A heartfelt message

     Like to wear the shirt with this message  because every time I do, people comment on it.

     Special reason for posting it with this blog because ... today marks an anniversary.

     Five years ago today doctors saved my life. It was the day of the triple bypass for my heart.

     Hello, glad to be here.

     I feel fine, although, well, five years older. Still exercising, but not quite as much as before the 2019-20 discomfort down my left arm told me that -- maybe -- something wasn't right.

     But no issues now, other than sore knees and sore feet from my walks and exercise classes. Yes, still walking 2-3 times a week (and for those of you who know, still picking up loose coins and sometimes even paper money).

     I weigh more than I need to because the ice cream, cookies and cake I so like much take up residence around my (expanded) waist.

     Don't like thinking about it, or looking at it. But it doesn't keep me from activities ... or eating. 

      Life's good, although it has its issues. Staying busy here at Trinity Terrace, our seniors residency in Fort Worth, but did give up "recruiting" for The Country Store volunteers and stocking between store shifts. Six years was enough of that.

     Still organizing our weekly Thursday afternoon Social Hour, lining up program guests -- speakers or music or special events -- and, without panicking, trying to find replacements for the occasional late postponements.

      That's fun.

      Trying to spend more time with my best friend and roommate of 48 years, the beautiful and intelligent Beatrice. She is facing some challenges. Please excuse that I don't want to go into much detail.

      So appreciative and proud of our family -- the kids (Jason and Rachel, and son-in-law Russell) and our  spectacular and interesting grandkids -- Josie, 17; Jacob, 16; Kaden, 14; Eli, 10. My gosh, they are growing up.

     Plus, the extended Van Thyn/Wellen and Shaw-related families. 

      And we've gotten so much love and support from the friends from far back -- Shreveport-Bossier/North Louisiana/Louisiana, in general, all the way to Israel, Belgium and, of course, the Netherlands, where it all began for me.

     Also, the friends we've made over the years in athletics and newspapers, and since our move to Fort Worth in late 2001 and especially Trinity Terrace in June 2018.

      Maybe it's corny to say, but my heart is full. And it works.

       It is difficult to learn of the deaths of so many friends these days, especially those from way back in Shreveport-Bossier and the more recent ones here at Trinity Terrace.  

       Back to May 2020, when the pandemic kept me from having any visitors during the eight-day hospital stay. Let's say that the first month after the surgery -- before starting rehab -- was as painful and difficult as I have ever faced physically.

      After a couple of weeks, when every move hurt, Bea and I went for a walk in a nearby parking lot. It was slanted, and going downhill was slow but no problem. A couple of steps uphill, and nope, time to go home.

      Soon, I was stronger and the six weeks of rehab actually was kind of good. Still, I would prefer not to have to do it again.

      Kept my little blue pillow, which pressed against my heart area, eased the pain for the first month after surgery. It's right here next to my desk. Just a reminder.

      An older man here, learning of my triple bypass, told me then that he had his triple 15 years earlier. So it's now 20 years for him ... and he just turned 100. So there.

      No guarantees, of course, but 100 looks a long way off. I'll take 78 in a less than a month.

      And if I'm lucky, I will write about the 10-year anniversary five years from now. Stay tuned.  

---

     From five years ago -- the triple bypass adventure:

https://nvanthyn.blogspot.com/2020/05/its-heart-that-counts-most.html

     

You don't have to send me flowers (but you did)

     Forgive me for an overall "thank you" note, rather than an individual reply. Trying to save some of my valuable time.
     We are so grateful, so appreciative for the outpouring of love and good wishes shown us in the past week.
     It makes my damaged heart feel so much better, and Beatrice wants to add how much she appreciates it, too.

