A Mochajava State of Mind

Today, most of the northern half of South Dakota is hunkered down mid-blizzard. I-29 is closed from Watertown north, into North Dakota. It’s the last day of February—practically spring already—and I guess Jack Blizzard wanted to make this leap day extra special, lest we let down our prairie guard too soon. Here in the southeast corner of the state, we have only a little dusting of snow, but the 35-mph winds whip it into the air, turning our little farmyard all grey and blizzardy. I have a pile of papers to grade, but thankfully, I don’t have to leave home today, so it’s a delicious, woodstove-fired, coffee-fueled, tucked-in day. 

And speaking of coffee, part of my utter joy at staying home stems from long, lingering, pajama’ed coffee mornings. You can read about the coffee origin myth, and my own re-discovery of the magic brew during my college years, on this previous blog post: http://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2008/10/blog-post.html

But my obsession with coffee goes back much further. When I was in 3^rd grade at Florence School in Omaha, Al Vaccaro dared me to eat a whole clove of raw garlic. I felt compelled to take the dare, both because Al was my boyfriend and often brought me snapdragons to school (making Lori Boonstra, my arch nemesis, gloriously jealous), and because, well, I’ve been a rebel from the get-go. It didn’t take Mrs. Lindsay, my teacher, long to discover the shenanigans. She marched me to the cafeteria, where the Evil Lunch Lady made me chew up a few…my life will all make sense to you now…coffee beans! 

Lunch Lady’s evil deed was designed to override my garlic-breath, but what it actually did was to set me on a path that would eventually become my passion. My kitchen is decorated in "coffee kitsch;" I own every kind of coffee apparati made (Bunn auto drip, Moka espresso pot, French presses, Melitta, etc.); I have a potted Arabica plant in my greenhouse; I collect coffee cookbooks; my anniversary present from Ray was a burr coffee grinder, for which he scored major partner points; my entire wardrobe is various shades of brown and black. As the song goes, “I love the java jive, and it loves me.”

So I’m settling in today with my second pot of elixir, and I thought I’d offer a bit more coffee lore to warm up this snowy South Dakota day…

Today, nearly half of the coffee plants in existence are the progeny of one tree that was smuggled into Martinique by a French soldier in the 18^th century. 

The coffee beans we know & adore are the pits of a cherry-like fruit that grow on evergreen trees. Coffee trees (cultivated to grow only 10 feet high for easier picking) cannot tolerate frost, and they prefer volcanic soil, indirect sunlight, and high altitude. The higher the altitude, the better the coffee. The annual yield of a coffee tree is about a pound of beans.  

There are only two species of coffee, Arabica and Robusta. Arabica is the stuff most of us drink. Robusta is generally lower in flavor acids and higher in caffeine but is sometimes mixed with Arabica to give the brew an extra caffeine kick.  

Contrary to popular belief, the darker the roast, the less caffeine, since caffeine is broken down in the roasting process. Espresso roasts have the least caffeine.  

Coffee is the second most widely used product in the world after oil. We drink 1400 million cups per day, and it’s the world’s most popular drink after water.  

Coffee was declared illegal 3 times by 3 different cultures: (1) In Mecca during the 16th century; (2) By Charles the II in Europe; (3) By Fredrick the Great of Germany in 1677.  

Medicinal Benefits – People who drink coffee have less colon cancer, Type II diabetes, Parkinson’s disease, gallstones, and cirrhosis of the liver. Coffee can protect your teeth from cavities, and it can help manage asthma and help stop an asthma attack in progress if no meds are available. People who smoke or drink alcohol and also drink coffee get some protection from liver and heart problems.

Other Coffee Uses – sprinkle used coffee grounds around your garden plants to stop snails and slugs, and to keep cats away from the garden. Coarsely ground coffee makes a good exfoliating facial scrub. Greasy pans can be cleaned with the leftover ground beans you used to scrub your face. Rubbing coffee beans between your hands for a few seconds will get rid of food prep odors, and you can suck on a coffee bean to freshen your breath (or chew a few, if you’re a daredevil 3^rd-grader).

