Music to my Soul

Every once in a while I Google myself just to see what’s out there. I see this blog has been picked up by a lot of health sites. So be it. If you have heart failure, I guess I’m your guy!

One of the HUGE issues for me is what I leave behind. (Come on, now. It’s not like I’m preparing to die. But, if I did at this moment, everyone would say, “Well, you know it was coming…He had a very bad heart…” ) No one would be surprised. I have been writing music for the last 15 years, or so. I was a Music Minister at the last church I worked for and had a Sunday night mass that I could do whatever I wanted with. So I wrote a mass and a lot of other music.

Trouble is, most people who have never been in the Chapel at St. Raymond’s in Menlo Park while I was there have no idea what I’m talking about. I wrote several masses and a lot of songs. Yet–by-and-large–no one in my family, let alone anybody else–has ever actually heard my music. When you’re facing mortality, these things are important!

So by hook-or-by-crook I have accumulated a nice keyboard, microphone and recording system that will finally allow me to record my music. It’s rustic–but it’s there! On top of that, now there is MySpace, where budding musicians can put their music online for everyone to hear. And I have!

First, here is the URL for my MySpace Band page: http://www.myspace.com/mikeashland

I have a few songs recorded for humanity to hear. Whew, what a blast! Some of these songs go back 10 years or so. The song, “More Than You See” harks back to a CLI (Christian Leadership Conference) back in 2002, where I wrote the song and sang it with Megan Drescher. It’s been sitting in my head since then, fully formed, with arrangements and instrumentation sitting inside my head! And now it gets a chance to get out!

Maybe it sounds dramatic or depressing to talk about death. But when you live with it every day, it becomes part of the dance of life. It lends urgency and focus to life. So I finally got time to record some songs and slap them up on MySpace–a wonderful place for independent artists to expose their music and, possibly, win some fans.

So I did it! Sitting in my home, with my computer on one side of me and a Yamaha keyboard on the other, I finally gave voice to what was inside my head. What a blast!

I’ve recorded only a couple of songs I’ve written over the years. And, yes, they are primitive. Okay, fine. They’re coming from a corner of my living room , for cripe’s sake! Give me a break! I hope some of the songs give you pause. They are me. Like most artists, I’m fascinated to give you a glimpse into my musical soul, and petrified that you will finally be fully exposed to my shortcomings. Fine. At this point of my life, I’m good with all that.

I’m putting together my album, “Mike Ashland Still Alive.” Seems apt to me!

There are still 8 or 9 songs from my past that I need to get down. To leave this behind, just in case, is a balm to my soul. Don’t we all hope that we will leave something behind…besides our children? And what, to them?

This has been like a shot of adrenaline to my system. I’m finding myself up late into the morning and early to rise. I’m on a mission. I hope you enjoy some of it. I’ve put it online where you can both download each song for free, or buy it for .99. Some people have emailed me that I’m crazy for having both on my page. ooooh. I am so scared of being crazy!! Come on, all I want to do is leave some of my art behind. And if I can make a little money doing it, who’s complaining???!!

The one thing about laying down all this music is that I’ve forgotten to eat. So, despite my heart failure and tendency to gain water weight every day, I’ve forgotten to eat or drink. So I’m down a few pounds!

To those websites who pick this blog up and re-publish it, please have the courtesy of contacting me. I’m not looking for renumeration, but respect isn’t a bad thing.

Now go back and delete any music on your computer that you’ve downloaded illegally!

Right.

Schmaltz, and not the fat

I am an undeniable sentimentalist. I cry watching Extreme Home Makeover and almost every American Idol or Dancing with the Stars. Music, dance, art…they cut through everything else and I am left dangling and wide open. This last year has been one of coming to terms with mortality, with intense hope and, then, terrible disappointment. Throughout it I’ve had this new community of people in my church–St. Clare’s–where I am director of Confirmation.

Last night, at one of our last meetings of the year, we took a brief look at next year. It was too far for me to see. My heart failure has returned, the fluid my heart is unable to pump is accumulating in my upper body and I am maxed out on Lasix, or Fuerosimide–a diuretic that squeezes as much fluid out of my body as possible, but which also hammers my kidneys. With three kidney failures last year, I can’t go any further with medication.

