that understanding daughter would be proud to have the moniker.

Seriously....."Call me Ishmael" opens the door to a life-chamging series of adventures and harrowing events for a young man who signed on to a Nantucket whaling ship in search of something new. He is a pilgrim in a way....one not quite sure about what is to come...a pilgrim on a voyage of discovery.

I would think at some point in our lives that we all would want to be called Ishmael.

Call me Ismael

SRH

Trauma

A fellow "pilgrim" had recommended I search out internet message boards and blogs that featured commentary by "survivors" of coronary by-pass surgery. Perhap I could find comfort, if not inspiration, in the narratives of others like me who were coping with the emotional and physical impact of the surgery. Yesterday, I followed through and located two message boards...one being more popular than the other and therefore carrying more traffic.

Frankly, I consider myself fortunate to be where I am in mind, body and spirit some thirteen weeks after the triple by-pass. I called this "coming to terms". Others have not come to terms, as evidenced by many of the despairing messages I read. Often a spouse was writing about the pall of darkness and depression that settled over the relationship and the family. Other messages were posted by the patients...and only a few were positive and vainly tried to reassure the traumatized that life could be good.

I was truly disturbed and wondered if there was something I was missing. The predominant attitude was that life was over and death had been put off for a short time. Was the end going to be within six months....or next year....maybe two or three years? So, what's the use in the lifestyle change required for ongoing health?
Many were experiencing renewed symptoms of angina, shooting pains, shortness of breath...and fear.

Perhaps my surgeon was the best compared to some less-than-best surgeons that did their job inside of the chest walls of these people. Perhaps my heart, though at risk, had not suffered any damage and theirs had.
Perhaps I am naive and should be harboring some fear for the future. But I am not where many of these people are in recovery.

I think that we travel our life path taking so much for granted. When some event shatters our assumptions about how things should be, we are tested to our core. If our spirit is not strong, if it is not founded upon solid ground, if its values are undefined, then recovery from that trying event is difficult, if even possible.

I'll continue looking for other blogs and message boards and keep you in touch.

SRH

Looking out a Window...

I visited my cardiologist this afternoon. The waiting room was full. The other patients looked like they wanted to be somewhere else. Or maybe their appointments were falling behind; I know mine did...by about 45 minutes. I had the latest Los Angeles magazine to keep me busy. I wonder how many people are out there who need a $20,000.00 watch encrusted with jewels. But then when did cars start costing $45,000.00 and more? Cheap cars cost around $20,000.00...the same as the aforementioned watch. Something is out of balance. I bought a hot little Fiat Sport Coupe for $3500.00 in the early seventies. Now Fiat is back in the market. I saw an ad in the L.A. Magazine for a tiny little "pop-top" convertible car Fiat is introducing to  American carbuyers. Cost was not quoted, but I expect a price tag of close to $20,000.00 with tax and license. The same price as the aforementioned watch. I would rather have the car, even if it isn't encrusted with jewels.

Frankly, I tired of the L.A. Magazine with its ads for outrageously expensive everything, and its coverage of very chic restaurants and fashions. So I picked up a year-old People magazine. Actually, the oldest magazine I found in the waiting room was over two years old. There were magazines piled up everywhere now that I think of it.

Try reading a year-old People magazine. Serious dis-orientation is the result. The same crap going on today was going on a year ago. The only giveaway that you are reading "history" is that some celebrity-mom-to-be back then was sighted just yesterday carrying her toddler on her hip. Bikini-bodies, tanning, celebrity break-ups, Prince William, diet-plans....nothing changes. One has to ask who or what is defining our interests and lives.

When my turn came I was ushered into a room....in the corner was a treadmill. It was the same room I had undergone the stress test back in March. This room was where it all started, in a sense, though the reality is that "it" had all started years ago because of my lifestyle.

I stood there looking out the third story window. Cars and trucks sped by below. The Whittier Hills, the same that rise behind our house, stood out brown and sunburned in the near-distance. A shuttered car agency across the street was a reminder of our economic mess and lost jobs. A few kids peddled furiously by on bikes as if pursued. Life was passing...Time was passing.

SRH

On the Death of a Shrew

No.....this is not about a mother-in-law, or a toxic wife, or a high maintenance girl-friend.  It is about a shrew, unfortunately deceased, I recovered from a black and white cat lurking in our backyard. The fact that there was a cat in our backyard was singular enough because that form of life is standard fare for the coyotes that regularly course through our yard and the neighborhood.

But this cat had sat back on her haunches on the lawn in plain view from the window over my desk where I had sat back on my haunches to review the morning's news on my computer. Sure enough, the cat was toying with some very small "gray thing"....batting it around with her paws, snapping it up in her jaws and then dropping it back down for more alternating swipes of her paws. Cats don't sit down on a lawn to relax. They usually are tending to some cat-business....like toying with some unfortunate critter they have snatched up in a hunting foray. Actually, I don't think cats ever "relax" when coyotes may be near. Though focused on her little game, this cat was wary.

Curious to see what the cat had captured I went to the sliding door and opened it, knowing that the noise would frighten the cat and expecting that she would leave the "gray thing" behind. I hoped it wasn't one of my lizard buddies I had befriended on my Bataan-like "death walks" around the house during recovery. As expected the cat dashed off and left its prey behind.......a dead shrew. Aside from being dead, the shrew was in near perfect condition. I picked it up and examined it and then took it inside the house where it now lays on my desk about six inches from my keyboard as I peck out these words. It hasn't moved one little bit, so it isn't playing "dead". The early sunlight is slanting in through the door and highlighting the shrew's fine gray hair, or is it fur. The most remarkable things about this little mammal are the feet and the small face with its mini-snout and tiny eyes. It is not a male, or at least I can see no "male-like" equipment. There is no sign that it is nursing a brood, so there are no shrew-orphans nestled somewhere dark and secluded. That is a relief.
The shrew is probably full-grown. Its body is no more than two inches long from snout to rear-end and the tail is just under two inches long.