Midwestern Manners

I'm sure Jack Blizzard is somewhere snickering in his sleeve. On my way home from town yesterday, I ran onto a patch of ice, and MiniPearl (my Toyota minivan) and I slid off the road into a snow-filled ditch. When something like this happens, it reminds me why I love living here in small-town mid-America: The people here are awesome.

My slide into the ditch was a beautiful, almost graceful movement that seemed, as the cliché goes, to happen in slow-mo (imagine Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 1 in G Minor wafting through the Universe as a soundtrack). Mini and I scuttled along the shoulder for a bit, then arced sideways (pirouette?), left the road, and drifted down, down, down until we settled, tipped sideways toward the passenger side, in about 3’ of snow and a good 6’ below the road. Amazing little ice-ballet that actually took only seconds.

Thank Skadi (Norse goddess of winter) there were no trees, fenceposts, road signs, or cows. Thank Skadi MiniPearl didn’t tilt sideways another foot or two and roll. Thank Skadi I was belted in and didn’t fly into the windshield. Thank Skadi that ditch was full of cushioning snow.

So there I was, sitting at an odd angle in Mini, eye-level with the road I’d just left, and bracing myself on the passenger armrest so I wouldn’t fall into the passenger door. I was chock full of adrenaline and too fight-or-flighty to reason out what to do. So, of course, I called Ray (in his car, driving home from work), who told me to call my daughter, who gave me the number of our Little Town tow guy. Thank Skadi for cell phones.

I knew it would take Tow Guy a while to get to me, so I took a quick inventory and made sure I wasn’t hurt. Then I just sorta settled in. It was actually a beautiful day out there. Except for the deep ditches, the landscape in that area is very flat and open. The wind was gusting west to east, toward me, and the gusts picked up snow from the open fields, blowing it along the ground in horizontal sheets (hence, the sudden ice on the road). But the sun was shining, turning the snow into brushstrokes of glitter. The sky was a subdued greyish-turquoise and mottled with clouds.

I thought maybe I’d meditate, both because I had the time and because it would ease the adrenaline rush, but then the miracle of prairie neighborliness began. Every car that passed me stopped to make sure I was okay, except one (I have your license plate number, pal, and I’ll be turning you in to the Midwestern Mandatory Hospitality Police). One man offered to make calls for me. One woman offered her husband’s tractor to try and pull me out. One woman offered her home, in case I wanted a warm place to wait for Tow Guy.

Tow Guy finally showed up, a white haired grandpa-ish guy in his 60’s or 70’s, in a light spring jacket, with no hat on. It took some time, some careful maneuvering of his truck (which slid at one point, and I thought, oh great…), hitching, unhitching, and re-hitching, but he finally got Mini up on the road again. When I said I didn’t have any cash, he asked if I drove to town every day. I said yes, and he said I could just stop by Monday and pay. No invoice, no I.O.U., no collateral…just stop by Monday. Then he said, “Drive slow.” I said, “Yes, sir.” That may be the first time I’ve ever addressed anyone as “sir,” that’s how brimming with gratitude I was (I am).

I’m a little stiff and sore today, maybe from the sudden pre-crash muscle lock, or from bracing myself for a half-hour while I waited for Tow Guy, but I know I got off easy. Mini’s undercarriage is packed with snow, ice, and mud, so her wheels don’t wanna turn right now, but I think a good car wash will fix her right up. I have no desire to go outside today. I have some good movies on DVR, a fresh pot of coffee, Advil, a heating pad, and some homemade minestrone soup. And maybe I’ll knit up a quick winter hat to take in on Monday when I stop to pay Tow Guy.

Anniversary Advice (to be taken with a grain of salt)

Today’s our anniversary. Ray and I have been together for 26 years, married for 23 of those. As any of my family members or close friends can tell you, I am no expert on love & relationships. But I can tell you what’s worked for us, so here are my tips for staying together:

1. Be competitive. Find a couple that’s been together longer than you have. Convince yourself that time is a false human construct, and that you COULD someday not only catch up to them, but leave them in the dust. Secretly go for their record. Imagine a spectacular prize when you surpass them, like a pound of Kopi Luwac coffee or an extra two hours of sleep.