I know the coughing, the waking up without breath, and the weakness will return soon. The operation to get me 2 to 5 years failed, though it bought me months without being in the hospital. Now I am heading for heart transplant…but won’t arrive until my health is threatened and I can go toe-to-toe with everyone else in the western United States who needs a heart. Doesn’t it seem strange? Put the darn thing in while I’ve got some umph, for gosh sakes!

Though my schmaltz gene has been pretty pronounced all my life, it’s gone berserk in this new arena of life! The smallest things get to me. Not in a bad way, but in an incredibly moving way! It is so exciting to be so moved by the smallest acts of affection, of kindness and of passion.

Jenny introduced me to The Bees–to to Hark Luck Tom–and I play it as loud as my speakers will go and dance and laugh through the whole thing. I watch American Idol while my man, Blake, lays down his incredible tracks and Jordan takes the new song for American Idol apart and puts it back together her way…and I am so filled and so moved and my eyes fill and, well, moments become so enormous when life is fragile.

We watched the Bachelor this season and sure enough I got hooked. With Judy in California I was left watching the finale by myself. Oh, go ahead, roll your eyes. Make fun. Laugh. Ridicule. Oh, you’re so sophisticated you wouldn’t be caught dead watching a ridiculous reality show like that…while I’m moved to tears rooting for Tess and this wonderful, real man who showed up on a network show. So, yeah, it got me that last few moments when he proposed. And so I called Judy and told her that it made me think of her and, well, she knew what was going on.

Life is measured in days, in hours–sometimes in minutes. I have turned to recording the music I’ve written over the years so that, in case I am not around, my family–who have largely never heard any of it–will have that part of me. Maybe it seems terribly macabre. Maybe it is. But those of us with terminal illnesses live a different life than when we didn’t know so well that life is incredibly precious.

Jenny and Pat walked the Heart Walk in Portland last Sunday morning. People who had survived a heart attack, heart surgery or heart disease (hey, I can win that trifecta!) were given a red hat to wear. There weren’t that many of us as we gathered at the starting gate. For 3,000 or 4,000 people, it seemed like there weren’t very many red hats.

Some people came up to me and said, “Wow, you look too good to be a survivor!” What do you do with that, except laugh and enjoy that moment. One of the many booths had adhesive paper that people could write on, dedicate their walk and paste on their back. I spent much of the morning photographing these dedications. Here they are…

It’s strange, of course, to see my name among the dedications. And Pat’s mom’s name, Nora, on his back. But life is like that.

While the fluid is backing up and I can feel my body sliding South, every single day, every song, every dopey reality show where someone really loves someone else…well, they are almost too much for a schmaltz like me. But I do love it. And love this life.

This Sunday will be Confirmation. I really wasn’t sure, back when I started this class, that I would be here to experience it. I think a lot of my staff and students wondered the same thing. But here it is and, well, yeah…I will probably be a bit weepy. But for joy and pride. A great, loving staff, a parish that understands the word community, and nearly 40 students who have largely discovered something greater in their lives.

THAT is living!

Now go plant something!

Small farm animals return…

Despite discovering a heart blood clot and the failure of my surgery to raise my Ejection Fraction, I have still enjoyed almost 4 months without chest pains and the terror they breed. Unfortunately a rather large donkey came out of nowhere to sit on my chest while I worked at the computer with a friend and client. It came on like the bubble on a bike tire…just appeared out of nowhere and stunned me. Is this the heart attack we’ve all been waiting for? While I’ve still been carrying around my nitro, I wasn’t keeping it in my pocket or on my desk. Too bad.

It was somewhere on the bookcase or kitchen counter, and I didn’t think it was safe to get up and go look for it. I asked Cindy to find it and used the intercom to get Judy in here right away. The first nitro didn’t stop the donkey that was stretching my chest and, when she came in, I told Judy to call an ambulance. It was probably ringing when I said, “Wait a minute. Don’t do it. It’s going down.”

Minutes later the pressure had diminished to an ocelot or small cat. I took another nitro and waited. One more and it would definitely be off to the emergency room. But it continued to diminish until the pain was gone and only a soft pressure remained.

I called Cardiology. “If it were me, I would have called 911. You just had heart surgery.” But the surgeon’s office was slightly less inflamed and told me to use my “best judgement.” “If you’re scared, you should come in.” Well. Too darn late for that!

They want me back in Thursday (tomorrow) afternoon to find out what’s going on in there.