This little animal is one of the smallest mammals in creation. Its heart beats hundreds of times a minute. Its
appetite is voracious. Its attitude is big. Its lifespan is short. And this one lies dead on my desk. I find that sad. The cat did what cats do. Nature is merciless, really. There is no sentiment. That exists only in human beings......but not always.

Finding this animal reminds me of the jet-black shrew I found floating in our pool months ago. Its hair/fur was so dense it floated atop the surface of the water. It was dead. I guess it couldn't keep its snout above the surface and it drowned. That little shrew is in a plastic zip-lok bag stowed away in the freezer. I don't think Sue knows it is there, so I will take this opportunity to bury it with this morning's find.

Life.....

Stephen

BTW......to keep a balance here, I will allow that the male human equivalent to the aforementioned female types would be a "RAT".


                         
                       

Carmeggedon......

OK.....I have to keep up this blog.

Early Saturday morning I dragged Sue into the Explorer and we set out across town to catch a glimpse of the chaos that was to result from the closing of "The 405". Likened to the impact of a nuclear bomb with its associated shock waves emanating out in all directions, the shutdown has captured national attention as the inhabitants of that overcrowded section of the city have wrung their hands in despair and fear over the dreaded perception that life as they know it will end this weekend.

Carmaggedon....the shutdown of a city, the loss of millions of dollars in retail sales, the impossibilty of driving
over the Sepulveda Pass, the probable outbreak of roadrage shootings, the likelihood of becoming stuck in unmoving traffic jams and dying of Carbon Monoxide poison.

I have to report that all of the above is not going to happen. I have never seen lighter traffic in the streets of Westwood and on Wilshire Blvd. I don't think most people are stupid....they won't be like lemmings and
go out as they would regularly do and confront a situation they know will be a headache..

We did see traffic police stationed on intersections for several miles out from the epicenter. Detour signs were everywhere. There was nothing to do.

Steve

EDITORIAL CORRECTION:  Ms Hamrock was NOT dragged into the Explorer. She climbed in willingly for what she initially thought was a fool's lark. She had fun.

Tonite....Full Moon

I knew tonight was Full Moon night. I drove the car to the gas station and saw it rising.....a luminous golden orb...and stopped at the local park to get a better view. This is the fourth New Moon of the blog, and the first I have been able to view. I was in the hospital or the overcast obscured it on the other nights.

I like the idea that two people can view the New Moon at the same time and be in two different places.

SRH

The Oak.....

This past Saturday we traveled back to the Santa Ynez Valley to attend a wine tasting event at the Roblar Winery located just south of Los Olivos within sight of Hwy 154, the road that descends out of the San Marcos pass and sweeps into the Santa Ynez Valley in a wide arc before staightening out and disappearing into the distant oak-studded hills and valleys. It is a singularly beautiful scene that unfolds before one's eyes, even if summer has withered much of the life from the grasses and wildflowers, though there are still golden poppies showing color in clusters along the side of the road.

The Roblar Winery parking lot was the location of my "afterthought" described in the "Plein Air Wrap-up"
blog. Out the back end of the tasting room is a beautiful sitting area covered by a roughly-constructed log pergola overgrown with sweet-scented wisteria vines and flowers . Not more than forty yards farther was the first row of vines...one of thousands on the property. After a time, I excused myself and walked back to that row to see just how things were done with the vines....I am always curious about how things are done.

Fortunately, it seems that winery managers and owners are reluctant to remove the oak trees that dot the fields and hills upon which the vines have been planted. I found myself standing under one of these trees after following the course of  that first row of vines for thirty yards or so. The shade of the oak and the cool breezes blowing across the vineyard were soothing, so I decided to enjoy the moment . I was struck by the massiveness of the trunk and as I raised my eyes to follow its line upward where it branched out I was awed by the sinuous strength and the girth of the main limbs. Gnarled and twisted, they supported a canopy of leaves that must have been forty or more yards across. Altogether, I was reminded of some giant Medusa's head... the branches seeming to writhe and coil into the sky like so many serpents.

That oak had been growing long before I was born and will probably be there long after I pass. It predates the vineyard and most of the monuments to human activity in the valley. It is a living thing....but it is not sentient: it does not feel or sense. It is indifferent, if one can ascribe a human attitude to a tree. It has stood by as a sentinel, so to speak, to the passing of many seasons and to the circle of life. Today it shelters a man from the sun while that man looks up to its highest branches and wonders how such dark and rugged beauty can come about naturally. Understanding the oak could live to be several hundred years old, the man wonders at the brief amount of time allotted to him and others. Like the grasses and wildflowers withered by the summer sun, so is his life force withered by time.

The man cools himself for a few minutes, thinking thoughts, and then goes back to his life and to his loves.

He will remember that oak and those few minutes of solitude and wonder, perhaps for the rest of his life.

SRH

Progress

I walked a total of five miles today......three miles on the walk-way, one mile around the "block" in Santa Fe Springs, and the equivalent of one or more miles in re-hab on the treadmill and the exercycle. I feel fine, though the legs are a bit fatigued.

All is well.

SRH

Walk Around the Block

Today, I walked that aforementioned square block in 17 minutes....just about back to form.  It feels very good.

SRH

Milestones.....

Prior to my surgeries, and ignorant of my heart's condition, I would regularly walk the mile that defines the square block in Santa Fe Springs upon which the business is located. Later in the day I might choose to walk additional miles on the walking path that runs through Whittier along an old railroad right-of-way.

This afternoon I walked that square block without stopping. It was the first time I had done so in three months. I didn't think much about it when I started.....it was just a walk. But half-way through I was struck with the thought that I was passing some personal milestone. I became a bit emotional with the realization that I was seeing territory that I had not seen for weeks. Nothing had changed, yet I saw it with different eyes.
A few tears filled them...just briefly, for they were wiped away quickly, and I went on, not wanting to break the stride I had set. I walked that mile in twenty minutes....my best prior time was sixteen and one-half minutes.