     The response to the blog from earlier this week was terrific, through e-mail, Facebook and cards. We've heard from friends everywhere -- starting, of course, with our roots in Louisiana. And our fellow residents here at Trinity Terrace -- and some staff -- have been as outstanding, as we knew they would be.
     The centerpiece, as you can see in this photo set up by Bea, is this flower arrangement sent by our next-door neighbors, Karen and Dr. Dwight Beery. The delivery of those brought some tears.
     But kindness has been delivered from everywhere.
     The recovery is going to be an 8- to 12-week process, and I've never been known for patience. But as a patient, patience is a must. So I will be taking it slow and easy; not going to attempt too much too soon.
      It is, as you might feel, a sad time in America if you follow the daily news as much as we do. Could be quite depressing when combined with this slog of personal recovery that we're facing. 
      But I refuse to give in to the depression that always is possible after a major surgery. And I remain hopeful and optimistic that we as Americans and as a people world-wide will find the way, as I see it, to advance the mission of mankind -- to make life better for everyone.
      Take care. See you down the road.

    

It's the heart that counts most

          OK, about the angiogram/CABG double play and my eight-day "vacation" at Texas Health Harris Methodist Hospital, only a few blocks from here in Fort Worth ...

Here is where eight days of my life meant a repaired heart.

     Came home Tuesday afternoon, and I'm here in the apartment,  and just happy to be here.

     Lucky to be here, actually. 

     Anytime in the last year and a half could have been the end for me, really.

     But I'm here, I'm good, I'm mending, and -- doctors tell me -- that with care and better habits (eating, exercise) -- I'll be here a good while longer to bug you.

     Not looking for attention with this piece -- I get lots of attention -- and certainly not looking for sympathy. But I am here to tell you that if you have a feeling in your chest that's bothersome (or worse), get it checked ... repeatedly.

     Don't be like me, and try to play through it. Did not push hard enough to find what was going on.

     There are a couple of dozen family members and longtime good friends who know where I've been and what I've been through. The word spread around Trinity Terrace -- our seniors residency -- but not everyone here knew.

     I am not one for posting play-by-play on Facebook or e-mail, especially not on health matters. Some people do, with gory photos to add. No, thank you. 

     Choose to write and post after the fact, same as with the intestional blockage six years ago, and another eight-day stay in the same hospital. 

     That was no fun. This was worse, and more crucial.

     So about CABG. That's not cabbage (not much of a fan). That's Coronoary Artery Bypass Graft surgery. Simpler terms: open-heart surgery and, for me, a triple bypass.

     I hit a triple, and it's not baseball or a 3-point basket.

     I don't recommend it. But it was necessary, a no-choice option. You've gotta have heart, and mine was blocked, and failing.

---      

     People know that, for two decades, I have gone on long walks through streets, drive-throughs, parking lots. Started yoga classes a decade ago. More recently, I added all sorts of exercise classes -- yoga, strength training, water aerobics.

     In the last couple of years, there was this growing "discomfort," "pressure," "heavy feeling" on the left side of my chest up through my left sinus cavity and just a touch down the left arm. Happened on many (but not all) of my walks and during exercise classes. It was a distraction.

     But it was never painful, and always gone after a moment or two, or a brief stop.

     Kept thinking my issue was too much weight -- a gain of 15 pounds in a year. Felt uncomfortable, but not limiting.

     Kept telling Bea about the pressure, kept telling my doctors, and they ran me through a number of tests. It never left. I passed a stress test with surprising ease about a year ago. 

      Developed atrial fibrillation (Afib) -- irregular heartbeat, stroke-threatener -- several months ago. A cardioversion (shock) treatment worked on the first try to put my heartbeat back into rhythm. Added lots of medicines (blood-pressure, blood-thinner, etc.)

      After several long walks in April, the "problem" kept calling. But, again, it was OK after brief stops.
      Really clueless about how much danger I was in. 

      With our place pretty much locked down during the pandemic, Bea and I were taking short walks in the area. On the last day of April, a Thursday, we went about two minutes ... and I felt the pressure, and felt ill. Hurried home, went to bed, and was OK after about 10 minutes.