In the meantime, the old specter has returned. No surprise that my dreams that night were all around death and dying. I thought I had bought the farm when my chest alarms went off. Now it’s another turn at adjusting to the thrill of being alive every moment. God, life is thrilling!

Now get back to work!

No Run for You!

I’ve had a day with my new “status.” Got up at 6 and went in to Legacy for Cardiac Rehabilitation. I sat down to get my heart monitor hooked up and, while they were wiping me with alcohol swabs I told them about my Echo results. I wish I could type the sound they made when I mentioned my EF and the blood clot in my heart. Sort of a soft, thudding sound that you might make a lot louder if someone socked you in the stomach.

Then they peeled the leads off my chest and said, “No aerobic exercise for you.” They know I’ve been hoping to run again, so there was genuine care and disappointment in their eyes. So I put my sweatshirt back on and told the rest of the heart repair patients getting wired up, “Okay–you guys are in charge, now.” And walked out into the hospital hallway.

The docs are not sure there’s much they can do. “Clots are always a danger for heart failure patients.” Yeah, I guess so! So now I’m not sure how hard I can go. In “rehab” I could get up to a 129 pulse. Outside rehab my aerobic max was somewhere around 110 to 112. So now what?

Drat. I have an adjusted Soup Nazi in my head saying, “No run for you!” A strange ride, isn’t it?

Don’t get me wrong. I will remain weird and I will do what I can and I will laugh an awful lot. Not the end of the world. Heck, I could have found out I had an EF of 58, put on my new running shoes and jogged right out in front of a bus! Or a tree could fall on me! Hey, it happens in Oregon!

When you hear someone had a tree on them, don’t you just think to yourself, “Man, when your time’s up it’s just up!” Until then best to just eat up life! So I will.

More than a few people have remarked that this came to me during Holy Week. Yes, indeed it did. It also happened during Passover and while those English sailors are being held in Iran and Women’s Day in Taiwan, Heroes Day in Lesotho, Children’s Day and freeking Tomb Sweeping Day in Taiwan! Every day is something.

This pitiful little beater of a heart doesn’t really need a fight. I think in some ways surrender is an okay strategy. Surrender to the moment, to what’s real, to the least and the most.

“He who rules men lives in confusion. He who is ruled by men lives in sorrow. The Tao therefore desires neither to influence others nor to be influenced by them. The way to get clear of confusion and free of sorrow is to live with Tao in the land of the great void. If a man is crossing a river and an empty boat collides with his own skiff, even though he be a bad-tempered man, he will not become very angry. But if he sees a man in the boat he will shout at him to steer clear. If the shout is not heard, he will shout again and yet again, and begin cursing. Yet, if the boat were empty he would not be shouting and not angry. If you can empty your own boat, crossing the river of the world, no one will oppose you. No one will seek to harm you. He who can free himself from achievement and from pain descends and is lost amid the masses of men. He will flow like Tao, unseen. He will go about like life itself, with no name and no home. Simple is he without destination. To all appearances he is a fool. His steps leave no trace. He has no power. He achieves nothing. He has no reputation. Since he judges no one, no one judges him. Such is the perfect man. His boat is empty.” Chuang Tzu

I once worked as a youth minister at a Congregational Church. Their pastor was both evangelical and a Rumi and Native American scholar. His gentle blend of east and west was always a balm for me. It is time to stop concentrating on the empty boat and empty my own.

Peace to you in this Holy, Holy Week.

Not good news.

Yesterday was three months, to the day, from my open-heart surgery. My heart was remodeled by a team of fabulous surgeons in the hopes that I could get 2 to 5 more years out of this heart. Add 10 years average for a transplant and you’ve got me close to 70! In my last post I wrote about facing a new and exciting future: wondering what I could or should accomplish in the 15 years my doctors were fighting for.

I haven’t posted since. The longest I’ve gone since this blog started. I have continued my cardiac rehabilitation, geting up before sunrise three times a week and going in to the Legacy Hospital gym. There, they hook me up to a heart monitor and put me through treadmill, step-machine, free-weight and resistance-cord exercises designed to push my heart exertion to maximum: 129. On the treadmill I program in a series of speeds and uphill grades and then spend 25 minutes working my way through it. At the peak of exertion one of the physical therapists takes my left arm and gets a blood pressure. In a gym full of 160’s, 180’s and 190’s I am rarely over 110 or 115. The treadmill is controlled. If I wanted to go faster I’d fly over the front bars and tumble to the floor.