As I said...it was a personal milestone.


SRH

Re-Hab Morning..........

I started my heart surgery re-hab a little over a week ago. For those of you interested in the mundane, here is how it goes:

Show up at 7:00 am and weigh yourself.
Relax a few minutes and then have your blood pressure recorded.
Open your shirt and have three monitor leads attached to your torso.
Get modest with the shirt and step onto the treadmill for a mild "walk"
Have blood pressure checked while on the treadmill
End treadmill session and rest for five minutes
Hop onto the exercycle and peddle for twenty minutes
Get off exercycle and have bloodpressure checked
Have monitor leads removed and say goodbye.

I actually enjoy the experience, but the therapists are so by-the-book that I am embarrassed for them at times. I mean I can understand how to turn a treadmill off....you hit the "off" button...right. This is explained over and over again. I started to adjust the seat height on the exercycle and was gently reminded that only staff can do that.....uh...OK!..... that's fine with me.

I imagine a big concern might be having a patient collapse on the treadmill and having his corpse rocket off the thing into the wall. So they have to be careful about the speed of the belt. Who wants to clean up that kind of mess, let alone make the report.

I do feel a bond with the other "re-hab'ers. Some are in exrtraordinary shape and go through the routine with a grim look of determination. Others are mystified, it seems, about why they are there. All have that "look" to one degree or another. The "look" being the expression of the reluctant passenger facing the alternative of climbing into a rundown railroad freight car if he doesn't make good with the task at hand. You know the kind of freight car I am talking about. The kind that goes where you don't want to be....Perhaps I exaggerate a bit, but not much.

I don't compare myself to others. I guess I am somewhere in the middle of the pack. There are some definite
Sad Sacks (does this expression date me?) and then there are those that excel...but they have been at it for awhile longer than I.

The staff is professional and sincerely cares about the quality of the care they give. I will continue to try and loosen them up.

That reminds me. I met with the Registered Dietitian this morning after re-hab. She takes her job seriously and soon had me hem-hawing and babbling about how many times I eat this, or that, and how much of each, every day or week....Heck, I don't remember what I ate for breakfast three days ago. Did I eat lunch yesterday....was it buyout or homemade? What did you eat? Was it healthy or unhealthy?  Do you drink diet or sugared sodas? How many times a week? And what about eggs....how many a week? Do you salt the eggs?

And all this from a tiny little Philipina woman earnestly taking notes as I confessed to one gustatory backslide after another.

I decided to fight back when she asked if I ate fish regularly. I said no, because I was particular as to how it was prepared. She immediately asked how I liked my fish cooked......I answered "Battered, and deep fried."
It was as if she had been turned into stone. I had mercy and said...."Nahhh, just kidding."
Then she turned to the subject of red meat....which I don't eat often.... and pulled out a deck of cards and grandly announced that the size of that deck of cards was the maximum size of my future portions of red meat. I countered that the decks of cards in Vegas were much larger. A slight chuckle escaped her throat.

And my ideal body weight is 175 lbs. That is what some chart indicated. I haven't weighed 175 lbs. since I was in high school. I would have to lose another 25 lbs.....and my hip bones already grate against a wood bench. I'd have to have a pillow tied to my rear end.

I told the dietitian I would settle for 190...maybe 185

That's it for now.

Still trying to figure out "What's Next".

SRH

Simple Gifts.....

I thought I would copy the first lines of the song..."Simple Gifts":

'Tis the gift to be simple, its a gift to be free.
"Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
Will be in the valley of love and delight.

                 Old Shaker Song...1848

..."where you ought to be".....that is the key.

SRH

This Morning....Some Thoughts

I went to the back fence early this morning, cup of coffee in hand, to look out over the hills that roll back into the distance. They are covered with eucalyptus groves and native plants. In the slanting morning light they were serene and beautiful. Ravens called to one another in the distance with that odd grating sound they make when conversing with one another. It was possible to conceive that the scene was far away from Whittier and that I was where I wanted to be at the moment.

It struck me that I and all others are just a part of the thin veneer of life that is secured to the face of the earth by gravity. We may look up at the tallest trees and feel dwarfed by their majesty, but those forms of life are minuscule compared to the compressed bulk of the rock we live upon. We are very small but we perceive ourselves as the center of all that is around us. I accept that as only natural. It isn't literally true, but it is the way we cope with our position in the order of things. It is how we make sense of our lives. Many never make the effort, unfortunately. I went to a Jesuit university and we discussed issues like this to such a degree that I ended up with a minor in philosophy, whether I liked it or not. I wasn't really ready for most of it to be honest, but that experience left me with an open-minded perspective of our place in the world. But I didn't start this message with the purpose of passing on that Jesuit education. Lord forbid. I don't want to lose my way.

I think we are confronted endlessly by our search for meaning and the distractions of our man-made world of pleasures and created "needs". And life is so short. There is little time to gain the maturity to know what is important and what is not. I don't think this is a bleak view of our existence, but rather a realistic assessment of reality.

As I stood out at that back fence I thought of the present and the past. I thought of those who I loved and who I love. I remembered many of the people who have had a part in forming who and what I am today.
I saw how all that I carry in my memory is my life. I am the sum total of all that I have experienced.

We all are.

I think this message has something to do with "What's Next?"

I have come to terms with my recent experiences and have passed through that gauntlet not unscathed, but in good health and spiritually stronger.

SRH

Simple Things.....Simple Gifts

There is a certain self-imposed burden that one bears when starting and maintaining a blog such as this. It is the assumption that one must be "profound"....after all,  I am writing about serious stuff here. Then I remember my mother telling me not to take oneself seriously lest others don't..or something like that.
I have found that simply to start writing will "loosen" up the thoughts in my mind, allowing me to post something meaningful...to me, if not to anyone else.