    Every day after that, there was a slight-to-bothersome headache and that same feeling anytime I exerted myself.

     On my annual physical and on a visit to the cardiologist within two days, I stressed the discomfort-pressure-tight feeling. The cardiologist set me up for an angiogram.

    (Crucial point here: I was going to wait until June 8 for the angiogram. But after a couple of days of nagging, Bea -- the nervous wreck who runs this apartment and has run our house and lives for 43 years -- insisted I move it up. All she did, likely, was save my life).

    The angiogram -- the diagnostic procedure to X-ray blood vessels in which a long flexible catherer is inserted through a spot in the wrist (my right one) or a thigh -- showed major blockages of 100 percent, 100 percent and 75 percent.

     Great percentages if you're shooting free throws. Related to the heart, "we found a helluva mess," Dr. Gurpreet Baweja told Bea.

---

     The CABG, delayed a day because kidney numbers weren't quite where they needed to be, was Thursday, May 21, and it was a 5 a.m. wakeup call.

     After about 6:15 a.m., I was out of it. It's a 3 1/2 to 4-hour procedure, and you come out of it with a broken chestbone, some nice incisions, bruising, and tubes and wires ... lots of tubes and wires. Glad I didn't have to see that picture.

     So, thank you, to Dr. Carlos L. Macias and his team. Imagine, they do this once or twice a day most weeks. Wow.

     In this time, we hear so much about the great things doctors and nurses do. We always know that, and we should  not take it for granted (but we do). 

      The staff at Harris Methodist, in every instance, was so damn good -- especially Dr. Macias & Co., his nurse practictioner (who gave me a booklet and printed sheets of guidelines on what to do now), and the conscientious personnel in the Intensive Care Unit (spent two days there) and on the fourth floor of the Heart Center (three days there).

     Thank you, thank you, thank you.

     Go for a CABG, and see for yourself.

     A couple of my really close friends have had bypass operations, and their guidance (by text and e-mail) was so helpful to me. And a couple of people -- my sister Elsa, and best-friend-since-sixth-grade Casey -- reached out again and again. 

---       

     I'm one of the lucky people; I have always known that and said that. This is just the latest example.

     Great family -- Bea, the two kids, the four spectacular grandkids, Elsa and all her "new" family, Bea's extended Shaw family. Great friends from all over and way back -- school, work -- at many stops in many places. Satisfying career that, looking back, I am proud of, no matter how many times I messed up. (And I did.)

      Love my Amsterdam and Holland heritage, my North Louisiana and Louisiana roots, especially love our forever hometown, Fort Worth, and the "family" we are part of at Trinity Terrace.

      Received a dozen cards from fellow residents, and our great friends Nell and Bill Gould sent a "care" package to the hospital. 

      People have been so kind, so helpful, especially our next-door neighbors (Dr. Beery, Dr. Malmstrom and Dr. Smith). 

      People offer to help in any way. Appreciate that. What can you do? Aw, heck, send money. Yeah, that's it. 

      I'm just kidding. 

      Dr. Baweja, personable and encouraging, assured me that "you will feel so much better in a few days and you will be better than ever."

      That's the intention, and I am on the way.   

The saga of Paratrooper Harry ...