But on the NuStep, a stairmaster/cross-training machine, I can go as hard as I choose. In the last couple weeks I’ve been getting yelled at…”Okay Mike, drop your arms. You ARE NOT to go to that level.” A quick check and I’ll find myself at with a pulse of 137. But I’ve lived through those moments!

In this controlled exercise environment I have reached a point where I am being held back. My chart says “High Risk” on it and my Ejection Fraction (EF) shows as 28. Since the operation, though I’ve been hoping that my new EF would be in a range (40’s, even in the 50’s?)that would mean 1. my heart would last at least the two years, and maybe more and 2. that I could begin running again, training for a marathon with my daughter Jenny in October. Especially these last 2 or 3 weeks, we have been awaiting the echocardiogram that would establish my new EF.

We have spent the last 60 days or so with new hope, with plans for the future, and without what Judy calls, “holding my breath” each and every day in anticipation of a heart attack or other disaster. It’s been wonderful, though in the back of my mind I’ve still been ready every single day for the worst. A new and improved EF would indicate the surgery was a success and I could really start moving into an active future–that lacked the footnote, “HighRisk.”

All day yesterday we waited for OHSU to call with the results of my 8 am echodardiogram. Last night we still hadn’t heard anything and I left to take some Confirmation students to the Chrism Mass at the Cathedral. It was an incredible experience. Old Catholic. Hundreds of priests. Knights of Columbus in their feather topped helmets, red capes and swords. Sisters of every denomination. And music to rival the Cambridge Singers of John Rutter at Cambridge University in England. As the music soared and the thousands of voices around me rang out, I could not forget the Sacraments of Healing that I have experienced four times since coming to Portland.

When the Oil of the Sick was consecrated, I was especially aware of this faith, my history in the church and how closely intertwined we have been. I remembered sitting with my brother, Greg, in the choir loft at Holy Ghost in Fremont. We received communion and when we got back to our pew, Greg reached in with his finger to pry the host off the roof of his mouth! I thought he’d go right to hell!

I remembered serving as an altar boy at Easter Vigil, holding the crucifix on its wood pole for what seemed like hours, my fingers and arms cramping while Monsignor Breen intoned the Litany of Saints so…………………………………………slowly! I closed my eyes after Holy Communion while the Cathedral Choir sang Maruice Durufle’s Ubi Caritas and a picture of Father Tony Valdivia holding Jenny up to the sky during her baptism at St. Ann’s came into my mind. My Grandfather walking with his cane up the aisle when he received the sacrament of Confirmation while I was still in grammar school. Gary as a sheep in the Christmas Pageant smacking the shepherd as they made their way up the steps into the sanctuary. Gary and Brian serving Mass at St. Felicias.

As my closed eyes relaxed to the darkness and the music took my heart to another place, I thanked God for a truly awesome life. I felt joyful. At peace. I apologized in that inner silence for wanting more and realized that whatever I have had is enough. it is enough. I felt the luckiest man on earth.

When I got home Judy reported that no one had called from OHSU. I checked the messages and found nothing. As soon as I put the phone down I remembered that moment during Ubi Caritas and reminded myself that I have nothing to fear and everything to be grateful for.

This morning Deirdre from OHSU called. She was disappointed. Much of the staff at OHSU Cardiology have become something more than merely doctor or nurse. Deirdre, perhaps, more that others. My new EF is 30.3. Down from my last of 35. The surgery had not improved or halted my heart failure and cardiomyopathy. My cardiologists were disappointed. The echo had also revealed a blood clot in my heart.

In that moment I realized that I needed to remain grateful. I felt the need to get up and get on with life. For Judy (and I will admit in a corner of my own poopy heart) there was certainly a profound sadness. A return to the daily fear and a harsh kick in the butt to revel in every day, in every moment.

What does 30 mean? Well, it’s not as bad as it was a year ago February, when I was as low as 11% and life-threatened. It does mean that my risk remains incredibly high, that heart failure will continue, that the 2 to 5 years that the surgeons hoped to give me are not probable. The blood clot is just another disappointment. They’re going to discuss it and see what steps they will take. I’m already on blood thinner and my INR (which indicates blood clotting speed) was too high last week–meaning thinner than it should be. I’ll be retested Wednesday and hopefully we can get it into the right range. With a blood clot, it becomes critically important.