I have been largely absent from the company for many weeks as I recovered from the surgeries. I never worried about the welfare of the business and its daily operations. Our people stepped up and met the demands of customers and production schedules in my abscence. That is what one would want, of course, but it happened, and it happened smoothly.

I must make it clear that the company does not sell a product. We don't make a line of devices or doo-dads and then sell them to customers. Sometimes I wish it were so. The reality, even though we ship trucks full of product, is that we sell our talents and capabilities. Our customers come to us with a need. We quote a price to fulfill that need. Sometimes we get the order and that is where what we do comes into play. But it isn't the turretpresses, the laser, the pressbrakes, the spotwelders, the arc welders and the powdercoating facilities that get the job done. Those are just the tools.

Today we gathered the employees together for a taco lunch...an informal affair, as most taco lunches are.
The tacos were "autentico" street tacos.....the kind I like. The kind that all the hip urbanite gringos are just now discovering on the taco trucks that are advertising on the social networks. It was the first time since returning that I had seen the "crew" in one place. Dressed in their work clothes, some wearing aprons, many wearing worn t-shirts with faded beer advertisements and witty, sometimes off-color, proclamations....all oil-stained to one degree or another....I thought they were a special group. Many have worked for ten, fifteen, twenty, and even thirty years or more for the company.

These men and women are the strength of the company. From the women in customer service, to the very talented men in the engineering and design department and to the men on the shop floor that fabricate the metal components and seal the cartons with made-at-Hamrock product.....these are the true assets of the company.

It was my great pleasure to announce to those people this afternoon that the company would restore the salary cuts made necessary by the recession.....necessary for the very survival of the company. My voice broke as I told them I knew it had hurt. The applause and cheers were the best thanks I could have asked for.

Nothing profound in this, it is a story about a simple thing. I thought it worth expressing my feelings about a group of fellow pilgrims.

There is a song..."Simple Gifts"... that I want to recommend to the readers of this blog.
Find it on youTube.....Yo Yo Ma and Allison Krause pair up for one of the best renditions.


SRH

The Zipper Club

Apparently, I have become a member of a "club" that I had no intention of joining...in fact, I don't believe I  knew it existed. The initiation is grueling and the "new member" fee is break-the-bank high. I am safe in claiming that not one member wanted into the club. However, they are all around me and you. I think most button their shirts as high as they can and they rarely talk about the club to others, unless they discover another club member; then they feel an instant bond with that "brother". The club does not discriminate. All races and sexes are welcome. There are far more males in the membership, outnumbering the females significantly. The average age of the clubmember skews to the higher side....let's just say most have been around for quite awhile.

The "Zipper Club" members share one thing in common.....a long pink vertical scar down the center of their chests. Some are secretive about the "hallmark", others will open their shirt boldly to show anybody, interested or not. I learned I was a member of the club in Cardio-Rehab from another member...indeed everyone in there was a member...except the staff. We had a laugh about the irony of our chance meeting. I felt a bond with the man...let's call it a very human moment. Not wanting to seem boastful, I chose not to tell him I was a member of another club. These "club" entrance requirements are a form of hell-on-earth, so two clubs are enough for me. What good is a club if the members would rather not be such? There is no fun to be had.

As I go about my day, wherever I am, I see prospective members-to-be. They are everywhere. The funny thing is they don't know they are making themselves candidates for the clubs.

I'll let you figure out who those future members might be. They take life and health for granted.

SRH

"Plein Air" Wrap-up.....Meeting with Dr. Amersi

I am so naive....really!..... Sue and I drove up the coast on Hwy 1 toward Cambria and decided to stop at Harmony, a small "town" of several relic dairy buildings occupied by kitsch art galleries. We used to go there years ago with the boys and pick up ribs and chicken from some entrepreneur who I am sure went broke  for lack of customers. Anyway, I was wandering about a courtyard photographing wild flowers and other details of the garden with the macro setting on my digital camera when a woman approached me and asked if I could take a picture of her and "Molly", her little white poodle. She was very specific about where I should stand and where she would pose with Molly. I took several pictures and handed back the camera so she could view the results, which she found to her liking. She then proceeded to ask me questions about features of her camera she simply could not understand. As I pondered her questions and attempted to explain she moved closer. At that point Sue suddenly appeared at my right side, having materialized out of nowhere, as far as I could tell. And just as mysteriously the camera lesson ended as the woman said "Thank You" and bid adieu. And it was a good thing....I couldn't answer those questions. In fact, I don't think there were answers.

I love wildflowers. They are like nature's jewels. I was surprised how many were still showing their colors this early in the summer. Poppies were everywhere...I don't know the names of the others. I think some people are like wildflowers....different from the others, unique and unto their own nature. You know them when you meet them.

We reluctantly set our direction back to Whittier on Sunday morn. We visited two wineries, one just outside of San Luis Obispo and the other in Los Olivos. We traveled through backcountry on roads winding through hills studded with ancient oaks and newly planted vineyards. The last leg of our rural journey took us over the San Marcos Pass and past Lake Cachuma. We dropped down into Santa Barbara and joined the thousands of vehicles crawling back to Los Angeles and other points East and South.

An afterthought.....We sat in our parked car at the winery in Los Olivos and ate some of the snacks we had picked up in Avila Beach. I gazed at pepper trees and oaks swaying in the cool breeze. The bright sun made the shadows dark and the leaves glisten as if wet. A furtive jackrabbit scurried by, not more than ten feet from the front of the car. Horses stood stock still in a corral across the road...... I looked away and tears filled my eyes. It was good to be alive.


Meeting with Dr. Amersi....

Sue and I drove across Los Angeles to Cedars-Sinai for a 5:00 pm meeting with Dr. Amersi. I expected some routine visit in which Dr. Amersi would examine the incision, dress the wound if necessary and check out vitals. The expected meeting with Dr. Wollin, Dr. Amersi and the Hamrocks had not been arranged due to schedule conflicts. We expected to hear, at that meeting, what Dr. Wollin, the oncologist, prescribed for future treatment, if any.