2. Mix it up. If you’ve been walking around the house in the same threadbare Cornhusker sweats and Moose Drool t-shirt for the past six weeks (or 16 years), surprise your partner by greeting her/him at the door in your grandma’s flannel nightgown and a Snuggie. Variety really IS the spice of life.

3. Don’t hold a grudge. No one, no matter how convinced that time is a false human construct, can go back and undo the past. That blunder(s) didn’t mean as much as you think. It wasn’t highly charged with significance; it didn’t reveal your partner’s true, suppressed feelings, which only you can accurately interpret. It was just a stupid human mistake. Let it go. Concentrate on NOW.

4. Plan time together. No one just HAS time anymore. One has to MAKE time. Take a few minutes each day to look each other in the eye and say nice stuff. Don’t use the time to complain, whine, ask for something, criticize, or gossip about someone else. Use it for endearments, like, “I admire the cut of your jib,” or “You can remote start my minivan anytime, Sailor.”

5. Travel. Sometimes, you need to force yourselves into a small, enclosed space in order to renew your sense of togetherness. And long road trips can be the truest test of a couple’s compatibility: Who died and made YOUR iPod king? This car smells like French fries and gym socks. Are you SURE there are mountains in western Kansas? Pull over…this is SO much prettier than the Interstate shoulder I photographed five minutes ago (repeat every five minutes).

6. Turn off the TV. Television, not religion, is the opiate of the masses (think of religious TV as a lethal overdose). It’s hard to be attentive to your partner, let alone romantic, when you’re snoring in your La-Z-Girl or all “coked up” on Bridezillas, Finding Bigfoot, Ice Road Truckers, or anything on the Food Network. But do set up the DVR to record Justified, and watch it together, religiously, both of you wearing only boxers, boots and cowboy hats.

7. Read together. Read in bed together. Read aloud to each other. You read a Dr. Ruth book aloud in a bad German accent, and she/he will read a Dr. Suess book aloud in a bad Shakespearean actor voice.

8. Don’t EVER fight about money. In fact, ignore money. Pretend you’re independently wealthy. If your partner asks why you spent a ridiculous amount of money on a boxed set of Pema Chodran lojong meditation cards, roll your eyes back in your head and, in a chant-like voice, mumble something about not wanting to roll over budget funds into the next fiscal year.

9. Eat together. I know our society is waaaaay too focused on food, but maybe there’s an underlying reason. After all, food is an expression of our shared humanity, our collective survival, our communal nature. So sit down every day and eat a meal together. In a pinch, Subway or Hy-Vee Chinese will work (but plate it, and use the good chopsticks). If you think it’s impossible, try this: For ONE week, keep track of the total amount of time you spend eating. If you can’t spare some of that time to share a meal with your life partner, it’s time to re-think your scheduling priorities.

10. Laugh together. When I went to the dentist for my first root canal (not that marriage is like a root canal), I was terrified. Then, as the dentist leaned over me, the dental hygienist slowly rose up behind him with a pencil hanging out of each nostril. All that fear melted away. Laugh at yourself. Find an oldies station on Sirius and dance like you’re on Hullaballoo (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amvE30VCk0w). Black out two teeth with a grease pencil and smile when your partner walks through the door after work. Never be afraid to be silly.

Honestly? I’m amazed we’ve made it this far. I’m amazed ANYONE makes it this far. But as Walt Whitman said, “Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” So tonight, Ray and I will celebrate a quarter-century of miracles. We’ll celebrate with good friends (the minister who married us, and her husband who sang “Blackbird” at our wedding), fine wine, Brazilian food, live music, and lots and lots of laughter.