So I am disappointed. We need to adjust. As my Cardiac physical therapists reminded me, I may need to re-frame my self image for the future. Running out. Walking in. Weight-lifting out. Big rubber balls in.

I had hoped that this blog would morph into a journal of starting a new life. It will do that, too. But the ride is not over. I will re-focus on today. Bring the peace and joy of Ubi Caritas to mind; be grateful.

Thank you all for continued prayers and notes and kindnesses. The sun is out and Spring has sprung.

Now get outside and don’t forget your sun screen!

I had a dream…

This morning I awakened as the sun was just lighting the sky. I sat up, fully awake, and felt ready to go outside and dig up the front yard, or stack wood, or ride a bike to work. But I didn’t. I got up, went to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed.

Later, while I was reading the newspaper and scraping the last of my oatmeal from my bowl at breakfast, I read a small letter on the Oregonian’s op-ed page from a special education teacher complaining that the newspaper had stereotyped homeless teens. The writer talked about his years of teaching and the potential he had seen in each and every student–especially the lost and homeless ones. I was very moved by his words.

The dream snapped into my head. I described it to Judy. In the chapel at Cambridge University there were gathered people from many different times of my life. Bruce and Debbi. Claire and Jan. Patti Cook from Salinas. Christine Amate and many of Jenny’s friends from grammer school. Father Tom. All the Whitty women. Janet Patella. Sophe Lux. Jenny and Gary and Gary’s friend, Smart. Mr. Falk from Pacific Steel & Supply. Fred Lostsie. Even as I write, these faces come into view. There were many more. Probably you.

I had reported about my surgery, that my doctors felt they could get me to 70 years old. 15 years. 15 precious years.

Of course, I think I’ll beat that! But, as with facing death, there is a fragile balance between optimism and reality, between hope and pragmatism. But 15 years.

As I read the letter from the Oregonian, I was suddenly flushed with the sense that I was at a very important turning point in my life. That, if I have 15 years, what is the very best that I can do with that time? That feeling was exactly what I had awakened with. The need to get going. The need to start.

In my Cambridge chapel (I’ve been to Cambridge University a couple times, but never in the chapel–where John Rutter leads the Cambridge Singers whom I love and whose music makes my spirit soar) the people in my dream’s pews were discussing what I should do.

There was an air of urgency, but of laughter and energy, too. They all had opinions. When Judy came into the chapel I told her what we were doing. And then I awoke.

It’s not like this is a new phenomenon in middle-aged people’s lives. What do we do? What to accomplish? My first impression of the dream was that someone should tell me what to do. I felt the question inside me, turning with doubt and urgency inside me, wanting an answer. Needing an answer. Afraid to answer it myself.

As I described the dream and this sense of the forked road before me, I told Judy about some of the powerful elements that I needed to consider. Do I work to bring income and security to our little family? Am I led to St. Clare’s to continue my ministry work? What in the world can I heal, should I work to heal? Who needs me? What needs me?

These aren’t new a questions, I know. From adolescence on we all struggle with them. But I am new to them after this last year of threat. My hopeful future mechanism has been poorly exercised. It was operating on low, satisfied with awakening each day alive. This morning someone reached in and cranked the darn thing to high!

My recovery from surgery is at last coming together. My chest still hurts, especially if I cough or laugh. But it doesn’t dominate my body. After weeks of coming home from physical therapy and collapsing in a chair for hours, I came home Monday and got to work right away, without much more than a few minutes to shower and eat.

I’ve shared with you all of my life these last 13 months. The story is dominated by hospitals and medications, by fear and a struggle to stay alive, to hope. My heart, no matter how much it has improved with surgery and medications, will almost certainly begin its inexorable downward slide again. My 15 years is 5 with this one and 10 with a new one. But I wouldn’t be the first to beat the odds! Nevertheless, I step onto a new tightrope. This one is stretched between mortality and many years of hope and happiness and health. Still fragile, but walkable.

So, while there will still be many recovery milestones to celebrate and continuing heart and health issues to report, I think this blog may morph into a journal of my efforts to answer the question. What do I do?

Now go do something!