    Let me tell you about Paratrooper Harry.
    He was in the emergency room near the beginning of my stay at Texas Health Harris Methodist two weeks ago. He was, as I figure it, at least 90, a tall, thin man sitting erect in his wheelchair, white hair cropped short, very large hearing aids behind each ear. 
      He was dressed -- keep this in mind -- appropriately in a tan flight suit, with brown loafers. 
      Really, he could hear little, except maybe his very loud son sitting next to him most of the time. Everyone could hear the son -- the 35-50 patients-to-be, plus all emergency-room personnel, and also people in Aledo and Granbury.
      Son -- about 50, ruddy-faced, barrel-chested, short sandy hair, let's call him Black Shirt -- wheeled Harry in not long after we arrived. As he did, he announced that he would have been there sooner but he first had to help a man having a heart attack from his car near the emergency-room drive-in area. 
       (To be sure, Bea also heard the same story out in the waiting area.)
       Black Shirt told everyone that Harry's legs were hurting badly.
       Harry did not want to be there. Not that any of us did. But he made it pretty clear. If he bellowed "LET'S GO HOME!" once, he did it 25 times. Usually followed by "WE CAN COME BACK TOMORROW."
       Each time Black Shirt told him "no," or "keep quiet," or "they'll get to us," or "just sit there and wait" -- and often they were not gently admonishments. My stomach was hurting plenty already, but hurt as much for Harry.
       And because on this day the emergency-room area was -- as my Dad would have said -- loaded, we all had long waits. (Personally, we spent 10 hours before I was placed in a hospital room.)
       At one point, Black Shirt announced that he had to go move his car and asked people nearby -- also hurting and/or waiting -- to look after Harry. While the son was gone for some 15-20 minutes, Harry sat and never said a word; a couple of people checked on him. 
       Black Shirt returned and I remember cringing when he said to Harry that his insurance was all in order, and so was the inheritance he would leave the family. 
       A couple of times, he put his cellphone to Harry's ear -- "to talk to Mama," he proclaimed -- and it was obvious Harry could not hear a thing. But, as Black Shirt noted, he wanted Harry to know that his family cared.
       And then this ...
       Coming back from one bathroom break for Harry, Black Shirt rolled him back through and said -- loudly, of course -- to those around him, "Harry (name) ... paratrooper, U.S. Army, World War II."
       That stuck with me. Let's see, 72 years since the end of WW II, so if Harry had gone in the service at age 17 or close, he had to be about 90.
       All that passage of time to come to this.
       The reporter in me wanted to hear his story. But there was that stomach pain -- this was 6-7 hours before we were given the  "bowel obstruction" diagnosis -- so I wasn't in the mood, and the timing wasn't right.
       After an initial consultation, an EKG, my first-ever CT scan and then insertion of an IV when it was obvious that I was going to be admitted to the hospital, I returned to the waiting area for another hour. 
       Harry was still urging "LET'S GO HOME" to Black Shirt, who announced to everyone that the EM doctors felt that Harry's problem was sepsis in both legs. I heard that and thought, "Oh, gosh."
       Had to feel, too, for the son, who obviously wanted the best for his father, and it was fairly obvious that Harry was limited mentally (dementia? Alzheimer's?). Tough spot for Black Shirt.
       Not sure how it came out, but Bea heard that if sepsis -- a potentially life-threatening complication from infection --  was the correct call, it was likely that both of Harry's legs were going to be amputated. 
       To think how much this man had done and seen in his years, how he had served his country. What a life he must have had, what adventures.
       No words, other than, God bless Harry the Paratrooper.

Bowel obstruction: eight slow, long days in a hospital

     Some advice: If you can avoid a small bowel obstruction, do so. I did not.
     Bottom line, on Tuesday morning, after six days of waiting and worrying, I had internal surgery, the removal of adhesions (old scar tissue) that had blocked the entry point for my bowels.
      First, I am fine. Home, as of Thursday evening. Ready to go for my daily walk. Ready to eat -- low-residue diet for a while, which is more calories than I want or need. Ready for more games, more life.
      With only the second hospital stay of my adult life -- 46 years apart (an early August 1971 appendectomy, and keep that in mind) -- behind me. 
      Eight days at Texas Health Harris Methodist, in the Fort Worth Medical District. And you were wondering why you hadn't heard from me.
      This began with a 2:30 a.m. wakeup Wednesday, Sept. 13, with severe stomach pain. It turned into a late-afternoon doctor's visit, who noting on paper that I "looked very ill," suggested the emergency room.
      And that became a 12-hour ordeal before I was admitted to the hospital. Yes, another 2:30 a.m.
      I acquired a new experience, a new "buddy" -- six full days with a foot-long NG (nasogastric) tube attachment. It went up the right nostril, down through the throat into the stomach to pump out the fluid and, well, crap, into an attached flask.
      One nurse jokingly called it my "elephant nose." Talk about getting hooked, and a very sore throat. But it only worked to an extent.