Treatise on Love

I [heart] you. Blech. Phooey. Let’s not talk about how, on this one day of the year, we will all pause to remember that we love our girlfriend/boyfriend, spouse, partner, etc. (or that many of us forget it the other 364 days), as we stuff our faces with Brach’s mystery chocolates and watch our Wal-Mart roses wilt. Let’s talk about the real deal—the kind of lasting love that takes work, effort, elbow grease. EVERY day is the day for that.

Ray and I have been together for 26 years, married for 23 of those. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you that, like many long-together couples, we are usually somewhere on the relationship Matterhorn—that roller coaster of ups, downs, occasional blessed straightaways, twists, and a black-out tunnel every now & then. There are days when Ray doesn’t like me much—I am decidedly unlikeable some days. There are days when I don’t like him. There are days when we’re both fuming and retreat to our respective hidey-holes for hours of sizzling silence. But we NEVER stop loving each other, and that’s because we’re both committed to the work.

In the giddy flush of new love, humans somehow become convinced (volcanic brain activity caused by too much dopamine, I believe) that love is spontaneous, effervescent…that it magically bubbles up as a refreshing, cleansing mist of goodness & light from cracks in the earth, or it rains down on us in sudden delightful showers of…oh, I dunno…happy, Smurfy, tickly glitter. And yeah, I totally LOVED that all-too-brief phase. But PHASE is the key word.

Once that dopamine rush levels off, you’d better roll up your sleeves. Because suddenly, you’re gonna notice the toilet seat’s up, or he left the space heater on, or she forgot to pay the light bill, or he brought home another stray animal, or…huh? When did you start living in pink sweats and an old gas station shirt?

The real work is holding ever-present in your mind the notion that you signed on for the long haul. Yes, you might throw up going down that next roller-coaster freefall, but once you reach the bottom, you will still be alive (and sometimes, with a renewed sense of the thrill). Most of the time, you have to willfully, consciously, remember what you love about each other. You have to listen—find out about, and tend to, each other’s needs, even when you don’t feel like it. Even when you just downloaded a new mystery on your Kindle. You have to stick it out. As my friend LuLu says, the secret to a lasting marriage is not getting divorced.

I should say here that it takes TWO of you working. Sadly, no amount of working on your own can save love from someone who’s already (mentally, at least) jumped off the ride.

For the rest of us, yes, the bloom WILL come off the rose eventually. This will happen even to those of you deep in the dopamine/endorphin throes, vowing that YOUR love will always be flame & fireworks. But know that in the coming years, if you do the work—and it’s DAILY work—you’ll end up with a more profound sense of trust, an amazing shared history, and a more peaceful and abiding kind of love than you knew was possible.

And I know I’m badly mixing metaphors here, but don’t throw out the rose—every blue moon, it will suddenly, mysteriously burst into full bloom. Just this morning, for example, I noticed that Ray had scrubbed shiny-clean the glass top stove when I wasn’t looking. I smiled and thought, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Midlife Mayhem: to Hell and Back

I know this topic is taboo for many people ("nice" people don't mention it in public), but I’m pretty sure a reality TV show about menopausal women…let’s call it Midlife Mayhem: to Hell and Back…would be an instant hit and a sponsor's goldmine.

For one thing, it would be educational. Perky, oblivious, it'll-never-happen-to-me younger women need to know what's in store. And men forced to cohabit with midlife women would finally make sense of the roiling cauldron their lives have become (some female partners get it but are no less afraid). It would be exciting. Most people would be stunned…enthralled…captivated by the bizarre behaviors of which midlife women are capable. It would be suspenseful. The physical/emotional/behavioral midlife roller coaster ride would absolutely thrill viewers with its unbelievable twists & turns. And special “cliffhanger” episodes could put a bunch of midlife women together in one small, enclosed space. These episodes could involve non-stop baking, wild, uncoordinated hormonal swings, and knitting needles. They could NOT be done live, as they would put a studio audience in grave danger and present liability headaches for sponsors.