Phoenix rising…

Last year my daughter Jenny ran her first road race, the Portland Shamrock Run. That morning my defibrillator vest went off. I was in very bad shape and only weeks into facing my new mortality. But Pat and I were with Jenny at Waterfront Park with thousands of other lean, mean running machines. She got her t-shirt and lined up for the start. I watched her make the first turn and then headed for the finish line to cheer her finish.

My blog from that day was largley of reminiscing about running, about marathons, about having a body I could take out the door and work for hours on end. Though it contained hope, it was largely driven by grief.

This morning I have my sweats and tennis shoes on. Today is my first day of cardiac rehab at Legacy Emmanuel in Northwest Portland. I’m almost as excited as the morning of my first marathon! I know I have a ridiculous amount of work to do to return to long distance running or lifting free weights. (I have to rest after tying my shoes right now.) But I have found a way to finish most of what I’ve started in my life and this feels like perhaps my biggest challenge ever.

My friend Bob took me out for a good long walk yesterday along the Willamette river and the esplanade. It was a beautiful, crisp day and as we stopped in the middle of the Hawthorne bridge and looked out over the sun glinting water, I was filled with joy and hope. I recalled with incredible clarity the feeling of 4 weeks ago when I awoke from surgery, that I was, indeed, alive.

Sunday night I returned to teaching Confirmation. It was ILBC Night, when we bring in adult Catholics to partner and share their faith with the students. My heart was in my throat when the students came into the church. By the end of the night–a retreat, really–that ended with song and prayer, again my heart was just soaring with gratitude.

So I thought I would write this before my first session. Today marks a turning point. I am headed not merely to survival but to a future. I will have my glass heart in my pocket. And your prayers and good wishes to propel me. I also note, without comment, that the Portland Marathon is October 7.

Now get back to work.

I’m Alive

Three weeks ago I woke up from open-heart surgery. The very first thing that I remember is the realization that I was alive.

I’ve had too little stamina to take on writing about this moment and the period afterward. Putting what I felt, and feel, into words has also escaped me. But I think I’m ready to give it a crack.

This last year has been a strange one. Coming to grips with my fragile heart and poor mortality prospects meant that I needed to get comfortable with the idea of dying. Not to expect it, but to reconcile with it. I think I’ve worked it out.

The morning of surgery, however, was a bit different. As most of the hair was being shaved from my body and various lines installed in my arms, I thought a lot about the trauma that was to come. I wasn’t worried about the aftermath. I wanted to really, really be prepared that I might not survive the surgery, and yet expect to make it out just fine.

That’s why, when consciousness returned, I was so pleasantly surprised to be alive! Despite everything done to my body, inside of me my spirit just soared. I thought, “I have another chance! ” My kids say the first words I said were not understandable…”wh..,” “w…,” “wh dd dy doo,” which they finally deciphered as “What did they do?” There were a lot of questions before the surgery. How much of my heart was viable? Are there any places on the left ventricle to run some new blood lines? How much of the heart is dead muscle, especially at the bottom tip–enough to warrant opening the heart and radically remodeling it? More blood lines and remodeling would be my best chance for surviving for a while with this heart, staving off a heart transplant for years.

“Everything. They did everything.”

For the first time in a year (I was diagnosed with Heart Failure on January 13, told I needed a heart transplant on January 14. Half of all heart failure patients die within one year of diagnosis.), I really had hope. I will never forget that moment, nor be more grateful for the gift of life.

My surgeons were ecstatic. It seems I may have a shot at more than just a couple years to heart transplant. One doctor even told me I could be running in 5 to 6 weeks! The lines running out of my body (neck, two tubes from chest, both arms, catheter, and tube down my throat) were insignificant compared to this new found hope. As each was drawn out of my body (okay, that was weird and yucky to feel something snake its way out of the inside and out through simple holes just below my ribcage…) I felt more free and complete.

I don’t remember much on the day of surgery. Whether I sat up or stood up…I don’t know. I do remember being asked if I could stand up and walk a bit shortly after the ventilator was removed. “Get up and walk?” I thought, “Damn straight! Get me outta here!” And walk I did as much, as often, and as long as I could for next 5 days.

On every walk I recall gripping the glass heart from the Whitty family. Nurses up and down the hallways would ask me what it was and I would explain. It never left my hand while I endured the various insults to my body. It was a connection to a spiritual community that really did give me strength and inspiration.