As it is, Dr. Amersi came into the small examination room and proceeded to tell us about the difficulty of pulling all interested parties together at one time. She went on to say that Dr. Wollin concluded that, based upon patholgy reports and Dr. Amersi's observations, "any treatment of  Mr. Hamrock would be unnecessary at this time"........I furrowed my brow, did a double-take, and stated warily "That's good news, isn't it???"

It was good news....very good news.......And it is still sinking in.

Stephen

"En Plein Air"......Traveling California's Central Coast

Hwy 101.....pathway through Montecito, Santa Barbara, the Gaviota Pass, Santa Ynez, Buellton, Santa Maria, Pismo, Avila Beach, San Luis Obispo, then on to Hwy 1 through Morro Bay, Cayucos, Harmony, Cambria and just beyond San Simeon to the Piedras Blancas lighthouse and the Elephant Seal Preserve.

I've been down this route many times in my life. I enjoyed it more than ever this weekend when Suzanne Aimee and I decided spontaneously to "take off" and chose to visit this part of California for a get-away trip.  Re-Hab will make it difficult to leave town for the next few months (if I don't play hooky, anyway).

I don't think this country has ever struck me more with its sunlit natural beauty and serenity. The French
term..."en plein air"....means "in the open air". This expression is commonly used to describe a manner and style of painting characterised by the artist capturing his subject on canvas in the outdoors, in natural light. A "school" of Impressionist painters in the very late 1800's through the present have used the California landscape for inspiration. Much of the landscape featured in the paintings of the earlier artists no longer exists
as portrayed, having been subdivided or paved over since. These early paintings reveal a lost heritage, in a way......a California that can never be again. However, one need but drive a few hundred miles North on "101" to see the California so tantalizingly and romantically portrayed by the "Plein Air" artists of the past.

The rolling hills are no longer green like the felt on a new billiard table. This weekend they are a light camel in color, with blotches of dark green oak trees in the canyons and ravines, or, quite often, whole forests of the things covering the crown or the slope of a hill. Cattle graze in the open, or rest in the shade of the oaks. Farmhouses nestle in groves of huge eucalyptus trees planted decades ago. Watertanks on stilts, windmills turning in the breeze, haybales spread across fields or gathered in stacks, tractors parked outside barns, collapsing outbuildings and sheds....all these and more to let you know that you are in a different world.

Then, there are the thousands of acres devoted to vineyards. I don't remember that much land planted in grapevines along Hwy 101. It is astonishing. The vineyards extend miles inland. Amidst them are the
wineries, more often than not with tasting rooms and facilities that cost huge sums of money.

Our destination was Avila Beach. It is a charming beach town and we would go back again. We both noted
how pristine the beachfront walk and businesses were, as was our hotel. It turns out a section of Avila Beach was literally torn down and over 6500 truckloads of oil-contaminated ground was removed to remediate a pool of petroleum that had gathered below the beachfront property after years of leakage from petroleum pipes that coursed underground to a distant pier used to load tankers many years ago. The town had to be destroyed in order to save it.

I'll continue the account of the weekend tomorrow. I need to attend the first re-hab meeting at 7:00 a.m. and much later in the afternoon drive out to Cedars- and see Dr. Amersi for a followup visit.

SRH

Talking over Re-Hab.....

I mentioned earlier that another Hamrock, Inc. employee, John, had his bypass performed by the same surgeon as I. He went through the cardiac rehab program at Presbyterian Hospital some years ago, so I touched base with him this morning to check out his experience. He endorsed the program wholeheartedly. He learned to understand and cope with the emotions that are released by heart surgery...that was the most valuable lesson he took away from those weeks. We talked about this for some time. John admitted, somewhat sheepishly, that he would cry with little provocation. He remembered seeing a frustrated parent manhandling a young child in a supermarket....and tears coming to his eyes. He asked the nurse if he had been injected with female hormones...I think jokingly...because of his tender emotional state.

I understood. We talked for some time and I took comfort in his observations and advice. I know that recovery isn't just a physical healing now, and that emotional healing is just as important and is part of the whole deal.

I took the time to go back and read all my blog messages (I dislike the word "blogs") from the very beginning.  Little did I know what this "pilgramage" would be like. I am reminded of the title of one of my messages: "A life unfolds and a path is created". This brings tears to my eyes. I know the pain and uncertainty
behind that statement. I hold it as dear advice.

This weekend we are escaping up the coast to Avila Beach....a little town just above Pismo Beach and just shy of San Luis Obispo. I imagine we will go to some wineries, maybe further up the coast to San Simeon,
and if our friends are in their second home up on See Canyon Road in the hills we will drop in and say hello.

SRH

Cardiac Rehabilitation....The Meeting

I should have started Cardiac Rehabilitation several weeks ago, but the tumor surgery and the recovery from that surgery delayed my attendance. Frankly, I had forgotten about it. It is required, but in my heart I considered re-hab a nuisance....something to put up with. After all,I feel great.

My introduction to the program occured today. A dynamic nurse, who pulled no punches, bombarded me with questions and facts that left my head spinning. The bottom line is that I have a good deal more healing to do. I have only just begun, really. The eight week recovery time so often quoted is the time it takes for the chest to be healed enough to allow for certain activities. The chest really takes up to twelve weeks to fully knit. But the precious heart takes upwards of six to eight months to heal from the wounds inflicted on it. The grafts are still fragile for quite some time after surgery.... far more so than I thought. How naive I am.

I learned that my two main arteries were 100% blocked!! My heart/body made up for this by diverting blood flow through other minor veins, which expanded to take the increased flow for oxygenated blood....blood that could not pass through my arteries. A third artery was 70% blocked. The reason for the lack of classic heart disease symptoms was the compensating flow of blood through the smaller veins. That is what was keeping me from having a major or fatal attack. That is how close "it" was.