Dr. John Birbari

      On our first meeting, Dr. John L. Birbari Jr. -- my new superstar hero, a young, bright, friendly encouraging guy -- had evaluated my situation and said that by using the NG tube to pump the stomach clean, these conditions clear themselves 85 percent of the time. It is a conservative approach.
       Slow, ugly treatment. Not painful, just uncomfortable. To get up and around -- bathroom or a walk in the halls -- the tube had to undone from the flask tubing. The NG "trunk" went everywhere I went, and of course, so did the omnipresent IV pole.
       Stupidly, I thought it would be a 24-hour deal. But, no, it was 120 hours (five days). And then ... hello, 15 percent range. Surgery was a must.
       So, Tuesday at about 10:30 a.m, Dr. Birbari did a (medical term) laparoscopic lysis of abdominal adhesions. That's right.
       A single band of adhesions -- a "souvenir" from the appendectomy -- had stuck to my abdomen, layered in some fatty tissue (hey, 46 years), and thus the blockage. Dr. Birbari clipped the adhesions, put the bowel back in place -- all by scope.
       (If you really want to see, I can send you a photo or two. Not posting it here. Not pretty.)
      Done in about 25 minutes. I never knew; I was out of it.
      Fortunate, with quick recovery time and not a lot of discomfort.
      Importantly, what Dr. Birbari did not have to do was an "enterectomy," make an incision and go inside. The old way. All I have is some lower chest hair gone and three small scope entry marks. And an open small intestine.
      Dr. Birbari also provided the line of the week.
      On the weekend, his partner -- Dr. Doug Lorimer, a distinguished-looking white-haired veteran who had been my personal-care physician's recommendation (his schedule was busy), did the hospital-room visits and explained what was going to happen. He said, assuredly, "John is a magician with the scope."
      The next day, as Dr. Birbari confirmed that surgery would be needed, I relayed the "magician" remark, and he laughed, then cracked, "Glad he didn't say mortician."
      Yeah, me, too.    
---
      Look, this was a temporary setback. Not cancer, a stroke, heart problems -- those are issues that have taken friends from us in recent years, and limited other friends' everyday life. Thought much about those people this week, and about how my parents would have been so concerned.

Top-notch selfless care for us at this facility

     Only told a few friends and some of our family in advance -- no Facebook/e-mail promos. Received concern and tremendous support, and -- no surprise -- Beatrice was a rock. She has been through so many of her own physical challenges.
      Jason (son) was there twice, including the surgery time, and it is not a short drive for him. Rachel (daughter) and Elsa (sister) asked if they should come, too, from long distances.
      Speaking of supportive and caring, the Richardson Tower sixth-floor personnel here at Harris Methodist -- this is the main floor for surgical patients at this hospital complex -- was outstanding. To a person -- doctors, nurses, patient-care technicians -- they could not have been more patient and selfless (that's the word which keeps coming to me). It is all about the patient.
       So thankful, especially to the nurses and techs who made such great efforts, at any moment's call.
        Grateful, period.   

