It is Christmas Eve at Wartschwanberg Castle; or dickbauch in the old Schloss on the hill, if you prefer that sort of language. The tree is hung with miniature Hapsburg jawbones reflecting candlelight from a zillion hand-rolled tapers, and topped with a silver quaternion eagle. Mantelpieces in every room are laden with sprigs of berried holly, fir garlands and glittered greeting cards: "Merry Christmas Aunt Griselda. Sorry I haven't seen you for thirty-five years but I am still exiled in the land of the Slavs."
There is ice skating on the frozen millpond and a Red-Nosed Erasmus look-a-like competition beside the Holbein Gate. Seasonal drinks are served from the Woodcutter's Rest: Rheinheitsgebot beer, seaweed punch from the Baltic states, mulled cider for Wassailing, eggnog schnapps, plum and spiced almond wine.
In the great hall, Crown-Prince Ludwig is dressed like a pixie because he has been passing purple water; and fancy-dressed Minnesänger are rinsing their vocal chords with mistletoe juice in preparation for the Yuletide Sängerkrieg. The Grand Duchess, hidden deep in a sable coat, is supervising the wrapping of presents in the privy council chambers: there is a box of tin soldiers for Otto, a box of tin soldiers for Wolfgang, a box of tin soldiers for Franz, and fairy-tale Alpine fortress themed wooden building blocks for Ludwig. There used to be a extravagant nativity scene in the castle, but the Christ child figure was captured by Napoleon after the Prussian army's surrender during the Fourth Coalition.
Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Old Mother Trümmerfrau is selling poisoned marzipan to disobedient children and the wizened Nutmen are stirring horse chestnuts in oaken barrels of boiling brine. Sticky treacle is outlawed by the Duke this year, for some reason, but towering cake trays are laden with Esterhazy torte, Thomasplitzchen, chocolate Fredericks, Hanseatic gingerbum, brandied woppel pears and traditional fig flavored nougat wizzels.
Alas, Herr Doktor has ordained that Poor Stephen can't eat any of them because of his high-cholesterol; so he must subsist by sipping cold sprout and carrot gruel in a lowly cattle shed outside the castle walls. Not for him the turkey wrapped in bacon tinsel or the fatted goose stuffed with fatted gosling. Not for him the toffee covered cherries and extra slice of Black Forest cake washed down with lashings of Liebfraumilch. Yes, it will be a merry but culinarily austere Christmas for Poor Stephen this year.
(Historical note: although Dickbauch is a real celebration, a fair proportion of the food and drink mentioned here is invented by me. There are no such things as "Hanseatic gingerbum" or "nougat wizzels" as far as I know, so don't go asking for them at your local German gourmet import store or you might be forcibly ejected from the premises)
Hurlegurnon!
Language is how we define the human condition: the more words we know the more precisely we can understand ourselves and the world we inhabit. Consequently, learning a lot of obscure and bizarre words makes it easier for us to explain the obscure and bizzare events that we experience; like undergoing bypass surgery, for instance, since "bypass surgery" or even "Coronary Arterial Bypass Graft" don't accurately describe the spine-chilling, Twilight Zone horror of that particular procedure with any fidelity. In fact, most medical terms provide profoundly inadequate descriptions of the grotesquely invasive processes that are performed in operating rooms across the world every day. Surely it is high time that the World Health Organization hired someone like myself to invent more realistic names for everything that happens in a hospital.
Anyway, recently, while skimming at pace through a Kindle ebook about ancient languages, it struck me - admittedly more like being flicked with a wet towel than being hit by a bolt of lightning, but struck me nonetheless - just how many these rich and colorful words are erased from human memory each day by the triumph of dreary modern diction. The English language, for example, could once boast many bizarre words, borrowed from now defunct foreign cultures, to build its own distinct vocabulary. Unfortunately many of these jaw-fracturing, multi-syllabic nouns, verbs and adjectives are now forgotten or ignored. Employ any obscure word with a Pictish root in conversation, for example, and your interlocutor will simply assume that you are in the preliminary stages of belching up an entire haggis. Similarly, although not as offensively guttural, using a Norman French word will merely convince others that you are making a euphemistic reference to the bathroom, when you were actually complimenting the new tapestry on their living room wall.
Of all the words that medieval Norman French contributed to the English language, Hurlegurgnon! is the most underused. Indeed, the word is so rare that I might be accused of merely inventing it to provide readable fodder for my humble blog. But why would a simple scribe such as I resort to such linguistic tricks, especially when the words means something absolutely repulsive and unpleasant?
Indeed, saying Hurlegurgnon! is so rude and impolite that I have only ever uttered it twice in public: once when I hit myself in the eye with an exploding cork from a misdirected champagne bottle; and secondly, and most memorably, when a surgeon removed three plastic feeder tubes from my poor stomach with three swift tugs. "Hurlegurgnon!" I cried as the alien apparatus slithered between my intestines and popped out of my body.
"I'm sorry but did you say something just now?" the surgeon asked.
"Yes. I'm afraid I yelled Hurlegurgnon!" I admitted.
"Nobody's ever come out with that before," he said laughing. "What is it, some sort of foreign swear word?"
"It was French about a thousand years ago." I explained. "But it got assimilated into English when the Normans invaded before falling out of common usage." I explained. "So, yeah, basically I guess you could call Hurlegurgnon! an archaic foreign swear word. It's the kind of thing an eleventh century French knight might have said as he fell into a Saxon shield-wall. And later his descendants might have muttered it under their breath when dealing with surly English tenant farmers."
"I see," he nodded. "So what does Hurlegurgnon! actually mean?"
"I'll tell you after the nurses have left." I said. "The definition is unsuitable for airing in mixed company, even if that mixed company does spend much of its working day coping with some extremely grotesque and disgusting problems."
Alas, the surgeon's pager immediately summoned him to another part of the hospital before I could impart the information, so I suppose he remains ignorant of the meaning to this day. A shame, really, since most lexicographers would conclude that Hurlegurgnon!, when employed in certain contexts, has distinctly medical applications. If pushed I would even suggest that the Coronary Arterial Bypass Graft procedure itself should be renamed "the Hurlegurgnon Gambit" - I will give that one to the World Health Organization for free.
Anyway, recently, while skimming at pace through a Kindle ebook about ancient languages, it struck me - admittedly more like being flicked with a wet towel than being hit by a bolt of lightning, but struck me nonetheless - just how many these rich and colorful words are erased from human memory each day by the triumph of dreary modern diction. The English language, for example, could once boast many bizarre words, borrowed from now defunct foreign cultures, to build its own distinct vocabulary. Unfortunately many of these jaw-fracturing, multi-syllabic nouns, verbs and adjectives are now forgotten or ignored. Employ any obscure word with a Pictish root in conversation, for example, and your interlocutor will simply assume that you are in the preliminary stages of belching up an entire haggis. Similarly, although not as offensively guttural, using a Norman French word will merely convince others that you are making a euphemistic reference to the bathroom, when you were actually complimenting the new tapestry on their living room wall.
Of all the words that medieval Norman French contributed to the English language, Hurlegurgnon! is the most underused. Indeed, the word is so rare that I might be accused of merely inventing it to provide readable fodder for my humble blog. But why would a simple scribe such as I resort to such linguistic tricks, especially when the words means something absolutely repulsive and unpleasant?
Indeed, saying Hurlegurgnon! is so rude and impolite that I have only ever uttered it twice in public: once when I hit myself in the eye with an exploding cork from a misdirected champagne bottle; and secondly, and most memorably, when a surgeon removed three plastic feeder tubes from my poor stomach with three swift tugs. "Hurlegurgnon!" I cried as the alien apparatus slithered between my intestines and popped out of my body.
"I'm sorry but did you say something just now?" the surgeon asked.
"Yes. I'm afraid I yelled Hurlegurgnon!" I admitted.
"Nobody's ever come out with that before," he said laughing. "What is it, some sort of foreign swear word?"
"It was French about a thousand years ago." I explained. "But it got assimilated into English when the Normans invaded before falling out of common usage." I explained. "So, yeah, basically I guess you could call Hurlegurgnon! an archaic foreign swear word. It's the kind of thing an eleventh century French knight might have said as he fell into a Saxon shield-wall. And later his descendants might have muttered it under their breath when dealing with surly English tenant farmers."
"I see," he nodded. "So what does Hurlegurgnon! actually mean?"
"I'll tell you after the nurses have left." I said. "The definition is unsuitable for airing in mixed company, even if that mixed company does spend much of its working day coping with some extremely grotesque and disgusting problems."
Alas, the surgeon's pager immediately summoned him to another part of the hospital before I could impart the information, so I suppose he remains ignorant of the meaning to this day. A shame, really, since most lexicographers would conclude that Hurlegurgnon!, when employed in certain contexts, has distinctly medical applications. If pushed I would even suggest that the Coronary Arterial Bypass Graft procedure itself should be renamed "the Hurlegurgnon Gambit" - I will give that one to the World Health Organization for free.
The Food Puritan
Traditional Thanksgiving dinner at my house always involved a traditional trip to a friend's house to enjoy their traditional Thanksgiving dinner instead of cooking my own. After all, eating other people's food is how the first Thanksgiving was celebrated, so my parasitism had a certain air of authenticity. And besides, who needs a ransacked turkey carcass dripping cold fat all over the fridge for days on end?
Nevertheless, I usually brought some sort of offering with me when invited elsewhere, no matter how paltry or inedible: a price-stickerless bottle of red wine unsuitable for a white-meat meal, for example; or perhaps an almond gateau from whatever bakery had anything left and was still open at the eleventh hour; maybe even a small selection of Viennese wafers if I struck out at the bakery and got really desperate. For some reason, those last two items, despite being de rigueur desserts at any Austro-Hungarian festivity, never seemed very popular at a Yankee dinner table dominated by withered pumpkins, a cranberry sauce bog, "squash," and a holiday theme plate heaped with arid slabs of roughhewn turkey: the stuffed and basted totem of most Thanksgiving celebrations.
Turkey, as any gourmand knows all too well, is a meat only slightly more flavorful than a pair of wooden clogs fitted with odor-eating charcoal insoles. Continental chefs have tried lathering its trussed body with all manner of exotic herbs and fragrant spices, but the bird's stubborn flesh remains about as mouthwatering as a dusty stick of gray chalk. Anyone who has ever attempted to submerge shards of turkey in a lake of gravy will be aware of its absorbent properties. In the past, I have even used uneaten drumsticks or the odd wing as a makeshift loofah when showering, since they are very convenient for those hard to reach places. Of course, everything changes after marriage: I no longer recycle Thanksgiving leftovers as bathtub accessories, obviously; but most importantly, I now bring proper food and booze with me instead of just store-bought snacks and booze. And this year I'm not only married but also suffer with a heart condition, so that makes everything double-different.
Soy protein is not a substance usually associated with the Pilgrim Fathers. Indeed, tofu, seitan and tempeh sound more like origami folds made during the creation of a decorative paper turkey rather than sauteed entree substitutes for a real, roasted bird. Nevertheless, an artfully marinated soy protein loaf makes a healthy and unique addition to any Thanksgiving feast. Tempeh, in particular, has a pleasing chestnutty taste and texture. A pretentious person such as myself might even describe tempeh as exhibiting certain autumnal qualities: an ideal companion, then, for non-buttered Brussels sprouts and other low-sodium sides. I wouldn't recommend bringing a tofu or seitan dish, however, since they are both extremely bland. In fact, you might just as well eat a paper turkey for all the piquancy you'll find in those poor examples of the bean curdler's art.
So this year I am thankful for tempeh; and low-fat frozen yogurt; and whole grain crackers; and organic root vegetables; and the fruits of New England's orchards; and red wine, naturally; and a large slice of Almond gateau - - yes, even diners with heart diseases are allowed to cheat on their diets at Thanksgiving.
Nevertheless, I usually brought some sort of offering with me when invited elsewhere, no matter how paltry or inedible: a price-stickerless bottle of red wine unsuitable for a white-meat meal, for example; or perhaps an almond gateau from whatever bakery had anything left and was still open at the eleventh hour; maybe even a small selection of Viennese wafers if I struck out at the bakery and got really desperate. For some reason, those last two items, despite being de rigueur desserts at any Austro-Hungarian festivity, never seemed very popular at a Yankee dinner table dominated by withered pumpkins, a cranberry sauce bog, "squash," and a holiday theme plate heaped with arid slabs of roughhewn turkey: the stuffed and basted totem of most Thanksgiving celebrations.
Turkey, as any gourmand knows all too well, is a meat only slightly more flavorful than a pair of wooden clogs fitted with odor-eating charcoal insoles. Continental chefs have tried lathering its trussed body with all manner of exotic herbs and fragrant spices, but the bird's stubborn flesh remains about as mouthwatering as a dusty stick of gray chalk. Anyone who has ever attempted to submerge shards of turkey in a lake of gravy will be aware of its absorbent properties. In the past, I have even used uneaten drumsticks or the odd wing as a makeshift loofah when showering, since they are very convenient for those hard to reach places. Of course, everything changes after marriage: I no longer recycle Thanksgiving leftovers as bathtub accessories, obviously; but most importantly, I now bring proper food and booze with me instead of just store-bought snacks and booze. And this year I'm not only married but also suffer with a heart condition, so that makes everything double-different.
Soy protein is not a substance usually associated with the Pilgrim Fathers. Indeed, tofu, seitan and tempeh sound more like origami folds made during the creation of a decorative paper turkey rather than sauteed entree substitutes for a real, roasted bird. Nevertheless, an artfully marinated soy protein loaf makes a healthy and unique addition to any Thanksgiving feast. Tempeh, in particular, has a pleasing chestnutty taste and texture. A pretentious person such as myself might even describe tempeh as exhibiting certain autumnal qualities: an ideal companion, then, for non-buttered Brussels sprouts and other low-sodium sides. I wouldn't recommend bringing a tofu or seitan dish, however, since they are both extremely bland. In fact, you might just as well eat a paper turkey for all the piquancy you'll find in those poor examples of the bean curdler's art.