One MM episode could follow a couple through a single day at home. Our protagonist, let’s call her Eve, is freezing and cranks up the thermostat. Her partner sneaks by and turns it down. They repeat this several times. Then, Eve’s internal blast-furnace suddenly fires up (fluctuating hormones cause her pilot light to go out, flame on, go out, flame on, etc., throughout the day & night). She breaks out in a sweat, until her hair is stuck to her forehead. She strips down to B & B (briefs & bra) and throws her clothes at the dog. She turns the thermostat to "off." Her head snaps around like a hunting raptor’s until she spots her partner, cowering, quaking, in a dark corner of the living room. She smiles and says, “Want some cheesecake, honey?” About an hour later, just as her partner resumes breathing normally, the cycle begins again.

Infrared cameras will track the couple throughout the night, where the fun continues. Our protagonist alternately hogs all the covers (occasionally adding six down blankets to the pile) and throws all the blankets on the floor on HER side of the bed. She curses in her sleep and does NOT wake up to retrieve the covers, a job that falls to her exhausted partner. This nightmare, by the way, explains why most early TV couples, instead of one marital bed, had paired twin beds—the space between the beds acts as a sort of “safety buffer” for the beleaguered partner. They didn’t call her Mrs. Cleaver for nothing.

Another episode could involve Eve suddenly taking off one day for the regional zoo. For the entire day, no one knows where she’s gone. Frantic phone calls buzz from cell tower to cell tower in an attempt to locate her, while she’s at the zoo, weeping and taking closeup photos of every beastly mother. In between shots, she stuffs her face with greasy popcorn. She tries to climb the fence at the gibbon enclosure. She offers a mother hippo money and a scarf. She tells a drooling tiger about her deep regret at not becoming a ballet dancer. Human parents quickly steer their strollered children away, giving Eve a wide berth. They report her to zoo officials. By the time numerous reports lead zoo security to track her down, she’s driving through McDonald’s for super-sized fries and a chocolate shake on her way home.

The Halloween episode might find Eve's partner hiding all the sharp kitchen utensils, as Eve berates The Entire Planet for its continuing discrimination against women. Her partner runs for the basement, as Eve’s tirade turns personal, condemning her partner for not vacuuming out the toaster. Eve is suddenly overcome with love & gratitude at the mere idea of decorative measuring spoons. She calls sweetly, but her partner mumbles something about “groceries…milk…sedatives…” and makes it out the back door. It’s seven degrees. Eve’s partner is wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants but doesn’t feel the cold. Eve bastes sweet & sour ribs and hums “You Are My Sunshine.”

The Valentine’s Day episode will show the folly of Eve’s partner attempting to say something nice. Eve is still unfamiliar with and horrified by her new midlife body—the carb-inflated monster truck tire around her middle, the thinning uncooperative hair, the wrinkies around her mouth and eyes that make her look perpetually aghast, the flesh that must now (thanks to half a lifetime of gravity) be corralled, hoisted, and carefully positioned in clothes that can only be categorized as “stretchy,” the libido that switches randomly and without warning between “You’ve GOT to be kidding me” and “NOW!” and the failing eyesight that makes her squint like a mole. Through the first half of the episode, her partner makes unsuccessful attempts to pay Eve sincere, heartfelt compliments, finally giving up and taking a nap. Through the last half of the episode, Eve cries and throws dishes because no one ever ever ever says anything nice about her anymore.

I’m telling you, Midlife Mayhem: to Hell and Back would be a blockbuster. It would have everything: love, sex, food, danger, humor, stuff broken or blown up, and all-out war. It would be an advertising dream, sandwiched between Dr. Oz's latest midlife “skin recovery” method and Dr. Ruth's “spice it up” sex advice for folks over 50. 

The show would have an instant, enormous Facebook fan club. Women would sport "I {heart} Eve" hoodies. Kitchen knives would come in pink. Vid clip montages of Eve alternately screaming and cooing would go viral on YouTube. 

YOU would TOTALLY watch it. I wouldn’t watch it, though—I’m kinda “burnt out” on reality (cue maniacal cackling).