A wise decision: joining SAGE

    My first term as a "senior mentor" ended this week, and it was a meaningful experience for me.
    Hopefully, it also was for my "students" -- three young people on a path toward jobs in the medical profession. I waited to write about this until we had the last of our six visits over a year's time.
    That's two visits per semester (in this case -- spring, fall, spring), and we learned about each other. Their assignment, mandatory in their curriculum, was to assess my health status. More on that in a moment.
    This is part of the SAGE program -- Seniors Assisting in Geriatric Education -- based at the University of North Texas (UNT) Health Science Center. It is a program shared by students at UNT and TCU.
    Geriatric, as in -- well -- old. The volunteers for the program, such as Beatrice and I have been, must be at least 65. So we're well qualified.
    Happy to do it. It really was -- is -- no problem. No pain involved, and I have plenty of time.
    The only inconvenience was for the students, who are quite busy with classes and jobs ... and life, and have to coordinate their schedules to meet with us.
    Bea was first into the program, having seen an application on a visit to her personal-care physician, who is based at the UNT Health Science Center. Her doctor recommended she join the program, saying Bea was an "excellent" fit.
    Bea has just begun meeting with her second group of students. I was a bystander when she met with her first group several times in our apartment, and when Bea suggested I get my own group -- of course, I do what she says -- I filled out my application.
    Starting February a year ago, I began meeting with "my kids," as Bea and I referred to them.  
    And here is what I learned from Chris, Meghan and Maricar -- and I think Bea agrees that it applies to her students: It is so inspiring to see these bright young motivated people eager to learn about dealing with patients and wanting to make a difference in the medical world.
    With people like this, this country will not fall apart, thank you.
---
    We were team No. 121, and my students were fortunate in a couple of ways:
    (1) Location. Our apartment is less than two miles from the UNT Health Science Center and TCU, where the students have most of their classes. 
    Some of the SAGE teams -- and there are, we were told, 150 to 200 teams of three or four students -- visit their assigned "mentors" as far as south as Burleson and as far north and east as Plano. So "my kids" had an easy trip.
    (2) Bea and I both are in fairly good shape health-wise, except for occasional mishaps (burned feet, ankle fracture). We're not in great shape -- we could work out more, eat better and snack less -- but 3-4 days a week of yoga/stretching at the Downtown YMCA and daily walks (I try not to miss) keep us reasonably well.
    Some teams are assigned even older people who are house-bound, perhaps in need of social services and Meals on Wheels deliveries. The program is designed to offer those people access to assistance.
    Fortunately, my students didn't find major problems as they assessed my condition. Same for Bea.
    On their first visit, Feb. 24 a year ago, my students placed a "Vial of Life" in our refrigerator -- listing my pertinent medical contacts and history, the daily medications I take (we have no prescribed meds). This is a standard service in the program, in case of an emergency.
    On each visit, they checked my blood pressure and pulse rate -- and the numbers were remarkably consistent over a year's time. (The numbers were a lot better than those on my doctor or dentist visits.)
    Visits included a talk about family medical history, a nutritional assessment,  a limited physical and osteopathic structural exam (reflexes, cognitive ability, etc.) and -- the toughest one -- an end-of-life, living-will discussion.
    Each time the students took notes and filled out forms because they were required to submit them for class. (Glad they were the ones taking notes.)
---
    One of my group is a Baylor University graduate, married for a year, and aiming to become a doctor of osteopathic medicine. But before continuing on that path will come a year of studying theology -- a spiritual calling. 
    Another is about to graduate from TCU with a degree in nursing, and already she has a job as a nursing assistant in a local hospital. Her applications are in to fulfill her goal to be a labor/delivery nurse soon.
    The third has a B.A. degree in biology from UNT (Denton) and wants a career in pharmacy, but might stay in school to work on a master's and possible a doctorate. 
    When I asked what they had learned from the SAGE program, I thought the answer from one was right on: "We want the ability to communicate better with patients, so that we can be better prepared to meet the patients' needs."
    My sense is these people are prepared, or will be soon enough.
    So this is, in my opinion, one of the benefits of senior-citizen (geriatric) status. For my friends our age, if there are programs such as this one in your area, I recommend that you volunteer.
    The first question Tuesday, in our final meeting, was, "Do you want to participate again in this program?"
    My answer: definitely. Next group, please. It's a sage thing to do.