A regimen of exercise (treadmills, stationary bikes, walking) is on my "must do" daily list....for the rest of my life. Likewise, a proper diet and low sodium intake is mandatory for maintaining health.

The nurse, who I respect, stated something that she deeply believed...... I could tell from her eyes and the catch in her voice. She stated that the heart is what drives our emotions and moods. When the heart goes through surgery, it is "pissed" and it will bring on depression, sadness, uncertainty, and crying. It is the source of love and "heart"break. Well, I hadn't heard any of that, but I can understand it. I'll accept it as true.

Stephen

Reflections on June 20th....a Father's Passing

Yesterday, the 20th of June, marked the anniversary of my father's death. I failed to mention it in last night's blog. He suffered a minor heart attack in February of 1988 and underwent bypass surgery. The night before he was to return to work he fell terribly ill. He was suffering an intestinal blockage caused by a tumor in his colon. He was 63 when that all occured. He passed away just after his 66th birthday earlier in June, 1991.
Among his regrets was that he would not live long enough to celebrate the new century. I lit a 50 yard long string of firecrackers that New Year's Eve, 2000, in his memory.

He died in his bed, surrounded by many of his children and his loving wife. We were all able to give one last kiss....and he died just minutes after the last family member bent over him and said goodbye with that kiss.
I look back on that night and my witness to his passing as a privileged gift. I lived next door to my parents' house, and I still do.  As I walked back to my house in the early morning hour to tell Sue of his death, I looked at the western horizon and saw three bright planets aligned as if beacons in the sky. The crescent 
moon was just to the left of those planets. I have never forgotten that.......and I have never seen that celestial
alignment since.

The parallels of my father's experiences to my own are obvious. I was fortunate. That is all I can say.

He told my mother that when the wind swept over her, it was a sign that he was present and watching over her.

Stephen
 

"The Road Back"

I am reading a book titled "The Road Back", written by Erich Maria Remarque...the author of "All Quiet on the Western Front". The latter, written in German, described the hell of trench warfare in World War I. "All Quiet" is considered a seminal anti-war work. It did not glorify carnage, but rather described the savage and dehumanizing effects of war on the human body and psyche. Remarque was "there", having been drafted in 1916 and he was on the Front till the Armistice in November, 1918. He was wounded twice.

"The Road Back" describes the disengagement of the armies when "peace" came, and the return of the tattered remnants of the German units through the eyes of the men who fought to the bitter end and survived.
If one wants to gain insight to the reasons for the rise of political extremism in Germany, and the eventual stranglehold of the Nazi Party over that society, then read the book. We are still feeling the effects of those tumultous years nearly a century later.

I cite the book not as a history lesson, but as a human story of men that on one day were leading vicious raiding parties with knives, clubs and grenades...and fighting off the same from their enemies....only to find that the next day "Peace" had come. They could peek over the parapet, then stand exposed and not be shot.
They were incredulous and finally at a loss as what to do. Their world had had come to an end and they were not quite comfortable with the new order. As it is, the story goes on with the march back to Germany and the slow acclimation to the reality that "it" was over. It is a touching story. And I identified with their plight and their emotions. They had to "come to terms" with what had happened to them and make sense out of it all.

I don't want to overplay my personal "coming to terms" issues and liken them to the physical and spiritual trauma that those soldiers endured.  Though I still need to go through Cardiac Re-Hab, I believe my recovery is essentially complete, but I am so conditioned to "recovering"....doing the things that need to be done to advance my recovery.....that I find myself at a loss toward the end of the day as to what to do. Like those soldiers I figuratively peek over the parapet and, of late, feel safe enough to stand up exposed to life.
I think that is "coming to terms" largely defined. Crying is a release. I think tears wash away the hurt and the uncertainty of purpose and direction brought about by two major surgeries in six weeks.  So I am not concerned about the need to cry....it is natural and healing in nature. I am fortunate that the outcome of both surgeries has been so positive. I don't take that for granted.

Yesterday was Father's Day. Sue dragged me to Nordstrom's to take a look at the "Men's Half Yearly Sale"
I think I would rather gather cow pies than sort through clothing racks crammed with bargains, most of which hurt my eyes and I would never wear anyway. However.......we did run across some nice things that fit my newly svelte body. Sue was thrilled and declared she was going to use me as her personal "Ken" doll. I said I didn't have enough hair, but that didn't matter to her...so she says. Later we grilled Tri-Tips and roasted vegetables for the boys and my sister. We ate out on the patio in perfect weather.

I still don't know "What's Next?"....though I am getting advice from various sources and collecting my thoughts.

I think I have largely "Come to Terms". I am at peace.

Stephen

 

Coming to Terms........

Apparently people are actually reading what I write. Several blogs ago I mentioned the New Moon was overhead that night (Wednesday, 15th) and I would go out and take a look and "remember". The night sky was overcast, unfortunately, but the moon was up there somewhere. I think I could detect a faint glow through the clouds. However, the point is that a reader mentioned that blog and the reference to the New Moon at the end of it. I think that reader may have gone out to look at that moon. I didn't ask, but I was touched deeply by the support and the fact that my thoughts meant something to another.

But something else took root in those kind words. It has to do with "coming to terms" with all that I have experienced  in the last eight or nine weeks. I am tempted to call it a type of PTS, or Post Traumatic Stress.
A wave of emotion swept over me that evening when I looked at the scars and still-healing incisions that stretch across my chest and stomach and tears came to my eyes...... I cried.

I cried for myself, my body, and for all those who have loved and stood by me these past weeks. I have cried many times over the last several days. I really can't control the emotions that bring the tears. There is no use in that. A memory, a song, an aria, or just a few minutes of solitude will bring the tears. Writing about this brings tears to my eyes. So maybe I am coming to terms with the trials I have endured. It is all good. There is no shame in it. It is purifying. I am human and I can cry.