So this year I am thankful for tempeh; and low-fat frozen yogurt; and whole grain crackers; and organic root vegetables; and the fruits of New England's orchards; and red wine, naturally; and a large slice of Almond gateau - - yes, even diners with heart diseases are allowed to cheat on their diets at Thanksgiving.
Side Effects and Other By-Products
Taking medication is a sort of daily religious ritual, only with less billowing incense and a lot more enteric-coated communion wafer thingies. Fortunately, there is also no falsetto choir, unless, of course, you have taken the wrong pill at the wrong time of day. Regular observance of a medication regimen is certainly an act that requires a great deal of faith in the covenants and testaments of others: this doctor preaching Christian Crestor from his pulpit at the clinic; that doctor calling the afflicted to Islamic Zocor from a hospital minaret; another doctor is on a Hindu pilgrimage to the promised land of Questran; there are even some unorthodox, holistic healers who swear by herbal extracts and drinking fish oil on the Sabbath; and when Carl Sagan famously remarked that human beings are made of "star stuff," I imagine he had merely become confused by AstraZeneca's therapeutic products.
But there is no real evidence that any of these medication creeds actually work, in mysterious ways or otherwise, other than the biological wonders that their proselytizing doctors claim for them. Alas, there is no pharmacological equivalent of Pascal's philosophical wager, since the extremely provable existence of side-effects means that patients have a lot to lose if their prescription pill-God turns out to be naught but a hollow idol.
Side-effects come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of severity: bloating, swelling, liver disease and hives, for example; not to mention our old friends nausea and vomiting. Victims are advised to consult their doctors, somewhat counter-intuitively, since it was this drug-pushing know-it-all who originally prescribed the bile producing poison, and will undoubtedly suggest yet another innocuous-looking pill to address the negative symptoms of the first. I don't know what the medical term from such treatment is, but in alcoholic circles I believe it's called "the hair of the dog."
Thankfully, the only medication side-effect I've experienced so far is a creeping, shapeless sense of dread that I'm going to experience side-effects from taking medication: a chronic condition for which medication is unsurprisingly available. And so it becomes a vicious circle; a queasy carousel from which you can't escape once it's started going round. We must just hang on for dear life, literally, hoping and praying that the mechanism won't terminally malfunction. Frankly, it makes me dizzy and lightheaded just thinking about it.
But there is no real evidence that any of these medication creeds actually work, in mysterious ways or otherwise, other than the biological wonders that their proselytizing doctors claim for them. Alas, there is no pharmacological equivalent of Pascal's philosophical wager, since the extremely provable existence of side-effects means that patients have a lot to lose if their prescription pill-God turns out to be naught but a hollow idol.
Side-effects come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of severity: bloating, swelling, liver disease and hives, for example; not to mention our old friends nausea and vomiting. Victims are advised to consult their doctors, somewhat counter-intuitively, since it was this drug-pushing know-it-all who originally prescribed the bile producing poison, and will undoubtedly suggest yet another innocuous-looking pill to address the negative symptoms of the first. I don't know what the medical term from such treatment is, but in alcoholic circles I believe it's called "the hair of the dog."
Thankfully, the only medication side-effect I've experienced so far is a creeping, shapeless sense of dread that I'm going to experience side-effects from taking medication: a chronic condition for which medication is unsurprisingly available. And so it becomes a vicious circle; a queasy carousel from which you can't escape once it's started going round. We must just hang on for dear life, literally, hoping and praying that the mechanism won't terminally malfunction. Frankly, it makes me dizzy and lightheaded just thinking about it.
Feeling the Burn
In bygone days, the expression "feel the burn" was just another insult hurled at poor old witches tied to a flaming stake. Today it's become a bodybuilding mantra for sweaty athletes and workout addicts. But our ancestors required no daily exercise regimen; mostly because they were either rampaging, bloodthirsty cutthroats, or were the sort of desperate, unprotected peasants always running away from rampaging, bloodthirsty cutthroats. Constant rape, pillage and bare-knuckle boxing at weekends kept their adrenalin flowing and their heart rates high. They needed no twelve-speed treadmill or tanned personal trainers in the seventeenth-century. And when not fleeing from psychotic pirates and marauding press-gangs, people were too busy collecting firewood and skinning oxen to bother about slipping into a pair of bright orange spandex pants and joining an expensive gym. The so-called "burn" was felt during their everyday activities. Life may have been, as Thomas Hobbes claimed, "nasty, brutish and short," but it was also a simpler time. Of course, maybe everyone would be dead by the age of thirty, but that's because our ancestors' idea of preventive medicine was drinking frog bile mixed with mandrake juice while chanting old wives' mumbo-jumbo.
These days, thankfully, we know better, even if only slightly so. The local witch has been replaced by the Primary Care Practitioner and frog bile is now called Lipitor. The mumbo-jumbo, unfortunately, has merely been incorporated into your Health Insurance policy, but you can't have everything. Still, on the whole, our prospects of not dying in agony and ignorance before reaching middle age have largely improved. The area in which we have not progressed, however, is our physical fitness. Modern man's sedentary lifestyle means we need far more recreational exercise than our muscular but superstitious, axe-wielding forebears did. This is especially true if you suffer from heart disease, like I do, and so I'm forced to endure something called Cardiac-Rehabilitation twice a week at seven in the morning. Cardiac Rehab, so the brochure says, is an exercise and informational program "designed to increase physical fitness, reduce cardiac symptoms, improve health and reduce the risk of future heart problems."
Like the Naked City, there are a thousand stories in Cardiac Rehab: this guy had a heart attack while collecting maple syrup sap; this guy felt chest pains while singing second tenor in an amateur production of Rigoletto; and this guy - me, for example - just thought he was going for a routine check-up, failed his stress test, and wound up staying in hospital for two weeks to undergo coronary arterial bypass surgery. And so I have to make my way to 75 New Chardon Street in Boston for my bi-weekly exercise, although, as I discovered to my cost, actually finding New Chardon Street for the first time is an exercise in itself: an exercise in extremely heart-unhealthy frustration and anxiety. Apparently, fifty percent of New Chardon Street is an architectural monstrosity called Bulfinch Place, another forty percent is a concrete wasteland named Bowdoin Square, leaving ten percent of actual street which isn't signposted. When I eventually found the place, fifteen minutes late for my appointment, I was too exhausted to jog on the treadmill and had to sit in a mechanical rowing boat for twenty minutes while a nurse lectured me on removing stress factors from my life.
"That's good," she said, as I rowed through imaginary water. "It looks like you're starting to break a sweat."
"Yeah, but I'm a naturally sweaty person," I told her. "So I wouldn't read too much into that if I were you."
"No problem. Just let me know when you're feeling the burn," she replied.
These days, thankfully, we know better, even if only slightly so. The local witch has been replaced by the Primary Care Practitioner and frog bile is now called Lipitor. The mumbo-jumbo, unfortunately, has merely been incorporated into your Health Insurance policy, but you can't have everything. Still, on the whole, our prospects of not dying in agony and ignorance before reaching middle age have largely improved. The area in which we have not progressed, however, is our physical fitness. Modern man's sedentary lifestyle means we need far more recreational exercise than our muscular but superstitious, axe-wielding forebears did. This is especially true if you suffer from heart disease, like I do, and so I'm forced to endure something called Cardiac-Rehabilitation twice a week at seven in the morning. Cardiac Rehab, so the brochure says, is an exercise and informational program "designed to increase physical fitness, reduce cardiac symptoms, improve health and reduce the risk of future heart problems."
Like the Naked City, there are a thousand stories in Cardiac Rehab: this guy had a heart attack while collecting maple syrup sap; this guy felt chest pains while singing second tenor in an amateur production of Rigoletto; and this guy - me, for example - just thought he was going for a routine check-up, failed his stress test, and wound up staying in hospital for two weeks to undergo coronary arterial bypass surgery. And so I have to make my way to 75 New Chardon Street in Boston for my bi-weekly exercise, although, as I discovered to my cost, actually finding New Chardon Street for the first time is an exercise in itself: an exercise in extremely heart-unhealthy frustration and anxiety. Apparently, fifty percent of New Chardon Street is an architectural monstrosity called Bulfinch Place, another forty percent is a concrete wasteland named Bowdoin Square, leaving ten percent of actual street which isn't signposted. When I eventually found the place, fifteen minutes late for my appointment, I was too exhausted to jog on the treadmill and had to sit in a mechanical rowing boat for twenty minutes while a nurse lectured me on removing stress factors from my life.
"That's good," she said, as I rowed through imaginary water. "It looks like you're starting to break a sweat."
"Yeah, but I'm a naturally sweaty person," I told her. "So I wouldn't read too much into that if I were you."
"No problem. Just let me know when you're feeling the burn," she replied.
Trick or Treat
Halloween 2011: I require no elaborate costume or ghoulish prosthetic make-up to join in this year's festivities. I simply need to remove my shirt, revealing the gruesome surgical scar usually concealed from the eyes of polite society. Just watch those greedy trick-or-treaters run off screaming into the night.
"Don't go to the house at the end of the street whatever you do," they will whisper to one another. "He's a real live topless Frankenstein's monster, and he's only got soy Oreos and fish oil candy. It's truly terrifying."
To be honest, I had hoped that the scar would be paler by now, but five months after my operation it still resembles a vertical line scrawled on my chest with a bright red sharpie. I still feel the occasional pull, ache and twinge, too, briefly forcing my mouth into a poorly-carved pumpkin-head grimace; and I sometimes stagger around like a dizzy zombie if I forget to eat before taking my beta-blockers.
All these side-effects: a little bit of trick still left in the treat of recovery, and all perfectly acceptable ready-made Halloween costumes.
"Don't go to the house at the end of the street whatever you do," they will whisper to one another. "He's a real live topless Frankenstein's monster, and he's only got soy Oreos and fish oil candy. It's truly terrifying."
To be honest, I had hoped that the scar would be paler by now, but five months after my operation it still resembles a vertical line scrawled on my chest with a bright red sharpie. I still feel the occasional pull, ache and twinge, too, briefly forcing my mouth into a poorly-carved pumpkin-head grimace; and I sometimes stagger around like a dizzy zombie if I forget to eat before taking my beta-blockers.
All these side-effects: a little bit of trick still left in the treat of recovery, and all perfectly acceptable ready-made Halloween costumes.
Me and Them
These days, aside from the inadequately illuminated exteriors of nightclubs and bars, the ever-diminishing socio-economic group known as of smokers can mostly be found loitering outside hospitals and college campuses, or just about anywhere at all during the very early hours of the morning. I mention this observation, not because I begrudge or wish to prohibit people's pleasure in tobacco, but because at the moment I happen to spend a great deal of my time outside hospitals and college campuses during the very early hours of the morning, so I'm in a good position to know.
The smokers huddle around concrete, institutional ashtrays like vagrants around a makeshift brazier. Occasionally they embark upon random circumnavigations of the paving slabs, or make brief spitting expeditions to the edge of the sidewalk, trailing ephemeral jet-streams of nicotine in their wake. They glower down the street at nothing in particular, then return to the communal hearth to discuss the daily injustices encountered by their kind.
For some reason, there is always a preponderance of pale blue jeans and weather-beaten, brown leather jackets with over-sized shoulders amongst this group of puffing exiles. You could be forgiven for thinking you're walking past an historical reenactment of the 1980s, co-sponsored by Marlboro Lights and some anger management guru. I suppose these must be the loyalist smokers: the hardcore inhalers who refuse to quit despite lungs festooned with and blood vessels that are hardening into strands of pure crystalline plaque.
I, on the other hand, smartly turned out and wearing Clarks suede shoes, like the fresh-faced new boy at school, am extremely early for my first appointment with Cardio-Rehab. The doors don't open for another twenty minutes, so I'm forced to hang around in the cold morning air, pretending to find interest in the Brutalist architecture and freight delivery instructions. I almost wonder if the smoking gang will beat me up before I can escape inside.
I don't consider myself to be superior to them, of course. God knows I have my own fair share of stubborn blind-spots and idiotic misconceptions. It's just that I trust in medical science and they put their faith in the fact their best friend's uncle knew a guy who sucked down three packs a day, unfiltered, and lived to be a hundred-and-five. We have fundamentally different creeds, the smokers and me. I'll soon be running on a nurse monitored treadmill while they're only running out of cigarettes. Perhaps my efforts will all be in vain, but I'd rather try than stare at the floor with black lungs full of tar clouds.
The smokers huddle around concrete, institutional ashtrays like vagrants around a makeshift brazier. Occasionally they embark upon random circumnavigations of the paving slabs, or make brief spitting expeditions to the edge of the sidewalk, trailing ephemeral jet-streams of nicotine in their wake. They glower down the street at nothing in particular, then return to the communal hearth to discuss the daily injustices encountered by their kind.
For some reason, there is always a preponderance of pale blue jeans and weather-beaten, brown leather jackets with over-sized shoulders amongst this group of puffing exiles. You could be forgiven for thinking you're walking past an historical reenactment of the 1980s, co-sponsored by Marlboro Lights and some anger management guru. I suppose these must be the loyalist smokers: the hardcore inhalers who refuse to quit despite lungs festooned with and blood vessels that are hardening into strands of pure crystalline plaque.