The Winter of Our Discontent

This winter will certainly go down in the Annals of the Bizarre here on the Row…a confounding conflagration of calamity…a sheit-storm of Really, Universe? Really?!?

Take the weather. Last week, on the day of The Great 2012 Tuneup (see previous post), it was a sun-soaked, record-breaking, 62-degree day in Sioux Falls. I could have sunbathed in my bikini on the veranda of the Heart Hospital, though that might have been too much (literally & figuratively) for a few too-fragile hearts, scaring them into permanent OFF. 


We’ve had very little snow so far, and the landscape remains mostly brown and gold. No icy roads, no white-out blizzards, no waiting for Tractor Man to dig us out. Corn-fused pea-boys are out fanning their half-grown tail feathers (they won’t have fully grown new “trains” until spring) in the faces of bewildered peahens. And I should be celebrating Mother Nature’s beneficence, but I recently read that the incidence of depression actually increases in northern climes during unusually mild winters, since there’s no snow to reflect what little SAD-preventing light we count on up here. Time to break out the full-spectrum bulbs and vitamin D.

Or take our peaflock. By mid-summer we had 29 peacocks—18 adults and 11 chicks. Then came The Marauder(s). Over the next few months, peas began to disappear. Or we’d come home to a half-eaten carcass. The first couple grisly scenes made us think it was a furry predator. Then we woke to a pile of cleanly-plucked feathers below a tree branch, which  made us think it was a raptor or very big owl. Then finding three or four headless but otherwise intact peabodies (I found the most recent headless peahen today) made us think raccoons. I finally decided that a local thug-critter got word out that the Row is a free, all-you-can-eat pea smorgasbord—a peaffet—and that we’re completely surrounded by predatory wildlife. So I did what any rebel farmwife would do: I wrapped the Roosting Tree with blinking Christmas lights. This strategy worked for a few days, until a squirrel chewed through the wire (paid off by the coyote down the road, I’m sure). Anyway, we’re down to 13 adult peacocks--not a single surviving summer chick. Some well-meaning friends suggest that Mother Nature simply knew I was in way over my head and “helped” me restore balance. But that’s a net loss of 16 peas in ONE season! So while I’m not a violent person, I’m now shopping for a patio duck blind/paintball gun combo.

Back to The Great 2012 Tuneup. In addition to Ray’s heart nudge (“attack” sounds so deliberate), my friend’s surgery to remove what she calls a “non-benign visitor” from her colon, and my other friend’s mom ending up as Ray’s roomie down the hall at the Heart Hospital, my oldest brother has had at least three surgeries on his eyeball this winter to repair (and repair and repair) a detached retina. This is unsettling because (1) he’s in Ecuador, where I can’t just pop over to help out, (2) he has to spend most of his time face-down and isn’t supposed to use his eye for a while, and (3) he makes his living working mostly as an online travel writer, which is hard to do if you’re not supposed to LOOK at anything. Then, Mom had to have a couple of teeth pulled. Dangerous, because I know a person can only stand so much blended split-pea soup before he or she loses it completely and starts trying to train his or her little dog to sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Amid all this, I had to keep plugging away to get ready for a new semester. Also, since about New Year’s, I’ve had the South Dakota Respiratory Plague, which means my best friends are Emergen-C, Advil, Puffs, Nyquil, chicken soup and my heating pad.

It's not one stressful event that does us in; it's the pile-up, when we don't have enough time between stressful events to recover or rally. So I’ve been in a sort of stunned pre-hibernation mode lately. I've been “closing ranks,” as my Mom would say. Holing up. Hiding out. Yes, I know there are bigger things going on out there in the Great Wide World and I may be thinking a little too locally. Yes, I know it’s only January. And yes, I know Jack Blizzard’s probably in Wessington Springs right now, having a beer and plotting on his bar napkin a trajectory that will lead him directly to our door. But for now, if I don't answer my door or my phone, it's because I'm curled up in a blanket-wrapped ball, knitting peacock chain maille and contemplating what surely will continue to be one mighty strange winter.