As I write this I am listening to one of  Richard Strauss' lieders sung by Lucia Popp....a soprano who fell to brain cancer in the prime of her career. You can listen to it on YouTube...."Im Abendrot" (In the Sunset).
It is beautiful. Listen to it and let it carry you away. She's no Britney Spears I'll have you know.

I have been reminded of the "Phoenix".....the mythical bird that arises from the ashes of its own immolation.
I think this belongs to the "What's Next?" blog. Look forward to that one. LOL

Stephen

Coming to Terms...."What's next?"...continued

As I write this, I am listening to an aria from the opera "Die Tote Stadt". I never tire of it. It often brings tears to my eyes. It is called "Marietta's Lied"....a duet sung by a soprano and a tenor that is hauntingly beautiful and very listenable for those intimidated by opera. You can find it on YouTube, sung by a number of artists.
For those unfamiliar with German, the translation is "The Dead City" or "The City of the Dead"...
I found music wonderfully therapeutic over these last nine weeks. I have spent hours wandering the "Cyber-Aisles" of Apple's iTunes store hunting for lieder, arias, adagios, sonatas, symphonies, concertos and movements that appealed to me. I often gaze out of the window overlooking our backyard while listening to my music and realize that I rarely see the yard at its most beautiful during the early and mid-hours of the day. We take our reality with us wherever we go, somehow thinking it is all before us and that is all there is. The few hours I enjoyed the yard in the past seemed the only time it existed, when, in reality, it was always there and always beautiful. Isn't there some expression about slowing down and "smelling the roses"?

I think my physical healing is almost complete...certainly, if the heart surgery had been the extent of my experience, I would be "recovered". For the last nine weeks my life has been defined by surgical procedure and recovery. But what is recovery? "Recovery" also means coming back from a state that might be
characterised as exile and embracing some semblance of one's previous life. Believe me....one's life is forever impacted and changed by what I have come through. This is part of  "coming to terms", I think. One simply cannot go forward as that same pre-surgery person. There are the physical scars from incisions, and then there are the psychological and spiritual "scars" that set one apart from all others who have not suffered through the same battles. I am fortunate in one respect ......I do not have to face prolonged treatment or fear the return of the type of tumor found in my body. That is the indication to date, anyway.

I still can't tell you "what's next". And I still haven't covered the whole of "coming to terms".....

That will come later....I need to gather my thoughts and fathom my emotions.....and maybe cry a little.


Stephen

Coming to Terms....."What's Next?"

I have been at a loss for words to post on the blog....call it writer's block. But I'll give it a try and probably find myself loosening up.

The tumor surgery was three weeks ago yesterday. I am healing well and feeling about 90% of my old self...except when I feel about 70% toward the end of the day. I experienced "rebound"...that's what they call it....when I tried weaning myself off of the pain medication too quickly. It is part narcotic and can induce dependency. Some chronic pain sufferers take the same medication for years....no thanks, thank you. The overwhelming feeling is akin to an adrenaline rush. I reduced the dosage to one tablet every five hours, however I forgot to take one this afternoon, so it has been about thirteen hours since the last tablet and I am feeling a bit weird right now. Then again, I may be going through an anesthetic flashback. All the Doctors tell me that it takes weeks for the anesthetic to be purged from the body. A flashback is marked by drowsiness and a general "down" feeling. I may sound a mess, but, really, I am fine and enjoying writing about all of this.

A realization came to me earlier today. For some reason I consider the tumor surgery less an important event than the heart surgery....and therefore diminished in its impact on my life. It seems to have been an afterthought. The actuality is that it is one of the two bookends that prop up my story. It was "major surgery", as the Doctor reminds me each time I see her. The anesthetic used in that surgery is the culprit causing the flashbacks....not the anesthetic used in the heart surgery.

I wonder if  I have come to terms with the events of the last eight weeks. When Dr Amersi left the exam room, after delivering her very good news, I dutifully began to put myself together so Sue and I could leave.
As I buttoned my shirt, I turned to Sue and saw a wave of emotion and relief sweep across her face. A few tears filled her eyes and she gave me a big hug. It was then I realized the significance of the news and felt some emotion. And it was then I understood the stress and the fear she had been living with. Maybe it was the anesthesia and the pain pills, but I had not been emotionally affected to the same degree. I had detached
myself and took a clinical perspective....... and still do today. Perhaps part of the reason for this is that recovery is comprised of small "victories" and demands a focus that is conscious and subconscious at the same time. A global perspective is difficult when one is preoccupied with water retention, regularity, medication levels, pain prevention, and finding comfortable sleeping positions. Then there is the unspoken concern about wound infection and re-opening the incision through stress or bending over the wrong way, and then the ultimate worry about the bowel re-section holding. I am human, after all.

I am asked, more and more frequently, what I want to do "next"........"What's next, Steve? What do you want to do with the rest of your life?" I don't have an answer to that question right now. I do know that I don't want to return to the grind and routine that was much of my life for many years. I remember my father
telling me shortly before he died that I must not let work dominate my life to the exclusion of enjoying my life.
It was one of his great regrets that he had not taken the time over the span of his years to make the time to do the things he wanted to do and see the things he always wanted to see.

Every night, before I go to sleep, I sit on the edge of my bed to gather my thoughts and settle my mind. It is a form of prayer. That is when I contemplate what I have endured these last eight weeks and what it all means.
It came to my mind several nights ago, as some near-revelation, that a gift has been given to me......call it a gift of life, or a gift of understanding and compassion, or maybe a gift of light. There is no darkness. There is no sadness. There is only calm.

There is a Full Moon tonight. It is the third Full Moon of the Journal. I am going outside to let the light shine down on me and remember.