I, on the other hand, smartly turned out and wearing Clarks suede shoes, like the fresh-faced new boy at school, am extremely early for my first appointment with Cardio-Rehab. The doors don't open for another twenty minutes, so I'm forced to hang around in the cold morning air, pretending to find interest in the Brutalist architecture and freight delivery instructions. I almost wonder if the smoking gang will beat me up before I can escape inside.
I don't consider myself to be superior to them, of course. God knows I have my own fair share of stubborn blind-spots and idiotic misconceptions. It's just that I trust in medical science and they put their faith in the fact their best friend's uncle knew a guy who sucked down three packs a day, unfiltered, and lived to be a hundred-and-five. We have fundamentally different creeds, the smokers and me. I'll soon be running on a nurse monitored treadmill while they're only running out of cigarettes. Perhaps my efforts will all be in vain, but I'd rather try than stare at the floor with black lungs full of tar clouds.
A Brief Excursion Into The Caves of Self-Justification
Like many writers, I keep a journal beside my bed - not that I actually write anything in mine, of course, but I do keep one all the same. There is a pen, too, although I doubt that any ink runs through its veins. These valuable and venerable tools have been spurned in favor of the smart-phone notepad and its stylus. After all, those digital words are actually readable by their own author; whereas that smudgy, wayward scribble on lined paper, well, just take a look for yourself: Is that blot an f or an s? Does that scrawl say burritos or buttocks? Who the Hell knows? Not I. And it's my handwriting.
Alas, inspiration most often strikes me when I'm taking a shower, a location perhaps unequaled for inconvenience when it comes to writing ideas down quickly, unless you're especially skilled at forming letters in soap scum with the business end of a loofah. And so my most fertile ideas just disappear down the drain, hitching a ride with all those emancipated hairs from my balding head. Gurgle, gurgle, there goes the plot of a best-selling novel and the outline of blockbuster screenplay. Oh well, at least I remembered to wash behind my ears.
Of course, good writing is, like Thomas Edison's famous formula for success, mostly the reward of perspiration rather than inspiration. So I suppose the preceding paragraphs are a scant excuse for lack of quality or quantity on my part. After all, I am not the sort of diligent, industrious writer who drips with sweat and elbow grease after an eight hour shift at his desk. But then I'm cursed with the existential concerns and tedious labors of a proper job, squatting on my brain like a killjoy gang of lugubrious toads and obstructing progress on more interesting and amusing projects.
This blog, for instance. True, it is perhaps the world's least informative coronary artery disease resource, and rarely makes a serious point that isn't blunted by some degree of facetiousness, but at least it's written with some degree of verve whenever I actually find the time to record my experiences, even if they are a shamefully thin gruel compared to the soul-searching tales of triumph over adversity recollected by other bypass "survivors".
Alas, inspiration most often strikes me when I'm taking a shower, a location perhaps unequaled for inconvenience when it comes to writing ideas down quickly, unless you're especially skilled at forming letters in soap scum with the business end of a loofah. And so my most fertile ideas just disappear down the drain, hitching a ride with all those emancipated hairs from my balding head. Gurgle, gurgle, there goes the plot of a best-selling novel and the outline of blockbuster screenplay. Oh well, at least I remembered to wash behind my ears.
Of course, good writing is, like Thomas Edison's famous formula for success, mostly the reward of perspiration rather than inspiration. So I suppose the preceding paragraphs are a scant excuse for lack of quality or quantity on my part. After all, I am not the sort of diligent, industrious writer who drips with sweat and elbow grease after an eight hour shift at his desk. But then I'm cursed with the existential concerns and tedious labors of a proper job, squatting on my brain like a killjoy gang of lugubrious toads and obstructing progress on more interesting and amusing projects.
This blog, for instance. True, it is perhaps the world's least informative coronary artery disease resource, and rarely makes a serious point that isn't blunted by some degree of facetiousness, but at least it's written with some degree of verve whenever I actually find the time to record my experiences, even if they are a shamefully thin gruel compared to the soul-searching tales of triumph over adversity recollected by other bypass "survivors".
The Greek Way
In ancient Greek myth, the Gods always punish the human crime of hubris with all manner of grisly fates: getting turned into a spider or a weeping stone; suffering for eternity with an unquenchable thirst; being chained to a rock while an eagle devours your liver; and, although there's no specific mention of heart disease in any myth I'm aware of, it's surely possible that Nemesis also clogged the arteries of arrogant Athenians with divinely vengeful cholesterol and plaque. Imagine, if you will, a shepherd from about three thousand years ago, perhaps someone not entirely unlike me, wandering happily on the sun-kissed plains of Attica telling everyone that he feels as fit as Zeus, only to be suddenly struck down with stabbing chest pains and rushed to the nearest Asclepieion. Such were my thoughts, anyway, as we boarded the British Airways flight to Eleftherios Venizelos Airport.
We had booked the Greek trip many months before I had felt even the slightest twinge of a chest pain, back when the idea of undergoing heart bypass surgery seemed as unlikely as me diving into a large vat of Tzatziki sauce; and so at certain low moments during my hospitalization I doubted whether I'd actually ever make it there; not because I thought I might die or anything quite as grim as that, but because I knew that the extensive physical recovery required might put island hopping with luggage well beyond my puny, convalescent reach. And to be sure, there was a period when I would have encountered almost insurmountable difficulty crawling to the Greek restaurant at the end of the road, never mind jetting off to Athens and points Aegean. Fortunately, the human body brushes aside its traumas much faster than you might expect, and I was able to pack my guidebooks and collect my boarding pass after all.
Having said that, the conclusions of Socratic method, Aristotelian logic, and even a brief appeal to simple common sense would all advocate against climbing the Acropolis - 500 feet above sea level - in my delicate condition; yet I staggered up to the top anyway. Call it Byronic whim (Robert Byron), but making an ascent had seemed like the thing to do when staring at the Parthenon from our hotel window. And also I feel a great affinity for this ancient temple, since its creaky columns are currently held together with iron scaffolding, much like my breastbone is held together with tiny sternal wires.
After all, if the Parthenon is still standing after three thousand years, despite the attentions of Turks, tourists and Lord Elgin, then I suppose I can survive to a venerable age also, providing the Greek gods and their Furies don't read this blog, obviously.
We had booked the Greek trip many months before I had felt even the slightest twinge of a chest pain, back when the idea of undergoing heart bypass surgery seemed as unlikely as me diving into a large vat of Tzatziki sauce; and so at certain low moments during my hospitalization I doubted whether I'd actually ever make it there; not because I thought I might die or anything quite as grim as that, but because I knew that the extensive physical recovery required might put island hopping with luggage well beyond my puny, convalescent reach. And to be sure, there was a period when I would have encountered almost insurmountable difficulty crawling to the Greek restaurant at the end of the road, never mind jetting off to Athens and points Aegean. Fortunately, the human body brushes aside its traumas much faster than you might expect, and I was able to pack my guidebooks and collect my boarding pass after all.
Having said that, the conclusions of Socratic method, Aristotelian logic, and even a brief appeal to simple common sense would all advocate against climbing the Acropolis - 500 feet above sea level - in my delicate condition; yet I staggered up to the top anyway. Call it Byronic whim (Robert Byron), but making an ascent had seemed like the thing to do when staring at the Parthenon from our hotel window. And also I feel a great affinity for this ancient temple, since its creaky columns are currently held together with iron scaffolding, much like my breastbone is held together with tiny sternal wires.
After all, if the Parthenon is still standing after three thousand years, despite the attentions of Turks, tourists and Lord Elgin, then I suppose I can survive to a venerable age also, providing the Greek gods and their Furies don't read this blog, obviously.
Perihelion
A new brand of toilet paper has made itself at home in our bathroom. It's called "Quilted Northern," as if it were especially designed for camping trips during the freezing rains and howling gales of late November in New England; just another item to add to the list of seasonal chores to be completed before winter arrives:
1. Retrieve woolens and heavy coats from storage.
2. Insulate the windows with thermo-seal.
3. Chop firewood.
4. Buy a family pack of Quilted Northern.
And, alas, winter is nearly upon us. Persephone has packed her bags and is preparing to make her way to Hades for half the year. Which is why, having missed most of the summer with my heart surgery, I'm going to recreate June by seeking the sun wherever it still shines.
So next week, rather than traipse around to the cardiologist's office or the rehabilitation center as usual, I thought I'd make an excursion to the Greek islands instead. After all, what can be better for your heart than tramping up and down zillions of steps as you attempt to find your hotel in a maze of whitewashed buildings clinging to the cliff side, especially after a grueling, stressful flight from Boston via London and Athens. Still, there will be a healthy Aegean meal of fish heads in sour yogurt and squid ink waiting for me, along with a glass of that Santorini wine they ferment from strange grapes that grow on circular vines in the volcanic ground.
Interestingly, toilet paper looms large in the legend of Greek vacations, although I'm sure they don't sell black market Quilted Northern at the local Agora. Toilet paper, it seems, cannot be flushed down the toilet, and must be placed in appropriate receptacles instead. Beware of Greeks bearing plumbing supplies, apparently! How odd that Athenian engineers could master the Doric column but not the plastic u-bend pipe.
Nevertheless, I refuse to allow such hygienic inconveniences to ruin my delayed summertime. I shall be soaking up the rays and sampling the moussaka regardless. And, obviously, I will not be too concerned with updating this blog for the duration of my vacation, either. So do not worry if nothing more appears here until October the tenth or so. I am not dead, but merely wondering what happens if you drink ouzo and then swallow a dose of Crestor on an empty stomach.
1. Retrieve woolens and heavy coats from storage.
2. Insulate the windows with thermo-seal.
3. Chop firewood.
4. Buy a family pack of Quilted Northern.
And, alas, winter is nearly upon us. Persephone has packed her bags and is preparing to make her way to Hades for half the year. Which is why, having missed most of the summer with my heart surgery, I'm going to recreate June by seeking the sun wherever it still shines.
So next week, rather than traipse around to the cardiologist's office or the rehabilitation center as usual, I thought I'd make an excursion to the Greek islands instead. After all, what can be better for your heart than tramping up and down zillions of steps as you attempt to find your hotel in a maze of whitewashed buildings clinging to the cliff side, especially after a grueling, stressful flight from Boston via London and Athens. Still, there will be a healthy Aegean meal of fish heads in sour yogurt and squid ink waiting for me, along with a glass of that Santorini wine they ferment from strange grapes that grow on circular vines in the volcanic ground.
Interestingly, toilet paper looms large in the legend of Greek vacations, although I'm sure they don't sell black market Quilted Northern at the local Agora. Toilet paper, it seems, cannot be flushed down the toilet, and must be placed in appropriate receptacles instead. Beware of Greeks bearing plumbing supplies, apparently! How odd that Athenian engineers could master the Doric column but not the plastic u-bend pipe.
Nevertheless, I refuse to allow such hygienic inconveniences to ruin my delayed summertime. I shall be soaking up the rays and sampling the moussaka regardless. And, obviously, I will not be too concerned with updating this blog for the duration of my vacation, either. So do not worry if nothing more appears here until October the tenth or so. I am not dead, but merely wondering what happens if you drink ouzo and then swallow a dose of Crestor on an empty stomach.
Hospital Nostalgia
Listening to a sample of patients outline their experience of our health care system, each account being uncompromisingly different than the others, I recalled the old Hindu parable about six blind men describing an elephant resulting in six descriptions of six very different beasts. Here was a menagerie of opinions: some friendly, some not so friendly, and some that were downright poisonous. Alas, since these various opposing viewpoints are so divided and dogmatic, any public discussion of the subject eventually descends into a cacophony of incoherent yelling that sounds more like feeding time at the zoo than a serious debate.
My own experience, by comparison, has been reasonably peaceful: a docile panda quietly chewing on a bamboo shoot in its Qinling cave. But then I have extensive health insurance, so I suppose I can afford to be philosophical. In fact, as post-operative time goes by, it might even be suggested that I've developed hospital nostalgia.
Whenever I'm passing Massachusetts General Hospital, for instance, I always feel compelled to stop in and say hello. It seems absolutely necessary that I should stay in touch with the place, as if the hospital were an old comrade whom I fought beside in a long and bitter war. I miss that satisfying degree of excusable self-importance and deep sense of personal value that invasive surgery confers. I miss the doting nurses, confident doctors and reassuring specialists in their white coats and pastel scrubs. I miss the spirit of purpose and determination that glides along the spotless corridors. But most of all I miss the science-fiction sights and sounds of modern bio-technology in motion. Anyone might imagine that an omniscient and infallible computer-brain was supervising every bed, supported by an ultra-serene, dome-headed staff wearing silver togas and hover-sandals.
M. G. H. certainly radiates an aura of a World's Fair "City of the Future": a perfectly landscaped amalgamation of international hotel, travel node, unisex spa and shopping mall, all connected by a gleaming spider's web of glass-covered sky-walks leading to an endless array of color-coded lobbies, vestibules and mezzanines. Consequently, visiting the hospital feels rather like a lengthy layover at Frankfurt airport (although they don't slice your chest open and fiddle around with your heart at Frankfurt airport, well, at least not anymore). But I'm sure that many malcontents simply consider the place to be a grubby bunker full of creaking wheelchairs and stone-faced staff. Some people are never happy, even if their health care is paid for with someone else's taxes or covered by a fully contributing company insurance plan. Personally, I'm just filled with gratitude that I'm still alive, so I don't complain.
My own experience, by comparison, has been reasonably peaceful: a docile panda quietly chewing on a bamboo shoot in its Qinling cave. But then I have extensive health insurance, so I suppose I can afford to be philosophical. In fact, as post-operative time goes by, it might even be suggested that I've developed hospital nostalgia.
