Home for Christmas...

Santa, a role played by my cardiologist this year, certified my belonging to the "Good Boys Club," when he gave me the opportunity to go home for Christmas. I have not been accused of being a good boy in years, but a heart attack will set you to thinking about your evil ways. He even mentioned something about being stable enough at this point. Evidently I really did make a good impression on him. My wife said he was actually talking about her at this point in the conversation. That would make better sense.

Teri and I spent a quiet Christmas, just the two of us, and our three dogs. We had a chance to talk about the fears, hopes, and support we needed to get through this thing. It's not easy living up on the side of a mountain away from family, but we do have good neighbors; although distant, they have called to offer whatever help we need. One of the very best things about people up here on the plateau, is that you don't have to look far to find help when you're in need.

One of the heart surgeons used the phrase "insult to your heart," when describing a heart attack episode. I would say that's a pretty accurate description of a heart attack; and more importantly I don't believe my heart has gotten over it yet. At home the last two days, I have felt some tightness or unfamiliar pains from my old friends hurt feelings. No amount of "I'm sorry," is going to fix these bruised and insulted feelings I'm afraid.

On the emotional level, you cannot get away from the risk involved in by-pass surgery. I look around and think of all the things I need to do or get in order before this surgery in two days. The important things are done, I have my will, health care wishes, durable power of attorney, military DD Form 214 available, banking and bills paid or scheduled. I wonder if I am too paranoid about the possibility of a bad outcome here. They say I will be a new man after this surgery. Personally I didn't mind the old man it took me 60 years to become.

Today Teri drove me in to town to see if we could find a barbershop open. We did, and I had all of my hair cut off; what I like to call my prison cut. The barber trimmed my beard, mustache, and everything else you can think of. Teri said I already look like a new man.

We spent the evening with the three dogs snuggled between us; Teri rubbing the silver bristles of my newly cropped head.

Life is good!