Big and Broken Heart

Back to my “crapshoot” theory of life. Think of any heart attack you’ve ever seen on TV or in films; it probably looked like this: A guy suddenly clutches his chest then drops over dead. As Tim O’Brien’s character Kiowa says, “Boom. Down.” And the guy is usually 150 pounds overweight, and he’s either choking down a ½-pound double bacon cheeseburger at the time, or he’s having a red-faced screaming match with a mobster, right? Well, once again, Ray and I have been lovingly kicked in the arse as a reminder that real life is not like the movies.

Ray had his first heart attack ten years ago, at age 50. Ray is not overweight. He’s fit and exercises regularly. Our diet includes very little fat (and rarely anything but olive oil), loads of whole grains and vegetables, little red meat, as much organic stuff as we can get here in South Dakota, and Ray has been eating only fresh fruit till noon every day for many years. We both drink liters of water daily. Seriously…we couldn’t eat more tofu and tabouli if we tried.

The day of Ray’s first heart attack, he was at work when, mid-morning, he had a bellyache. He thought he had gas, and he felt faint. He called me and said he didn’t feel “right.” I told him to eat an aspirin and I’d pick him up. We went to the ER, and sure enough, he was having a heart attack. By the time the whole adventure was over, he’d had a couple of stents to get some temporary heart-healing blood flow, then quadruple bypass surgery to get around eight blockages in his coronary arteries.

His second heart attack was last week. He’d been having occasional heartburn for a month or more. It woke him up a couple of mornings but went away if he got up and moved around. Then one morning, it wouldn’t go away. It was right in the middle of his chest, and he described it as a slight burning sensation—hence, the heartburn—and he said, again, he just didn’t feel “right.” He took an aspirin and we headed to town to see the doc. An ER visit, ambulance ride, and hospitalization later, he now has a new stent in one of the original bypass grafts that had slowly closed down to around 99% blocked.

Ironically, I had been planning to spend the day of Ray’s procedure with a friend in the waiting room of another hospital, where his wife, our friend, was having surgery that morning. He and my mom had waited with me through Ray’s bypass surgery years before, and it had been a great comfort, so I was looking forward to doing the same for him. Alas, the best laid plans... It all got even more comical when I discovered another friend’s mom three doors down from Ray in the same hospital, in to have her heart meds adjusted. So now I’m calling the whole affair The Great 2012 Tuneup. It will be cause for a new party each January—one with heart-healthy red wine and a delightful assortment of low-fat, high-fiber, organic, flax-encrusted hors d'oeuvres.

Anyway, here’s the thing, people: A heart attack isn’t necessarily a single, sudden, isolated event. It may sneak up slowly, giving little warning signs that most of us would probably ignore. Ray didn’t have ANY of the classical symptoms this time: faintness, shortness of breath, radiating pain or ache in the arms, back or neck, clamminess, cold sweats, tightness or pressure in the chest. All he had was a little heart burn.

Ray’s home for a week of R & R now, and he’s feeling fine. We’re grateful he didn’t need another bypass re-do (they tell us the average “life” of bypass grafts is ten years, after which some patients need the procedure re-done. Since it involves cracking the chest and stopping & re-starting the heart, we’d like to avoid that). We’re also grateful for yet another reminder never to take life—or each other—for granted.

So now we’ll both take aspirin daily. We’ll both carry nitroglycerin in our backpacks. Maybe we’ll institute an evening constitutional to get in a little more exercise. And we’ll pay close attention to anything that doesn’t feel “right.” 

I’m puzzled when I see people whose lifestyles or body conditions scream “heart attack!” but who have NOT furnished a wing in the Heart Hospital, as Ray probably has by now. I'm amazed at the powerful influence of a few crummy genes. I’m befuddled by how crafty, subtle, slow or cleverly disguised a heart attack can be. I’m baffled that it can happen to lean, fit folks leading healthy lives. But then I remember the lesson Life keeps throwing like an adorable little grenade in our path…it’s all a crapshoot.