Whenever I'm passing Massachusetts General Hospital, for instance, I always feel compelled to stop in and say hello. It seems absolutely necessary that I should stay in touch with the place, as if the hospital were an old comrade whom I fought beside in a long and bitter war. I miss that satisfying degree of excusable self-importance and deep sense of personal value that invasive surgery confers. I miss the doting nurses, confident doctors and reassuring specialists in their white coats and pastel scrubs. I miss the spirit of purpose and determination that glides along the spotless corridors. But most of all I miss the science-fiction sights and sounds of modern bio-technology in motion. Anyone might imagine that an omniscient and infallible computer-brain was supervising every bed, supported by an ultra-serene, dome-headed staff wearing silver togas and hover-sandals.
M. G. H. certainly radiates an aura of a World's Fair "City of the Future": a perfectly landscaped amalgamation of international hotel, travel node, unisex spa and shopping mall, all connected by a gleaming spider's web of glass-covered sky-walks leading to an endless array of color-coded lobbies, vestibules and mezzanines. Consequently, visiting the hospital feels rather like a lengthy layover at Frankfurt airport (although they don't slice your chest open and fiddle around with your heart at Frankfurt airport, well, at least not anymore). But I'm sure that many malcontents simply consider the place to be a grubby bunker full of creaking wheelchairs and stone-faced staff. Some people are never happy, even if their health care is paid for with someone else's taxes or covered by a fully contributing company insurance plan. Personally, I'm just filled with gratitude that I'm still alive, so I don't complain.
Lessons from the Past
It is never wise to investigate your own psychological quirks, but I have always struggled with a mysterious compulsion to save and collect cardboard tubes. The flimsy infrastructure of a roll of paper towels, for instance; even the little ones inside toilet rolls; and especially the sturdier variety of tube used to transport unfoldable posters and parchment through the postal system. I feel the pressing need to hoard them all. For some misbegotten reason, my mind seems to stubbornly maintain the childish notion that I could make something interesting out of them. But what?
The fuselage of a model rocket ship is pretty much the only object that suggests itself, and even then only after the cardboard tube has been wrapped in silver foil. But at my age I really can't imagine running around the living room, a home-made model rocket ship held in the air, shouting "zoom, zoom" and requesting permission to land on the sofa.
So I guess this cardboard tube obsession must be a memory trigger from days at kindergarten, when collecting cardboard tubes was essential for all boy's craft projects because rocket ships were the only things we made.
"What are you making today Stephen?"
"I'm making a rocket ship out of a cardboard tube."
"But didn't you make a rocket ship out of a cardboard tube last week?"
"Yes, but that was only a toilet roll tube. This one's made out of the sturdier variety of tube used to transport unfoldable posters and parchment, which means it can go to Mars."
Apparently a ghost synapse from my five-year-old self still wanders through my brain looking for things to do: a ghost synapse summoned back from its cellular grave by the sight of a cardboard tube. It could be worse, I suppose. It could be a memory trigger from childhood that involves urinating in public pools, for example. Not that I go swimming in public these days; not with a grievous and angry incision scar like mine.
But let us not dwell on the distant echoes of yesteryear. To paraphrase Saint Paul's famous epistle to the Corinthians: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things, and then one day I needed to have heart surgery." Indeed, and no doubt you are wondering what possible connection could exist between cardboard tubes and coronary artery bypass surgery. After all, it's not as if I am going to manufacture a larger than life model of my heart using cardboard tubes as the arteries, is it?
Or is it? I discovered this small model of a heart in an examination room while waiting for my cardiologist to arrive. Although intriguing enough to look at and photograph, it was a solid lump of plastic lacking any interactive elements; about as useful as a Mr Potato Head missing its stick-on facial features. What a pity, I thought, that its various components cannot be removed and reattached in order to demonstrate the ins and outs of specific surgical procedures. I could make a superior model, I decided, with a bucketful of papier-mâché, spirit gum, and several detachable cardboard tubes of assorted lengths and diameters.
When completed, and after being painted an appropriate shade of Valentine red, my lightweight plug-and-play model heart would be a perfect teaching tool: "To replace a defective artery with a new, disease-free artery you simply pull the old tube out and then fold tab A of the new tube into corresponding slot A of the new tube, and repeat the process with tab B and slot B, etc. Of course, you'll be working with real arteries so it will be a bit messier than this, but you get the general idea. Ooops. Oh no. My thumb has just accidentally crushed the left ventricle."
I'm not proposing that my cardboard tube model heart should be employed in an actual medical school, obviously, but for today's super-fat kids in kindergarten, well, it might give them some idea of what's in store for their cholesterol-soaked organs at some point in the future. How I wish I had been taught such important lessons when I was their age, instead of making stupid rocket ships.
The fuselage of a model rocket ship is pretty much the only object that suggests itself, and even then only after the cardboard tube has been wrapped in silver foil. But at my age I really can't imagine running around the living room, a home-made model rocket ship held in the air, shouting "zoom, zoom" and requesting permission to land on the sofa.
So I guess this cardboard tube obsession must be a memory trigger from days at kindergarten, when collecting cardboard tubes was essential for all boy's craft projects because rocket ships were the only things we made.
"What are you making today Stephen?"
"I'm making a rocket ship out of a cardboard tube."
"But didn't you make a rocket ship out of a cardboard tube last week?"
"Yes, but that was only a toilet roll tube. This one's made out of the sturdier variety of tube used to transport unfoldable posters and parchment, which means it can go to Mars."
Apparently a ghost synapse from my five-year-old self still wanders through my brain looking for things to do: a ghost synapse summoned back from its cellular grave by the sight of a cardboard tube. It could be worse, I suppose. It could be a memory trigger from childhood that involves urinating in public pools, for example. Not that I go swimming in public these days; not with a grievous and angry incision scar like mine.
But let us not dwell on the distant echoes of yesteryear. To paraphrase Saint Paul's famous epistle to the Corinthians: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things, and then one day I needed to have heart surgery." Indeed, and no doubt you are wondering what possible connection could exist between cardboard tubes and coronary artery bypass surgery. After all, it's not as if I am going to manufacture a larger than life model of my heart using cardboard tubes as the arteries, is it?
Or is it? I discovered this small model of a heart in an examination room while waiting for my cardiologist to arrive. Although intriguing enough to look at and photograph, it was a solid lump of plastic lacking any interactive elements; about as useful as a Mr Potato Head missing its stick-on facial features. What a pity, I thought, that its various components cannot be removed and reattached in order to demonstrate the ins and outs of specific surgical procedures. I could make a superior model, I decided, with a bucketful of papier-mâché, spirit gum, and several detachable cardboard tubes of assorted lengths and diameters.When completed, and after being painted an appropriate shade of Valentine red, my lightweight plug-and-play model heart would be a perfect teaching tool: "To replace a defective artery with a new, disease-free artery you simply pull the old tube out and then fold tab A of the new tube into corresponding slot A of the new tube, and repeat the process with tab B and slot B, etc. Of course, you'll be working with real arteries so it will be a bit messier than this, but you get the general idea. Ooops. Oh no. My thumb has just accidentally crushed the left ventricle."
I'm not proposing that my cardboard tube model heart should be employed in an actual medical school, obviously, but for today's super-fat kids in kindergarten, well, it might give them some idea of what's in store for their cholesterol-soaked organs at some point in the future. How I wish I had been taught such important lessons when I was their age, instead of making stupid rocket ships.
A Fate Worse Than Death
Having a blog is an embarrassing and often downright tedious extension of the self, rather like having smelly feet and asking your friends if they'd be interested in sniffing them once or twice a week. It is a particularly pungent form of electronic body-odor for which the only available deodorant is a link to the Onion website.
In fact, the very existence of your blog is a dirty little secret that most people would prefer to remain undisclosed. Your blog is an Internet version of Mr Rochester's mad woman locked in the attic; an online equivalent of Dorian Gray's deteriorating portrait; an HTML simulacrum of ... oh I could go on and on - this is a blog, after all - but I think you get the picture.
Of course, as far as embarrassing and often downright tedious blogs go, writing a blog about your own health problems must be the lowest of the low. Surely it is a monstrously selfish act to burden your loved ones with the responsibility of reading interminable paragraphs about clogged arteries, blood pressure fluctuation, cholesterol pills and hardcore constipation. Even the most thrilling of thriller writers would fail to make an electrocardiograph session sound interesting. Consequently I don't simply tell people I have a blog about heart disease, I break the news to them as gently as possible:
"I have some good news and some bad news."
"Okay. Well, give me the good news first."
"I'm pleased to say that my creative juices are flowing again."
"Great. That's awesome. And so what's the bad news?"
"The bad news is that they're flowing into a blog."
"Oh. Gosh. I'm sorry to hear that. That's terrible news."
"Yes, I know. Believe me, I feel really bad that you have to read it all the time."
There are alternatives to blogging, obviously: social networking sites, for instance, are eponymously not as misanthropic as owning a blog. The mercifully brief format of Twitter might be ideal for disseminating important reports concerning my condition: "Experienced new twinge just now. Calling hospital #pain #anxiety #etc."
Or maybe even Facebook could provide a convenient forum for uploading pithy updates about cholesterol contaminated foods, combined with graphic pictures of my incision scar: Vlad the Impaler Likes This, and so on.
But, alas, mine is an old-fashioned and self-important intellect. My ego needs to stretch and unwind, requiring adequate elbow room for its longueurs, semi-colons, extended metaphors and patronizing allusions; and only the unlimited storage space of a blog will suffice.
So I am left with but a single hope and aspiration, only one excuse: that some fellow heart patient seeking comfort in his darkest hour will read these words and think: "The surgeon will be cracking my chest open tomorrow and attaching my heart to a machine, but at least I'm not a loser blogger like this Baldwin person."
In fact, the very existence of your blog is a dirty little secret that most people would prefer to remain undisclosed. Your blog is an Internet version of Mr Rochester's mad woman locked in the attic; an online equivalent of Dorian Gray's deteriorating portrait; an HTML simulacrum of ... oh I could go on and on - this is a blog, after all - but I think you get the picture.
Of course, as far as embarrassing and often downright tedious blogs go, writing a blog about your own health problems must be the lowest of the low. Surely it is a monstrously selfish act to burden your loved ones with the responsibility of reading interminable paragraphs about clogged arteries, blood pressure fluctuation, cholesterol pills and hardcore constipation. Even the most thrilling of thriller writers would fail to make an electrocardiograph session sound interesting. Consequently I don't simply tell people I have a blog about heart disease, I break the news to them as gently as possible:
"I have some good news and some bad news."
"Okay. Well, give me the good news first."
"I'm pleased to say that my creative juices are flowing again."
"Great. That's awesome. And so what's the bad news?"
"The bad news is that they're flowing into a blog."
"Oh. Gosh. I'm sorry to hear that. That's terrible news."
"Yes, I know. Believe me, I feel really bad that you have to read it all the time."
There are alternatives to blogging, obviously: social networking sites, for instance, are eponymously not as misanthropic as owning a blog. The mercifully brief format of Twitter might be ideal for disseminating important reports concerning my condition: "Experienced new twinge just now. Calling hospital #pain #anxiety #etc."
Or maybe even Facebook could provide a convenient forum for uploading pithy updates about cholesterol contaminated foods, combined with graphic pictures of my incision scar: Vlad the Impaler Likes This, and so on.
But, alas, mine is an old-fashioned and self-important intellect. My ego needs to stretch and unwind, requiring adequate elbow room for its longueurs, semi-colons, extended metaphors and patronizing allusions; and only the unlimited storage space of a blog will suffice.
So I am left with but a single hope and aspiration, only one excuse: that some fellow heart patient seeking comfort in his darkest hour will read these words and think: "The surgeon will be cracking my chest open tomorrow and attaching my heart to a machine, but at least I'm not a loser blogger like this Baldwin person."
Fish Oil or Snake Oil?
Green tea, flax seed and fish oil have all been recommended to me as natural, heart healthy alternatives to pharmaceutical drugs by their various wide-eyed proselytizers. Alas, I have had zero faith in nature's remedies ever since a liquid mixture of eucalyptus, echinacea and zinc (a foul tasting concoction that even a mad scientist would think twice about before drinking) failed to have any effect whatsoever on an annoying cough I was stricken with one winter.
In fact, whenever some sort of medicinal root or herb is mentioned in connection with your health, it is worth recalling that hellbore and borage were popular sixteenth-century panaceas for black bile, and that bloodletting with leeches was once considered a cure for almost any malady. Frankly, I see little difference between such grotesque practices and the holistic healing products aisle at Whole Foods.
The plain truth is: flax seeds produce flatulence; fish oil makes you belch; and I'm not exactly sure what green tea does but I'll wager that it's not particularly pleasant either. Lipitor and Crestor pills have their worrisome side-effects too, obviously, but they generally do not involve vulgar noises, disgusting smells and consequent social ostracization.
Fortunately, certain authorities also regard dark chocolate, coffee and red wine as beneficial additions to a heart healthy diet. Of course, the Aristotelian ideal advocates moderation in all things, so consuming too much of these three delicious substances might be unwise, but then who is this killjoy Greek philosopher to argue with the experts at Lindt, Lavazza and Chateau de Coeur anyway? Personally I prefer to pin my faith on medical science and luxury brands, rather than listening to the sandal-wearing maniacs who hang around Norwegian dockyards trying to squeeze the juice out of dead herrings. But that's just me.
In fact, whenever some sort of medicinal root or herb is mentioned in connection with your health, it is worth recalling that hellbore and borage were popular sixteenth-century panaceas for black bile, and that bloodletting with leeches was once considered a cure for almost any malady. Frankly, I see little difference between such grotesque practices and the holistic healing products aisle at Whole Foods.
The plain truth is: flax seeds produce flatulence; fish oil makes you belch; and I'm not exactly sure what green tea does but I'll wager that it's not particularly pleasant either. Lipitor and Crestor pills have their worrisome side-effects too, obviously, but they generally do not involve vulgar noises, disgusting smells and consequent social ostracization.
