Well, it’s another anniversary, December 23, this one marking one year since Dr. Robert S. Poston took a chainsaw to my chest and exposed my black heart. I vaguely remember hearing the surgeons discussing what they found.
“Which one is the heart? I can’t find the number on this fiche…”
“It’s the one on the left side, the one all encrusted with drip and dripping fluid out the bottom…”
“The pump with the corroded lines?”
“Yep, that’s it. Off with the lines…”
“What is all that red gook?”
“It’s three-decade old Thunderbird wine. This man had the palate of a pot-bellied pig and the constitution of an iron-hulled frigate.”
In all seriousness, thanks to Dr. Poston for a wonderful job. Early in the morning I was rolled into the operating theater (unconscious as I was) will all faith in Dr. Poston’s abilities and I have no doubts that I was correct in surmising that he was the best mechanic for the job. He had the new lines in hand, the shiny, silver ones all covered with braided stainless, two in-line filters and a roll of Teflon sealing tape. Job completed, now I’ll be good for several more years. Thanks, too, to Eric Crawford, the PA who kept reassuring me that I’d be fine, that before another twelve months passed I’d be like the old bull on the hill, waiting to walk down and mount all the young heifers. Now, Eric, about those heifers…where are they, again? Do I need a stool? How do I stop them from telling other cows about what I did…
It’s off to Tucson today so significant other can help me celebrate surviving one year since the CABGx3 operation. I feel much better today than I did a year ago. I think I do, anyway. I don’t remember much of this day a year ago. I awakened in cardio intensive recovery with more tubes sticking in and out of my carcass than a supercharged/turbocharged IO-540 Lycoming engine. I do recall wondering how long would it take before I could move on my own.
Four days later I was out of the hospital and walking around. Amazing.