Stephen

"The Score"....Monday's Meeting and Lab Report

Tomorrow....June 7th....marks two weeks since my tumor surgery. At the time, the surgeon, Dr. Amersi, felt the operation was a success and there was no apparent spread of the tumors to other organs of the body. I've described the mass removed from my abdomen in previous posts. But Dr. Amersi could not draw any conclusions with certainty until the pathology reports came in from the lab.

Today, Sue and I met with Dr. Amersi to go over the lab analysis. It was just this morning when it began to dawn on me that I would hear the "final score" of this contest later in the day. So it was with some anxiety that we traveled across Los Angeles to Cedars/Sinai this early afternoon. I would know what my medical future was going to be like by the end of the day.

The Pathology Report affirmed Dr. Amersi's observations. However, there were SEVEN tumors in a cluster involving the mesentery and the small intestines. They ranged in size from about 1/4" to almost one inch in diameter. This is why Dr. Amersi had to remove a tangled "ball" of small intestine and mesentery tissue. The outlying tissue of the "ball" was clean and showed no sign of cancer. The bottom-line is that there are no cancer tumors left in the body. Future "treatment" will involve periodic scans (every six months) to detect any possible return of the carcinoid tumors.

I am walking the streets with a retuned heart and newly repaired plumbing. The healing process, initially feared to be more painful than the heart surgery, has proved to be rapid and less painful than feared.
I am a very fortunate man. The final score came out in my favor. What a game!!!

Stephen

"Good Morning, Mr. Hamrock.........."

I found the level of care at Cedars-Sinai to be excellent. Interestingly, the nursing staff was about 80% Philippino...a mix of male and female nurses and aides. To a person, all the staff treated me with patience, care, and genuine respect. The Philippino's were a particularly happy lot of people. By and large they were not a sophisticated group, but very true.

I have come to realize that each floor of a hospital is devoted to the recovery of patients suffering the same or similar illnesses. You don't have cardiac patients mixed in with cancer patients....their needs are different and the hospital concentrates resources accordingly. In the cardiac recovery section of Whittier Presbyterian the focus was on heart rates, blood pressure, circulation, preventing blood clots, etc....making sure that the patients' hearts were ticking properly. At Cedars, I was on a floor where the common denominator was bowel surgery. I, like others down the hallway, had a section of bowel removed and the two loose ends reconnected with sutures. The intestinal tract heals very quickly and this reconnected juncture is "ready" in twenty-four hours. However, one does not know how successful the re-section is until there is evidence that the tract is clear and allowing matter to flow past the re-sectioned juncture. It takes several days for this evidence to make itself apparent and indicate successful surgery. Hence there is a laser-like focus by all medical personnel in search of that evidence.

Very early on the fourth day after surgery I got up from my very uncomfortable bed and walked the hallways. Walking helps promote circulation and the elimination of retained fluids and it is encouraged from the day of surgery to the time you are released. As I approached the nurses' station I saw the diminutive aide  who had attended to my needs through the nightshift discussing something with another male nurse. "Parri" looked up and with a bright smile greeted me in a voice for all to hear.."Good Morning, Mr. Hamrock!! Did you pass gas last night??".  As I passed by him, I put my hand on his shoulder and laughingly told him that I had not, but expected to any hour. Everyone laughed and I proceeded down the hall chuckling to myself. From the nationally recognized surgeon to the night aide....the indication of a successful re-section was the passing of gas. All, including myself, were relieved once that happened (no pun intended).

It has been seven days since the surgery to remove the tumor was performed. I am feeling fine, though the recovery from this operation is different than the recovery from the heart surgery. As I wrote in an earlier blog, this last surgery caused me a good deal of anxiety. I had no idea what the surgeons would find once they got into my abdomen. As it is, the outcome was the best that I could ask for. No other organs were affected. The tumor infested area was restricted in scope and removed. The small intestine was re-sectioned and I was closed up after an operation that took no more than one and one-half hours to perform. They got me off the table in record time. My heart held up just fine and the anesthesiologist was amazed that all went so well and so quickly.

The tumor had attached itself to the outside walls of the small intestines and had bound up a section of them in a mass that, once removed, proved to be the size of a large grapefruit. The surgeon told me she was surprised that I could eat anything and not experience discomfort. The probability of a blockage in the very near future was real......and that would not have been a pretty situation.

My appetite is still repressed and food doesn't interest me like it once did. However, I am seriously thinking of making a pot of Chili Verde this weekend. I don't know if I will eat much of it, but everyone else is enthusiastic. I should feel up to the task by this Sunday.

Stephen

Late Sunday Night......a Few Thoughts

It is 9:30 p.m. Sunday evening and I have settled down. I'll be sleeping in a sitted position for a few nights at least. The abdominal muscles now have a nice clean incision sweeping down vertically and these are the guys I counted on to help me get up early-on after the heart surgery. They are out-of-service for the next several weeks.

I am tired, so tonight's message will not be as witty and as long as I intended. I now think this recovery will not be as difficult or as painful as I expressed last week. We are experts at "pain management", or think we are, and maintaining the scheduled flow of the two little capsules seems to keep me in a tolerable comfort zone. I look forward to a decent night's sleep, though the medication induces weird little dream images that startle me awake.

Ooops!....I just drifted off....... so I will say goodnight with the promise of taking up "pen and paper" tomorrow.

Stephen

Going Home..........

I thought it a good idea to let everyone know that I am going home this early Sunday afternoon, and to express my thanks to all who have followed me on this blog, and to all who have prayed for or shown their support for a pilgrim that set out on a journey many weeks ago. That journey is still far from finished, indeed, I don't think it ever is completed.

I can never express in words my appreciation and love for my Sue, and for the devotion she has shown to  me and my recovery. This has been no joy for her. She has ridden every foot of the way and endured every hour of each day of this journey. I have seen the fatigue in her face and the resolve in her manner. She has put up with things she has an extreme distaste for. We have grown together....kind of like soldiers in the
front line trenches of a very personal war.

I'll write more later today, after settling in at home and visiting Mom.

Stephen