Fortunately, certain authorities also regard dark chocolate, coffee and red wine as beneficial additions to a heart healthy diet. Of course, the Aristotelian ideal advocates moderation in all things, so consuming too much of these three delicious substances might be unwise, but then who is this killjoy Greek philosopher to argue with the experts at Lindt, Lavazza and Chateau de Coeur anyway? Personally I prefer to pin my faith on medical science and luxury brands, rather than listening to the sandal-wearing maniacs who hang around Norwegian dockyards trying to squeeze the juice out of dead herrings. But that's just me.
Health on the Installment Plan
Is there anything to say about etiological-extrinsic-cardiomyopathy that hasn't already been said? Frankly, I have no idea. My eyes always start to glaze over whenever anyone raises that subject, and so the entire etiological-extrinsic-cardiomyopathy discussion remains a closed book to me. I suppose I should be interested considering my condition, but life is too short, even if a general familiarity with the basics of etiological-extrinsic-cardiomyopathy might actually lengthen mine by a year or two.
Fortunately, since I've left the hospital, stethoscope-toting medicos no longer stop by my bedside to deliver their incomprehensible, multisyllabic lectures about what's wrong with my heart and arteries. However, sometimes listening to the perfunctory doctors was worse than not listening to the long-winded ones, since they would insist on calling my Coronary Artery Bypass Graft by its unpleasant acronym: CABG.
"When is your cabbage scheduled?" they would ask, as if my heart was being stuffed with some sort of boiled leaf vegetable: a permanent Saint Patrick's Day feast in my chest.
But all that is ancient history now. My recovery began with slow and steady progress but is speeding up in installments. Each installment seems to unveil a new me: a more active me; a less achy me; a me who is occasionally forgetting that he ever experienced surgery. Indeed, I can barely remember how it felt to require assistance when standing and shuffling two feet across the floor. It's rather like paying off a large debt: there is a little less interest to pay each month as the debt declines. The only problem is: I'm also forgetting what it was like to have zillions of Byparse topics to blog about.
Fortunately, since I've left the hospital, stethoscope-toting medicos no longer stop by my bedside to deliver their incomprehensible, multisyllabic lectures about what's wrong with my heart and arteries. However, sometimes listening to the perfunctory doctors was worse than not listening to the long-winded ones, since they would insist on calling my Coronary Artery Bypass Graft by its unpleasant acronym: CABG.
"When is your cabbage scheduled?" they would ask, as if my heart was being stuffed with some sort of boiled leaf vegetable: a permanent Saint Patrick's Day feast in my chest.
But all that is ancient history now. My recovery began with slow and steady progress but is speeding up in installments. Each installment seems to unveil a new me: a more active me; a less achy me; a me who is occasionally forgetting that he ever experienced surgery. Indeed, I can barely remember how it felt to require assistance when standing and shuffling two feet across the floor. It's rather like paying off a large debt: there is a little less interest to pay each month as the debt declines. The only problem is: I'm also forgetting what it was like to have zillions of Byparse topics to blog about.
Bleak Moments
The hardest part of recovery is convincing your anxiety that you're actually going to be okay now. Since heart disease struck so swiftly and stealthily before, a neurotic mind considers it highly likely that it could spring another surprise attack at anytime. Heart disease becomes the cleaver-wielding maniac lurking in the bushes; the lone sniper in the book depository; the deadly poison floating in the goblet of Borgia wine; the viper clasped to the bosom, literally. It's rather like being an unpopular world leader with a constant fear of sudden assassination. No wonder that Colonel Gaddafi employs his own full-time medical staff in a secret clinic equipped with a state-of-the-art operating theater, turbo-charged wheelchairs and twenty-four-hour helipad.
For regular people, however, health paranoia is most acute when insurance companies refuse to cover the cost of medications ordered by their doctor. For instance, I was prescribed 40mgs Lipitor but my insurance would only pay for 40mgs of inferior Crestor. Does the forbidden drug cost more than the drug I'm allowed to have, the neurotic mind worries, because it causes excessive gas, stomach cramps, and all those other horrible side-effects that deceptively soothing voices recite at high speed in the last five seconds of TV commercials? Or is it so much cheaper simply because it is downright less effective?
My health insurance furnished me with five pages of justifications for rejecting the Lipitor prescription. I read through them twice but was none the wiser. It was like receiving a quarterly 401K report prepared by Tweedledum and Tweedledee with pie-charts and graphs drawn by M. C Escher.
According to my calculations, this Lipitor and Crestor cost differential could easily be made-up if the insurance company reduced the amount of printed health bulletins and new laminated membership cards they mailed to me each month. In fact, I am certain that such cost-saving measures would lower the ruinous price of health care premiums by vast amounts. But that, of course, is someone else's battle. I'm too preoccupied with my anxiety to fight it.
For regular people, however, health paranoia is most acute when insurance companies refuse to cover the cost of medications ordered by their doctor. For instance, I was prescribed 40mgs Lipitor but my insurance would only pay for 40mgs of inferior Crestor. Does the forbidden drug cost more than the drug I'm allowed to have, the neurotic mind worries, because it causes excessive gas, stomach cramps, and all those other horrible side-effects that deceptively soothing voices recite at high speed in the last five seconds of TV commercials? Or is it so much cheaper simply because it is downright less effective?
My health insurance furnished me with five pages of justifications for rejecting the Lipitor prescription. I read through them twice but was none the wiser. It was like receiving a quarterly 401K report prepared by Tweedledum and Tweedledee with pie-charts and graphs drawn by M. C Escher.
According to my calculations, this Lipitor and Crestor cost differential could easily be made-up if the insurance company reduced the amount of printed health bulletins and new laminated membership cards they mailed to me each month. In fact, I am certain that such cost-saving measures would lower the ruinous price of health care premiums by vast amounts. But that, of course, is someone else's battle. I'm too preoccupied with my anxiety to fight it.
Simple Exercises Even You Can Do
During my long convalescent period after heart surgery I re-read Coleridge's classic poem Kubla Khan, which concludes with the famous lines "For he on honey-dew hath fed/And drunk the milk of Paradise." And I thought to myself: the honey-dew is probably safe, but I bet there's a sack load of fat and cholesterol in that milk of Paradise. Obviously I am not the sort of person who would have thrived in the stately pleasure dome at Xanadu, since it does not appear to have been a particularly heart-healthy establishment.
Alas, even great literature provides no respite from the gloom of coronary artery disease, merely reminding the post-operative reader that he can no longer take advantage of all life has to offer. Rather he must adhere to strict dietary rules, maintain a rigorous program of physical exercise, and remember to take his pills every morning and night. Never completely cured, heart disease remains sleeps in your system with one eye open, like a killer shark floating silently through the channels of a blood-red sea.
My own regimen will probably not make a much sense to you, but there is method in my madness, it's just not a particularly sane method when considered from most points of view. After all, it was slavishly following the path of a conventional lifestyle that led me into these dark, cardiological woods in the first place. An unhealthy forest of fat where the deadly cholesterol beast lurks and no person with a family history of heart disease can feel secure.
Anyway, whatever, my day begins with several laps around an Olympic sized pool; or at least it would do if I was not embarrassed to take my shirt off in public because of the huge scar running down the center of my chest. Unfortunately, I must hide myself away like a Frankenstein and interact with the world via Internet instead, limiting my breakfast to a single cup of coffee and small fat-free yogurt.
My non-existent swim concludes with self recriminations for not knowing how to check my own blood pressure. To take my mind of this failure I start thinking about lunch. I usually consult the Herbivore's Delight for healthy options, but the recipes are far too complicated for me to even consider so in the end I just sling some bits of salad together.
After lunch: siesta.
Unfortunately, sleeping during the day always leaves me feeling groggy and listless, which means the rest of the afternoon is a total write-off and it's pointless to schedule any activities whatsoever. At work I become the most observant of clock-watchers. If someone walks into my office I either pretend to be on the phone or hide under the desk. Should I be found hiding under the desk I simply plead that the effects of my recent surgery have left me tired and full of pain, and that I need to lie down for a few hours.
My evening meal is a twist on the FDA's approved Food Pyramid: it's more of a Food Igloo. This special frozen menu comprises ready-made dinners from the freezer which are carefully microwaved, then liberally slathered with fat-free dressing and washed down with a glass of heart-healthy red wine. Bon appetit.
When dinner is over and the dishes have all been left in the sink for someone else to do, it is important to re-connect with the world again by watching reality television in bed: a particularly effective form of anesthesia which is obviously the highlight of my daily regimen.
As I stated earlier, such a strict and rigorous program isn't for everyone, but I find it helpful and stimulating.
Alas, even great literature provides no respite from the gloom of coronary artery disease, merely reminding the post-operative reader that he can no longer take advantage of all life has to offer. Rather he must adhere to strict dietary rules, maintain a rigorous program of physical exercise, and remember to take his pills every morning and night. Never completely cured, heart disease remains sleeps in your system with one eye open, like a killer shark floating silently through the channels of a blood-red sea.
My own regimen will probably not make a much sense to you, but there is method in my madness, it's just not a particularly sane method when considered from most points of view. After all, it was slavishly following the path of a conventional lifestyle that led me into these dark, cardiological woods in the first place. An unhealthy forest of fat where the deadly cholesterol beast lurks and no person with a family history of heart disease can feel secure.
Anyway, whatever, my day begins with several laps around an Olympic sized pool; or at least it would do if I was not embarrassed to take my shirt off in public because of the huge scar running down the center of my chest. Unfortunately, I must hide myself away like a Frankenstein and interact with the world via Internet instead, limiting my breakfast to a single cup of coffee and small fat-free yogurt.
My non-existent swim concludes with self recriminations for not knowing how to check my own blood pressure. To take my mind of this failure I start thinking about lunch. I usually consult the Herbivore's Delight for healthy options, but the recipes are far too complicated for me to even consider so in the end I just sling some bits of salad together.
After lunch: siesta.
Unfortunately, sleeping during the day always leaves me feeling groggy and listless, which means the rest of the afternoon is a total write-off and it's pointless to schedule any activities whatsoever. At work I become the most observant of clock-watchers. If someone walks into my office I either pretend to be on the phone or hide under the desk. Should I be found hiding under the desk I simply plead that the effects of my recent surgery have left me tired and full of pain, and that I need to lie down for a few hours.
My evening meal is a twist on the FDA's approved Food Pyramid: it's more of a Food Igloo. This special frozen menu comprises ready-made dinners from the freezer which are carefully microwaved, then liberally slathered with fat-free dressing and washed down with a glass of heart-healthy red wine. Bon appetit.
When dinner is over and the dishes have all been left in the sink for someone else to do, it is important to re-connect with the world again by watching reality television in bed: a particularly effective form of anesthesia which is obviously the highlight of my daily regimen.
As I stated earlier, such a strict and rigorous program isn't for everyone, but I find it helpful and stimulating.
Grand Guignol
I am far too squeamish to contemplate my own anatomy for very long, especially when someone's been poking around inside it, retouching and remodeling irreplaceable bits and pieces. Those organs seem so alarmingly fragile in pictures, like little blood bubbles that might instantly pop if tapped with a pin, never mind a scalpel. And they're all wedged in there with absolutely no wiggle room, almost as if the entire system were spring-loaded, primed to explode all over the operating room if the wrong rib is accidentally disturbed during a procedure.
Indeed, considering the number of components in our human bodies, their convoluted design and awful sliminess, it is amazing that more surgical disasters do not occur. No doubt we can thank technological innovation for this lack of tragedy. For instance, so futuristic was the equipment at M.G.H that I remember wondering whether I was still on the operating table in Boston, or if I had been abducted by aliens from an advanced civilization and was now aboard their flying-saucer space hospital. Either way, I knew that I was in safe hands, no matter whether those hands belonged to an Earthling, or were the long-fingered claws of some little green extraterrestrial heart specialist with a five-brained head that looks like a squid's head.
Of course, our descendants in 2050 will hopefully regard today's surgical techniques as barbarously primitive. They will consider modern open heart surgery to be as gruesome as Victorian amputations with a hacksaw appear to us. Alternatively, it's also possible that surgery could be so expensive by then that hospitals simply won't bother performing it anymore, unless the patient is super-rich. Everyone else will just be told to take it easy and sent home to drop dead when the fatal hour arrives.
So, on the whole, I am grateful for having had my bypass now, even if the experience has, at its low points, felt a little like being Dracula waking from eternal slumber when a stake is removed from his accursed heart.
Indeed, considering the number of components in our human bodies, their convoluted design and awful sliminess, it is amazing that more surgical disasters do not occur. No doubt we can thank technological innovation for this lack of tragedy. For instance, so futuristic was the equipment at M.G.H that I remember wondering whether I was still on the operating table in Boston, or if I had been abducted by aliens from an advanced civilization and was now aboard their flying-saucer space hospital. Either way, I knew that I was in safe hands, no matter whether those hands belonged to an Earthling, or were the long-fingered claws of some little green extraterrestrial heart specialist with a five-brained head that looks like a squid's head.
Of course, our descendants in 2050 will hopefully regard today's surgical techniques as barbarously primitive. They will consider modern open heart surgery to be as gruesome as Victorian amputations with a hacksaw appear to us. Alternatively, it's also possible that surgery could be so expensive by then that hospitals simply won't bother performing it anymore, unless the patient is super-rich. Everyone else will just be told to take it easy and sent home to drop dead when the fatal hour arrives.
So, on the whole, I am grateful for having had my bypass now, even if the experience has, at its low points, felt a little like being Dracula waking from eternal slumber when a stake is removed from his accursed heart.
The Daily Grind
Returning to work after a long absence is always a daunting proposition. This is especially true after surgery, since you can summon even less energy than usual when faced with the unedifying prospect of wasting another precious day of your life glaring at some unresponsive computer screen. Still, even this dull, thankless fate is preferable to that of doctors glaring at some unresponsive electrocardiograph machine while you slowly stop breathing and eventually flatline. You can't take it with you, as they say, and unfortunately that includes medical malpractice compensation.
Anyway, my first day back was mostly spent in the canteen, dutifully recounting a brief summary of my experience to interested and sympathetic colleagues. They kindly inquire how I'm feeling, explain that I was missed, wish me well and move away. Then the anxious office hypochondriac appears, demanding more exact and specific details, obviously concerned that he might suffer from the same complaint. He is followed by the weepy office sentimentalist, a puffy-eyed collector of Beanie Babies and ceramic Disney figurines, who seems to think that I should receive a Purple Heart for having surgery and the Congressional Medal of Honor just for cleaning for my own incision.
Although you should never milk your post-op invalid status at work, a small amount of heavy cream can be churned by exaggerating your infirmity from time to time. Guidelines concerning what you can - and more importantly cannot - be expected to accomplish during the day need to be set immediately. These should be as vague and as ill-defined as possible: pleading incapacity due to "aches and twinges" is a foolproof excuse for avoiding any tedious meetings and conferences that are scheduled.
Speaking of aches and twinges, I need to stop typing now and lay down in some shady bower. After all, I'm not getting paid for writing this, you know.
Anyway, my first day back was mostly spent in the canteen, dutifully recounting a brief summary of my experience to interested and sympathetic colleagues. They kindly inquire how I'm feeling, explain that I was missed, wish me well and move away. Then the anxious office hypochondriac appears, demanding more exact and specific details, obviously concerned that he might suffer from the same complaint. He is followed by the weepy office sentimentalist, a puffy-eyed collector of Beanie Babies and ceramic Disney figurines, who seems to think that I should receive a Purple Heart for having surgery and the Congressional Medal of Honor just for cleaning for my own incision.
Although you should never milk your post-op invalid status at work, a small amount of heavy cream can be churned by exaggerating your infirmity from time to time. Guidelines concerning what you can - and more importantly cannot - be expected to accomplish during the day need to be set immediately. These should be as vague and as ill-defined as possible: pleading incapacity due to "aches and twinges" is a foolproof excuse for avoiding any tedious meetings and conferences that are scheduled.
Speaking of aches and twinges, I need to stop typing now and lay down in some shady bower. After all, I'm not getting paid for writing this, you know.
The Last Laugh
The cardiologist had described my cholesterol-caked arteries as being like a "ticking time bomb." Heart attack or stroke could have occurred at any moment, he claimed, his words prompting mental images of a cackling Death wiring sticks of dynamite together; his skeletal hands carefully setting the hands of some clockwork mechanism to detonate at the chime of midnight; then supernaturally strapping this device around my poor heart when I was unaware. Fortunately some angelic soul alerted the Earthly bomb disposal squad to my plight before Death could complete his fiendish plan.
Such idle thoughts, naturally, conjure further flights of morbid fantasy: did my astral self play its proverbial game of chess with Death, for example, while my physical body lay anesthetized upon the operating table? Probably not, as it happens, because I simply can't imagine myself speaking gobbledygook like "Rook to King's Bishop five," even in the supernatural realm.
Combined with a little paranoia, these daydreams continue through recovery: after all, successfully dodging Death's scythe on the first stroke doesn't mean it won't suddenly return later and cut you down on his back-swing. Perhaps Death is a golfer rather than a chess player, pitching and putting his way around the hospital: the heart disease hole is probably a par 4, and fortunately I got lost somewhere in the rough.
In reality, of course, since bypass surgery is virtually a routine procedure these days, there was only an incalculably small chance that the patient might die; only the remotest possibility that a cloaked and hooded figure might be lurking in the shadows of the operating room, hoping that someone will flatline sooner or later. Death must have much better ways to spend his time, however measureless and infinite his time is. Which means the operation must be pretty boring for Guardian Angels too, sent to merely keep an eye on things. 'Bring a book,' they are probably told. 'You can read by the light of your own beneficence.'
Ah yes, I can joke now but truth be told I was worried then. I suppose this is what is meant by the phrase "having the last laugh."
Such idle thoughts, naturally, conjure further flights of morbid fantasy: did my astral self play its proverbial game of chess with Death, for example, while my physical body lay anesthetized upon the operating table? Probably not, as it happens, because I simply can't imagine myself speaking gobbledygook like "Rook to King's Bishop five," even in the supernatural realm.
Combined with a little paranoia, these daydreams continue through recovery: after all, successfully dodging Death's scythe on the first stroke doesn't mean it won't suddenly return later and cut you down on his back-swing. Perhaps Death is a golfer rather than a chess player, pitching and putting his way around the hospital: the heart disease hole is probably a par 4, and fortunately I got lost somewhere in the rough.
In reality, of course, since bypass surgery is virtually a routine procedure these days, there was only an incalculably small chance that the patient might die; only the remotest possibility that a cloaked and hooded figure might be lurking in the shadows of the operating room, hoping that someone will flatline sooner or later. Death must have much better ways to spend his time, however measureless and infinite his time is. Which means the operation must be pretty boring for Guardian Angels too, sent to merely keep an eye on things. 'Bring a book,' they are probably told. 'You can read by the light of your own beneficence.'
Ah yes, I can joke now but truth be told I was worried then. I suppose this is what is meant by the phrase "having the last laugh."
Good Fat Bad Fat
Like fairytale magic, cholesterol has its good side (high-density lipoprotein found in vegetables) and its dark side (low-density lipoprotein found in everything you actually want to eat). These two opposing cholesterol factions are constantly locked in mortal combat with each other, battling for ultimate control of the human bloodstream. Alas, unlike fairytale magic, the dark side usually triumphs in the end: the handsome Prince must wake Snow White with a cardiac defibrillator instead of a kiss; the seven dwarfs each require a triple bypass, all except Dopey who probably needs a quadruple and Sleepy who might even die on the operating table.
According to most nutrition experts, the best way to beat dark cholesterol is to simply not be an American. Unfortunately this is harder than you think, especially if you live there. You might think that you are confining yourself to a so-called Mediterranean diet, but in all probability those dainty little olives and lumpy yogurts have been marinated in harmful saturated fats (pronounced: saturated fatsssssss) by unscrupulous food processing factories.
This dark cholesterol epidemic is similar to the crisis of Global Warming: your body is being inflated to death by the over-frying of fossil cheese in millions of unregulated fast food restaurants; by an oil slick of sugary drinks polluting your bloodstream; and by chunks of processed meat product with a nuclear half-life of twenty million years. Your frequent bouts of belching and uncontrollable flatulence are enough to shake the Earth to its very core.
I've always imagined cholesterol as a big greasy balloon filled with rancid custard, but medical images suggest that it actually resembles tiny heaps of Venetian corn polenta: not what you would expect a merciless killer to look like. Yet cholesterol is a silent and deadly assassin, content to loiter in the arteries of its victim for years disguised as that vaguely unpopular Italian side dish, before finally emerging from the shadows to strike when the fateful hour arrives.
So how can we defeat bad cholesterol, you ask, when the odds are stacked so heavily against us. Of course, we could decrypt the hieroglyphics of the Food Pyramid: consume less low-density lipoproteins (things we actually want to eat) and replace them with more high-density lipoproteins (vegetables). We could even increase our daily amount of exercise by replacing our gleaming SUV with a rickety ten-speed and biking everywhere. And we do all of these things to a degree; but by far the least strenuous and complicated method is to cheat by taking drugs such as Simvastatin and Lipitor.
According to most nutrition experts, the best way to beat dark cholesterol is to simply not be an American. Unfortunately this is harder than you think, especially if you live there. You might think that you are confining yourself to a so-called Mediterranean diet, but in all probability those dainty little olives and lumpy yogurts have been marinated in harmful saturated fats (pronounced: saturated fatsssssss) by unscrupulous food processing factories.
This dark cholesterol epidemic is similar to the crisis of Global Warming: your body is being inflated to death by the over-frying of fossil cheese in millions of unregulated fast food restaurants; by an oil slick of sugary drinks polluting your bloodstream; and by chunks of processed meat product with a nuclear half-life of twenty million years. Your frequent bouts of belching and uncontrollable flatulence are enough to shake the Earth to its very core.
I've always imagined cholesterol as a big greasy balloon filled with rancid custard, but medical images suggest that it actually resembles tiny heaps of Venetian corn polenta: not what you would expect a merciless killer to look like. Yet cholesterol is a silent and deadly assassin, content to loiter in the arteries of its victim for years disguised as that vaguely unpopular Italian side dish, before finally emerging from the shadows to strike when the fateful hour arrives.
So how can we defeat bad cholesterol, you ask, when the odds are stacked so heavily against us. Of course, we could decrypt the hieroglyphics of the Food Pyramid: consume less low-density lipoproteins (things we actually want to eat) and replace them with more high-density lipoproteins (vegetables). We could even increase our daily amount of exercise by replacing our gleaming SUV with a rickety ten-speed and biking everywhere. And we do all of these things to a degree; but by far the least strenuous and complicated method is to cheat by taking drugs such as Simvastatin and Lipitor.
Byparse and You
No doubt you are asking yourself what will happen to this fascinating blog as my condition improves. Will I, you wonder, resort to smug reports about how vigorously healthy I am feeling these days. And will these posts be pompous lectures about exactly what you should be eating so that you can be as wonderfully fit as I am. Will I, you apprehensively enquire, provide links to endless photo-streams of the new me playing frisbee with a golden retriever, kayaking gleefully over cascading rapids and tossing elaborate salads in a sun-kissed kitchen. Well, the answer to these questions is yes. Yes I undoubtedly will.
Let's face it, I've suffered countless agonies and deprivations with my heart bypass surgery, and I claim an unequivocal right to act holier than thou if I so choose; to indiscriminately dispense my boorish nutritional wisdom into your undeserving head; to expect you, dear reader, to gratefully bookmark this page and thereby increase the hit count in case I decide to include advertising. After all, what good can come from my experience if I cannot recount it to a captive audience in gory and infinite detail, while possibly making a little monetary profit from it also.
Consider my painful and probably permanent incision scars. Observe the unappetizing harvest of legumes, roots and leaves that I am forced to eat. These are heavy burdens of mine that should be important to you too. I am the modern equivalent of some etiolated medieval hermit condemned to a gloomy, life-long curriculum of fasting and self-denial. I am the Western counterpart of a silent Hindu guru with wild hair and long, crinkly fingernails, washing his only pair of underpants in the Ganges while a excitable mob drapes him with rotting garlands. In short: I am the sort of person whose opinions should be heard, even if they are unbearably sanctimonious and misinformed.
Let's face it, I've suffered countless agonies and deprivations with my heart bypass surgery, and I claim an unequivocal right to act holier than thou if I so choose; to indiscriminately dispense my boorish nutritional wisdom into your undeserving head; to expect you, dear reader, to gratefully bookmark this page and thereby increase the hit count in case I decide to include advertising. After all, what good can come from my experience if I cannot recount it to a captive audience in gory and infinite detail, while possibly making a little monetary profit from it also.
Consider my painful and probably permanent incision scars. Observe the unappetizing harvest of legumes, roots and leaves that I am forced to eat. These are heavy burdens of mine that should be important to you too. I am the modern equivalent of some etiolated medieval hermit condemned to a gloomy, life-long curriculum of fasting and self-denial. I am the Western counterpart of a silent Hindu guru with wild hair and long, crinkly fingernails, washing his only pair of underpants in the Ganges while a excitable mob drapes him with rotting garlands. In short: I am the sort of person whose opinions should be heard, even if they are unbearably sanctimonious and misinformed.
A Jaunty Angle
You often see invalids like me wearing baseball caps when we're out in public; the brims pulled tightly around our foreheads, shielding our weary eyes from glimpsing the reflection of our anxious faces in any mirrored surface we pass by.
Concealed beneath such carefree hats, disguised as athletic men, we hope that perhaps Death will not recognize us the next time he comes knocking. Then again, maybe we just think of them as security blankets for our skulls, convalescent crash helmets providing protection from whatever else the world might suddenly decide to drop upon our heads. I wear mine in bed sometimes, simply because I forget to take it off.
There is also the sad, pathetic desire to look like a regular guy again, which, somehow, a baseball cap instantly bestows. This desire is particularly strong in anyone who's been wearing nothing but a pastel smock and an intravenous drip for the past three weeks. After all, a baseball cap suggests the sort of strapping fellow who wins cheeseburger eating competitions while drinking bourbon out of the bottle, not some puny heart patient nervously reading the nutritional information on s container of low-fat apricot yogurt. Which example of manhood would you rather represent?
Alas, I'm sure this baseball cap doesn't fool anybody. My shuffling gait, stooped shoulders and hanging head betray me for the fragile weakling that I am. If there were dunes of beach sand on the Emergency Room floor, then I'm sure even the hip-replacement patients would kick it in my face. Maybe I should switch to a huge sombrero instead, and pretend I'm just taking a well-deserved siesta all the time.
Concealed beneath such carefree hats, disguised as athletic men, we hope that perhaps Death will not recognize us the next time he comes knocking. Then again, maybe we just think of them as security blankets for our skulls, convalescent crash helmets providing protection from whatever else the world might suddenly decide to drop upon our heads. I wear mine in bed sometimes, simply because I forget to take it off.
There is also the sad, pathetic desire to look like a regular guy again, which, somehow, a baseball cap instantly bestows. This desire is particularly strong in anyone who's been wearing nothing but a pastel smock and an intravenous drip for the past three weeks. After all, a baseball cap suggests the sort of strapping fellow who wins cheeseburger eating competitions while drinking bourbon out of the bottle, not some puny heart patient nervously reading the nutritional information on s container of low-fat apricot yogurt. Which example of manhood would you rather represent?
Alas, I'm sure this baseball cap doesn't fool anybody. My shuffling gait, stooped shoulders and hanging head betray me for the fragile weakling that I am. If there were dunes of beach sand on the Emergency Room floor, then I'm sure even the hip-replacement patients would kick it in my face. Maybe I should switch to a huge sombrero instead, and pretend I'm just taking a well-deserved siesta all the time.
Practical Matters and Other Problems
"Just use your common sense," nurses would tell me, when explaining the intricacies of dressing my own incision: "Just use a tiny amount of Bacitracin on the cotton swab, not too much, you know, just use your common sense."
Alas, I've never considered common sense to be one of my strong suits. I'm more of a "snippets of esotric but ultimately worthless trivia" type personality: more interested in the mythical Seven Labors of Hercules than the seven chores that really need to be done around the house.
Being too ashamed to tell the nurses this, I deceptively nod my head while they provide detailed and important instructions, as if even the most complex of surgical operations are mere routine tasks for a patient of my infinite experience, dexterity and courage.
"This is easy. I can do this no problem," I boast. Meanwhile, deep inside my foolish, reckless psyche, many anxious and desperate neurons are screaming for instructional booklets, step-by-step diagrams and in-depth how-to videos.
Standing in the bathroom later, equipped with a box of gauze pads, tubes of unpronouncable ointments and sticky medical tape that doesn't stick very well, I am all fingers and thumbs. Do I apply the Lollapaloozadrine first, or the Awopbobalooboppazone? And exactly how much of each should I apply to which gauze pad? What if my incision becomes infected because an escaped toenail clipping disastrously manages to attach itself to the swab with which I am cleaning my incision? The stakes are high and no nightmare scenario can be ignored by the man who has no common sense.
Alas, I've never considered common sense to be one of my strong suits. I'm more of a "snippets of esotric but ultimately worthless trivia" type personality: more interested in the mythical Seven Labors of Hercules than the seven chores that really need to be done around the house.
Being too ashamed to tell the nurses this, I deceptively nod my head while they provide detailed and important instructions, as if even the most complex of surgical operations are mere routine tasks for a patient of my infinite experience, dexterity and courage.
"This is easy. I can do this no problem," I boast. Meanwhile, deep inside my foolish, reckless psyche, many anxious and desperate neurons are screaming for instructional booklets, step-by-step diagrams and in-depth how-to videos.
Standing in the bathroom later, equipped with a box of gauze pads, tubes of unpronouncable ointments and sticky medical tape that doesn't stick very well, I am all fingers and thumbs. Do I apply the Lollapaloozadrine first, or the Awopbobalooboppazone? And exactly how much of each should I apply to which gauze pad? What if my incision becomes infected because an escaped toenail clipping disastrously manages to attach itself to the swab with which I am cleaning my incision? The stakes are high and no nightmare scenario can be ignored by the man who has no common sense.
Escapism
When the four walls of your convalescent room have finally revealed all their cracks in infinite detail; when only unappetizing lozenges of browning melon remain in that fruit basket by your bedside; when all those dog-eared biographies of sixties popstars have been half-read and then discarded on the floor; when time has been completely and utterly killed, given the coup-de-gras at least ten times and you have jumped up and down on its grave like an insane trampolinist ... then you just might be bored enough to watch a little "sword and sorcery" themed Sci-Fi Fantasy epic on cable or DVD. I know I am.
Whether they are called Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings, most Sci-Fi Fantasy epics follow the basic King Arthur storyline: a flawed hero and his rag-tag band of misfits embark upon a thankless quest for some magical piece of flea market ephemera. He is a sort of bearded JFK figure who eats with his hands. His men look like the Rolling Stones in ill-fitting suits of armor. They face many deadly trials and perilous tribulations on their quest, which they usually solve by simply hacking angry monsters to death; fiery dragons and one-eyed giants who were previously asleep in pitch black caves, minding their own business.
There will be a token love interest: a dainty narrative afterthought with doe-eyes and alabaster skin. But our busy hero generally prefers spending his time drinking mead with bearded fighting men and consulting gloomy wizards, so she's left to walk her domesticated snow leopards around the empty castle by herself. Another night in with endless needlework and a fat lady-in-waiting who snores. It's not very chivalrous if you ask me.
Meanwhile, back on the quest, the hero and his friends have encountered an obstacle.
"We must cross the icy Ocean of Slurp before nightfall."
"But we are infantry, not seafaring men."
"It matters not. It is our destiny."
"Yes Lord"
Oh God, how they drone on and on about their dreary destiny all the time. There is also far too much subservient, class-conscious grovelling for my liking. In fact, the entire genre of Sci-Fi Fantasy seems to be dominated by especially pompous, priggish, self-regarding aristocrats. The closest it ever gets to a proper, modern Democracy is an unelected and highly secretive "council" of hooded and lugubrious elders who shuffle about inside the roots of some ancient tree making fatuous decisions about the future of Elf Land.
It is amazing that not even a hint of progressive political activism appears in any of these films and TV shows. There is no long-haired Hobbit preaching Marxism or spotty gnome plastering his woodland bedroom with posters of Che Guevara. Honestly, if I were writing these scripts I'd include an armor-clad, broadsword-wielding Lenin rising from his dreamless sweep and destroying the old order. Of course, this means that my hero would eventually be followed by a troll-like Stalin and his murderous five year plan to collectivize the Shire farms, but at least it would change things up a bit.
Anyway, I suppose it is time to turn the TV off and change the dressings on my own scars now; these deep wounds inflicted upon me by the Dark Lord Cholesterol but mercifully healed by Gandalf the Wise Surgeon. May the power of Bacitracin be with me.
Whether they are called Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings, most Sci-Fi Fantasy epics follow the basic King Arthur storyline: a flawed hero and his rag-tag band of misfits embark upon a thankless quest for some magical piece of flea market ephemera. He is a sort of bearded JFK figure who eats with his hands. His men look like the Rolling Stones in ill-fitting suits of armor. They face many deadly trials and perilous tribulations on their quest, which they usually solve by simply hacking angry monsters to death; fiery dragons and one-eyed giants who were previously asleep in pitch black caves, minding their own business.
There will be a token love interest: a dainty narrative afterthought with doe-eyes and alabaster skin. But our busy hero generally prefers spending his time drinking mead with bearded fighting men and consulting gloomy wizards, so she's left to walk her domesticated snow leopards around the empty castle by herself. Another night in with endless needlework and a fat lady-in-waiting who snores. It's not very chivalrous if you ask me.
Meanwhile, back on the quest, the hero and his friends have encountered an obstacle.
"We must cross the icy Ocean of Slurp before nightfall."
"But we are infantry, not seafaring men."
"It matters not. It is our destiny."
"Yes Lord"
Oh God, how they drone on and on about their dreary destiny all the time. There is also far too much subservient, class-conscious grovelling for my liking. In fact, the entire genre of Sci-Fi Fantasy seems to be dominated by especially pompous, priggish, self-regarding aristocrats. The closest it ever gets to a proper, modern Democracy is an unelected and highly secretive "council" of hooded and lugubrious elders who shuffle about inside the roots of some ancient tree making fatuous decisions about the future of Elf Land.
It is amazing that not even a hint of progressive political activism appears in any of these films and TV shows. There is no long-haired Hobbit preaching Marxism or spotty gnome plastering his woodland bedroom with posters of Che Guevara. Honestly, if I were writing these scripts I'd include an armor-clad, broadsword-wielding Lenin rising from his dreamless sweep and destroying the old order. Of course, this means that my hero would eventually be followed by a troll-like Stalin and his murderous five year plan to collectivize the Shire farms, but at least it would change things up a bit.
Anyway, I suppose it is time to turn the TV off and change the dressings on my own scars now; these deep wounds inflicted upon me by the Dark Lord Cholesterol but mercifully healed by Gandalf the Wise Surgeon. May the power of Bacitracin be with me.
The Yeti in the Mirror
Requiring assistance to bathe and dress is profoundly humiliating for a proud man. Fortunately I am not a proud man. In fact, I rather enjoy the pampering and extra attention. After all, a skilled professional washing your armpits and extremeties is surely one of life's great joys.
Initiates in the Bacchian Mysteries of Ancient Greece must have experienced similar cleansing pleasures when being ritually purified by their high priests, except I'm just going to lounge in bed all day watching Antiques Roadshow after my scrub-down, rather than dancing myself dizzy and sacrificing a bull while screaming obscenities into an ear of corn.
But I draw a very distinct line when it comes to somebody else shaving my face. The chin is sacred ground as far as I'm concerned: it should not be desecrated by some over-talkative, razor-wielding maniac who thinks he knows in which direction your stubble grows, even if his razor does feature two lubricating strips and an omni-adjustable head. I will either shave myself or cultivate a beard of Victorian proportions, no matter how much it itches and prickles and looks ridiculous hanging beneath my hairless head.
And so, since I suffer from restricted movement, most of my post-operative period has been spent observing five o'clock shadow sprout into eleventh hour facial hair. Alas, instead of endowing my appearance with an aura of Socratic wisdom and sagacity, my new beard makes me seem like the sort of sad, middle-aged buffoon who attends Renaissance Fayres dressed as a desperately unfunny court jester whom even kids find boring. What was I saying earlier about not being a proud man?
Initiates in the Bacchian Mysteries of Ancient Greece must have experienced similar cleansing pleasures when being ritually purified by their high priests, except I'm just going to lounge in bed all day watching Antiques Roadshow after my scrub-down, rather than dancing myself dizzy and sacrificing a bull while screaming obscenities into an ear of corn.
But I draw a very distinct line when it comes to somebody else shaving my face. The chin is sacred ground as far as I'm concerned: it should not be desecrated by some over-talkative, razor-wielding maniac who thinks he knows in which direction your stubble grows, even if his razor does feature two lubricating strips and an omni-adjustable head. I will either shave myself or cultivate a beard of Victorian proportions, no matter how much it itches and prickles and looks ridiculous hanging beneath my hairless head.
And so, since I suffer from restricted movement, most of my post-operative period has been spent observing five o'clock shadow sprout into eleventh hour facial hair. Alas, instead of endowing my appearance with an aura of Socratic wisdom and sagacity, my new beard makes me seem like the sort of sad, middle-aged buffoon who attends Renaissance Fayres dressed as a desperately unfunny court jester whom even kids find boring. What was I saying earlier about not being a proud man?
The Apple and Its Discontents
I used to eat an apple every day, even before I knew that my arteries were beseiged by cholesterol and required extra help. Alas, such daily apple crunching precautions did not, as the proverb promised, keep the doctor away. In fact, at the height of my bypass crisis, the number of doctors I saw daily trumped the number of apples I was eating by a factor of three to one. Personally, I believe that new-fangled farming techniques are to blame; modern pesticides seeping through the apple's skin, into its very core, polluting all its medicinal properties with a chemical form of saturated-fat, undetectable by nutrition experts, the Food and Drug Adminsistration, and the sort of misguided old wives who fabricate quaint tales about apples keeping doctors away.
At any rate, I am still eating apples, mostly of the organic Gala variety, but I don't bother to eat one every single day. You might just as well maintain a strict mango eating regimen, as far as I'm concerned, if you think it will reduce your visits to the local health clinic. Currently, I am swallowing a Simvastatin a day, which, although it does not keep the doctor away either, does happen to be recommended by him to actually lower cholesterol levels. I also don't need to worry about fruit flies and other undesirables congregating around the Simvastatin's rotten core when I can't find a garbage can nearby (another huge benefit it can claim versus the simple apple).
At any rate, I am still eating apples, mostly of the organic Gala variety, but I don't bother to eat one every single day. You might just as well maintain a strict mango eating regimen, as far as I'm concerned, if you think it will reduce your visits to the local health clinic. Currently, I am swallowing a Simvastatin a day, which, although it does not keep the doctor away either, does happen to be recommended by him to actually lower cholesterol levels. I also don't need to worry about fruit flies and other undesirables congregating around the Simvastatin's rotten core when I can't find a garbage can nearby (another huge benefit it can claim versus the simple apple).
Waters of Lethe
My shoulders are aching terribly, as if I were the bottom rung of a inverted human pyramid formed by a troupe of sadistically fat acrobats.
Never having experienced serious agony previously, I have never been prescribed any sort of pain-killers before. In fact, I have always believed that pain killers carry rather disreputable connotations, associating them almost exclusively with bankrupt rock-stars, extremely desperate drug addicts and other varieties of lowlife who can't afford proper heroin; or neurotic, ineffectual housewives unable to face the daily grind of vacuuming. An ignorant prejudice, perhaps, but I have always courted superiority, even when confined to my sick bed.
Apparently, my shoulders are forced into performing double their usual amount of labour -the poor darlings - because the recuperating muscles in my chest must remain untaxed for a few more weeks; hence their relentless aching complaints.
The doctors started me off on morphine, then downgraded my suffering to a couple of paltry Percocets. Currently I subsist on a potent cocktail of Tylenol and the first series of Downton Abbey, which is absolutely guaranteed to numb the senses.
Never having experienced serious agony previously, I have never been prescribed any sort of pain-killers before. In fact, I have always believed that pain killers carry rather disreputable connotations, associating them almost exclusively with bankrupt rock-stars, extremely desperate drug addicts and other varieties of lowlife who can't afford proper heroin; or neurotic, ineffectual housewives unable to face the daily grind of vacuuming. An ignorant prejudice, perhaps, but I have always courted superiority, even when confined to my sick bed.
Apparently, my shoulders are forced into performing double their usual amount of labour -the poor darlings - because the recuperating muscles in my chest must remain untaxed for a few more weeks; hence their relentless aching complaints.
The doctors started me off on morphine, then downgraded my suffering to a couple of paltry Percocets. Currently I subsist on a potent cocktail of Tylenol and the first series of Downton Abbey, which is absolutely guaranteed to numb the senses.
The Six Week War
The healing process, much like the Middle Eastern peace process, is interminable and exhausting. Two opposing sides, the Trans-Medicated Republic versus the rogue state of Ouch, negotiate ceasefire deals around a heart-shaped table. But somehow talks always break down before any compromises are agreed; only another stalemate is achieved; the two armies entrench themselves in the frowns on your forehead, erect roadblocks in your nose, and trade insults in the night. Everyone knows that the Trans-Medicated Republic will ultimately emerge victorious with its unstoppable strategy of overwhelming force; but even in defeat the rogue state of Ouch will never really surrender. Alas, there will always be small pockets of resistance fighting in the mountains of the mind; guerrilla units comprised of aches and itches making plans to disrupt the system whenever and wherever they can. Apparently the price of plaque free arteries is eternal vigilance.
Future Echoes
Recovery is really a dress rehearsal for senility: the slow shuffle to the footlights clad in an ill-fitting costume of dressing gown and slippers, and then the hoarse delivery of your single line soliloquy: "Can someone help me with the toilet, please?"
It's not a great role. Indeed, audience members may be unpleasantly reminded of your previous performance in that other dreary, one-act tragedy: Chronic Back Pain, originally written for Lon Chaney declining years by Samuel Beckett in his most minimalistic mood. Lights, camera, medication.
This imitation of old age is the result of a doctor's stern caution not to exert oneself, coupled with anxious contemplation of the long vertical scar running down the center of your chest. Major incisions take an eternity to mend and are extremely uncomfortable during the healing process, mostly from hourly aches and pains and the tedium of restricted movement. It's like walking around with a Fed Ex address label securely stuck to your breast bone and "Handle With Care" plastered between your shoulder blades. Simple, everyday tasks are now physical problems and frustrations of the most mind-bending kind. Putting on a shirt becomes a course in advanced Tai Chi concentration and technique; threading your legs into underpants is like trying to navigate an M C Escher maze; and wiping one's backside is, well, let's just say that a friend in need is a friend indeed.
Fortunately, being a student of the Stoics, I am not grumpy or downhearted like the aged often are. I strive to play the part of a grand old man rather than a mean old one. As Marcus Aurelius said, "Nothing happens to any man that he is not formed by nature to bear" - which almost sounds Shakespearean, albeit a lecture to his son by the doddering Polonius.
It's not a great role. Indeed, audience members may be unpleasantly reminded of your previous performance in that other dreary, one-act tragedy: Chronic Back Pain, originally written for Lon Chaney declining years by Samuel Beckett in his most minimalistic mood. Lights, camera, medication.
This imitation of old age is the result of a doctor's stern caution not to exert oneself, coupled with anxious contemplation of the long vertical scar running down the center of your chest. Major incisions take an eternity to mend and are extremely uncomfortable during the healing process, mostly from hourly aches and pains and the tedium of restricted movement. It's like walking around with a Fed Ex address label securely stuck to your breast bone and "Handle With Care" plastered between your shoulder blades. Simple, everyday tasks are now physical problems and frustrations of the most mind-bending kind. Putting on a shirt becomes a course in advanced Tai Chi concentration and technique; threading your legs into underpants is like trying to navigate an M C Escher maze; and wiping one's backside is, well, let's just say that a friend in need is a friend indeed.
Fortunately, being a student of the Stoics, I am not grumpy or downhearted like the aged often are. I strive to play the part of a grand old man rather than a mean old one. As Marcus Aurelius said, "Nothing happens to any man that he is not formed by nature to bear" - which almost sounds Shakespearean, albeit a lecture to his son by the doddering Polonius.
The English Patient
Lunch in the hospital was served by a silent woman of Arabian aspect, whom I nicknamed The Femme Falafel since the food she delivered usually resembled that Middle Eastern speciality, even though it might actually have been fish cakes or even chicken marengo. It was quite possible, therefore, that the Femme Falafel herself was not really Persian, as I imagined, but Italian or Israeli or quite possibly the progeny of Armenian refugees. She merely nodded and smiled hesitantly whenever I thanked her; uncomfortably aware that she carried consignments of tasteless, anonymous substances containing roughly fifty percent of the recommended daily allowance of gloom and despondency. She probably thought that my thanks were muttered ironically; a sort of gallows gratitude from a condemned man.
There is no reason, as far as I can see, why hospital food should be so shapeless and so bland. Surely it must take a reverse alchemical process of some magnitude to transform golden carrots into base, colorless root vegetables. Incalculable time and effort must be exerted turning the fruits of the sea into the prunes of the kitchen, and yet hospital cooks accomplish such a feat with apparent ease. For pudding there is a choice of transparent sponge or jellied tap water. "Food dolorous food," the patients want to sing, paraphrasing the cast of Oliver despite lacking the energy to dance as well. "Gray cabbage and beige chard."
An old proverb claims of medicine: if it tastes bad then it must be good for you. This is fine for cough syrup and other drugs, but why must the awful flavor be included in the hospital menus also? I suppose I could ask the Femme Falafel, but I assume that she would simply draw a discreet veil over the subject.
There is no reason, as far as I can see, why hospital food should be so shapeless and so bland. Surely it must take a reverse alchemical process of some magnitude to transform golden carrots into base, colorless root vegetables. Incalculable time and effort must be exerted turning the fruits of the sea into the prunes of the kitchen, and yet hospital cooks accomplish such a feat with apparent ease. For pudding there is a choice of transparent sponge or jellied tap water. "Food dolorous food," the patients want to sing, paraphrasing the cast of Oliver despite lacking the energy to dance as well. "Gray cabbage and beige chard."
An old proverb claims of medicine: if it tastes bad then it must be good for you. This is fine for cough syrup and other drugs, but why must the awful flavor be included in the hospital menus also? I suppose I could ask the Femme Falafel, but I assume that she would simply draw a discreet veil over the subject.
Ailing To Byzantium
Male patients gain a great deal of gravitas in hospital. In their cotton johnny gowns, with their ascetic pallors and beatific beard growths, they resemble a council of early Byzantine bishops, temporarily at a loose end while awaiting the latest news from Nicaea.
Obviously, this saintly countenance could simply be a symptom of too much time spent indoors watching the History Channel; or perhaps sixty milligrams of pure gravitas are always included in the array of intravenous drips hanging over the patient's bed; or maybe it's just that the patient's cheeks hollow and lose color because his martyr's diet of shapeless, unappetizing gray hospital sludge makes Jack Sprat's fabled fat-free dinner look like a dazzling smorgasbord of nature's most succulent bounty.
Alas, the physical trappings of holiness do not confer upon patients the ability to perform the miracles of holy men - if they did, the patients could easily conjure away their own diseases with a single incantation: "Take up thy bed and walk," they would announce solemnly to themselves (except, of course, the bed would belong to the hospital and far to heavy and cumbersome to carry).
And so these patient's must languish on those beds, surrounded by floral offering from well-wishers and work colleagues, waiting for test results and consequent medications; and I imagine this is pretty much how the aforementioned Byzantine bishops spent their days; although they waited for complex doctrinal ratifications rather than test results, and for the approved bottles of communion wine instead of medications by the dose. They hid behind the sword of Constantine like we patients hide behind the staff of Aesculapius, neither group really knowing for sure what is going on behind the scenes.
Obviously, this saintly countenance could simply be a symptom of too much time spent indoors watching the History Channel; or perhaps sixty milligrams of pure gravitas are always included in the array of intravenous drips hanging over the patient's bed; or maybe it's just that the patient's cheeks hollow and lose color because his martyr's diet of shapeless, unappetizing gray hospital sludge makes Jack Sprat's fabled fat-free dinner look like a dazzling smorgasbord of nature's most succulent bounty.
Alas, the physical trappings of holiness do not confer upon patients the ability to perform the miracles of holy men - if they did, the patients could easily conjure away their own diseases with a single incantation: "Take up thy bed and walk," they would announce solemnly to themselves (except, of course, the bed would belong to the hospital and far to heavy and cumbersome to carry).
And so these patient's must languish on those beds, surrounded by floral offering from well-wishers and work colleagues, waiting for test results and consequent medications; and I imagine this is pretty much how the aforementioned Byzantine bishops spent their days; although they waited for complex doctrinal ratifications rather than test results, and for the approved bottles of communion wine instead of medications by the dose. They hid behind the sword of Constantine like we patients hide behind the staff of Aesculapius, neither group really knowing for sure what is going on behind the scenes.
Too Much Information
After heart surgery, each new day seems like a precious gift; then you get constipated.
Constipation is the sick man's burden; a scatological limbo between light and dark stools; the evil magician's rock that must be abracadabra'd away from the secret cave's entrance before the treasures within can be revealed. If I sold prune juice by the bottle I would brand it 'Open Sesame.'
Laxatives, of course, are essential: bypass patients are not allowed to strain when sitting on the toilet, and so liquid plumber for the stomach must be employed. I prefer milk of magnesia, but only because it sounds like the sort of mythical elixir that Jason and the Argonauts might have sought. The embarrassing phrase "an enema," meanwhile, merely conjures unprepossessing mental pictures of an especially gelatinous jellyfish floating idly in a polluted ocean: not a very promising image when you really want a manic octopus stirring up the sea bed.
But personal comfort is not the only reason to encourage successful defecations. Like ancient Roman priests predicting the future by appraising the entrails of sacrificial beasts, modern doctors examine their patient's bowel movements for biological indicators. The shape, color, consistency and regularity of such human waste apparently reveals a great deal about the health of the humans responsible for evacuating these samples. Please feel free to Google the many possible grisly conclusions that can be drawn from such investigations in your time.
At any rate, it is amazing how smug and self-satisfied a patient feels when, after a lengthy spell of frustrating constipation, he at last regains the approval of his doctors by completing a successful bowel movement. His entire being is suffused with an almost impish glee - break out the toadstool wine, we'll celebrate. Anything is possible now, even that complete recuperation he's often heard the nurses talk about.
Constipation is the sick man's burden; a scatological limbo between light and dark stools; the evil magician's rock that must be abracadabra'd away from the secret cave's entrance before the treasures within can be revealed. If I sold prune juice by the bottle I would brand it 'Open Sesame.'
Laxatives, of course, are essential: bypass patients are not allowed to strain when sitting on the toilet, and so liquid plumber for the stomach must be employed. I prefer milk of magnesia, but only because it sounds like the sort of mythical elixir that Jason and the Argonauts might have sought. The embarrassing phrase "an enema," meanwhile, merely conjures unprepossessing mental pictures of an especially gelatinous jellyfish floating idly in a polluted ocean: not a very promising image when you really want a manic octopus stirring up the sea bed.
But personal comfort is not the only reason to encourage successful defecations. Like ancient Roman priests predicting the future by appraising the entrails of sacrificial beasts, modern doctors examine their patient's bowel movements for biological indicators. The shape, color, consistency and regularity of such human waste apparently reveals a great deal about the health of the humans responsible for evacuating these samples. Please feel free to Google the many possible grisly conclusions that can be drawn from such investigations in your time.
At any rate, it is amazing how smug and self-satisfied a patient feels when, after a lengthy spell of frustrating constipation, he at last regains the approval of his doctors by completing a successful bowel movement. His entire being is suffused with an almost impish glee - break out the toadstool wine, we'll celebrate. Anything is possible now, even that complete recuperation he's often heard the nurses talk about.
Venous & Arterial
It is remarkable how quickly a patient's self esteem evaporates in hospital: his pride is immediately and unceremoniously lopped off like an ingrown toenail; his dignity is burned away as if it were nothing but a troublesome, pus-packed boil; and then, bereft of both body hair and normal clothes, he is displayed on an adjustable bed for medical study and diagnoses. Any casual observer might conclude that the patient resembles a plucked turkey of the scrawniest kind, basted in antiseptic and wrapped in a sort of Amish drag queen smock.
Then there are the interminable examinations: scheduled pokings and proddings into orifices formerly sacrosanct; and repeated interrogations and pointed questions concerning the movement of the patient's bowels, always conducted with an arched medical eyebrow, as if the patient were a disreputable snitch filing false information on the whereabouts of a gang of crooks.
Under such conditions it is no surprise that the patient loses all his inhibitions. He no longer cares to prevent it all from hanging out. There are prostitutes advertising their wares in the windows of Dutch brothels who are more modest. The patient will agree to any outrage, no matter how absurd it may seem. Personally, if the nurses had told me that it was necessary to undergo heart surgery clad in a child's SpongeBob SquarePants costume I would have silently acquiesced. After all, one's mind begins to retreat into immaturity when someone else must wipe one's backside.
Then there are the interminable examinations: scheduled pokings and proddings into orifices formerly sacrosanct; and repeated interrogations and pointed questions concerning the movement of the patient's bowels, always conducted with an arched medical eyebrow, as if the patient were a disreputable snitch filing false information on the whereabouts of a gang of crooks.
Under such conditions it is no surprise that the patient loses all his inhibitions. He no longer cares to prevent it all from hanging out. There are prostitutes advertising their wares in the windows of Dutch brothels who are more modest. The patient will agree to any outrage, no matter how absurd it may seem. Personally, if the nurses had told me that it was necessary to undergo heart surgery clad in a child's SpongeBob SquarePants costume I would have silently acquiesced. After all, one's mind begins to retreat into immaturity when someone else must wipe one's backside.
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