Twice I have stood at the sanctuary of St. Clare church receiving the sacrament of Healing. At first alone and just weeks before surgery with many hands upon my shoulders. Was my heart miraculously healed?

No.

But the dearest support of so many people, together with children, my Judy and my friends, people I don’t even know at Regence who read my blog and send their prayers and good wishes…all really and truly kept the miracle of being alive fresh in my newly remodeled heart.

Jan and Claire flew up from California to stay with me for 3 days. I had only just gotten out of the hospital. These two close and wonderful people loved me so much during those first few days that I will always be in their debt. We laughed (God that hurts) and talked and ate and shopped a bit. It is what healing looks like.

Judy, whose dad passed away just weeks before, encouraged and loved and fed and guided me through recovery. No longer able to do laundry or vacuum or much of anything, she picked up all the slack and still found the energy to laugh and to hug. Jenny and Pat hardly left my side. Even with the funeral of Nora, Pat’s mom, just a few days past, they plied me with dark jokes, videoed me walking the halls, Pat blogging entries for me to keep you all up to date, coming up wth important questions I wouldn’t have thought to ask doctors, reports from the outside world…each and every moment precious beyond words and energizing me to keep going.

A visit from Fr. Tom, a bouquet of yellow flowers from the St. Clare parish staff, Kelly’s dedication of one song to me that Sophe Lux performed, Jaye and Ashley and Caitlin singing in my room and bringing me Communion, Jim Whitty’s arm as he helped me back from Communion, and meals prepared and brought to our house by confirmation students and staff, organized by Anne Marie. Sr. Anna’s delight to find Judy at mass with me! My first long walk with Bob followed by lunch and listening to a talk by Joseph Grizzone, author of Joshua. Gifts and notes from Vernique and Phillipe and the Conti’s and so many friends. Janet’s calls. My dad’s daily calls. Cards overflowing our mantle…

Healing looks like that. Many hands. Many hearts. Many prayers.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to accept this kind of healing at another time in my life. I’d like to think I could, but more likely I would be giving, not receiving. But today, 22 days since opening my eyes and finding myself alive, the thrill and promise of it hasn’t left me.

From the darkness of just a few years ago, when I was too hurt and anguished to hold onto life, to this moment filled with so much hope and affection and life…well, that my friends, that is a miracle. That is a miracle. I do believe.

Thank you. You have given me life and inspiration. Judy and I have hope.

I am alive!

Give me a moment….

Though I’ve been home over a week, I haven’t worked up a lot of energy to post on this blog. I think if you tied me to the bumper of a Volkswagen Thing and dragged me down some railroad tracks for about 30 minutes–EVERY MORNING–this is just about how I feel. I’m getting better every day, I know that.

I can hear my heart for the first time in years.

Coughing as become less an issue as the much cleared from my lungs. What a surprise, though, to sneeze. Whew, felt like I was going to blow a lung through my ribs! And laughing? Who’d a thunk it. Hurts like hell, which makes me laugh more, and finally convulse with a sideache while I clutch my heart pillow against my chest hoping it’s not going to finally explode apart…

Right now it’s simply fatigue, I think, that is my enemy. I’m trying to walk and get outside to move around, but up here in Portland that’s quite an adventure in itself. Three to four inches of icy snow. Yarks. Falling down. Bad.

Now my nose freezes in the frigid air for some reason–never happened before this surgery. And my hair seems charged with enough static to power a small factory. I think maybe it got scared. Me too.

I am tired now and haven’t really written much. I will take some more cracks in the coming days. My chest hurts as I try to hold my hands over the keyboard and I’m tired.

But I’m getting better every day.

Too many to thank right now…all the parishioners from St. Clare’s who bring dinner each day and call and visit and pray, my glass heart talisman and Stanley from Erin, hideously funny gifts in the mail from Veronique and Phillipe (there’s that laughing pain again!), a long visit with very best friends who flew all the way up here from California, a gentle hand helping me back from Communion at church last Sunday.

Thank you for your posts and comments and emails. Each encouragement and prayer adds to the others and it’s much of what I’m building my recovery upon. There are some wicked serious thoughts inside me, though, that won’t see light today.

I need to rest.

Now get back to work!

Who’s the man?

This guy is:

Mike is recovering quite nicely in his suite on the 11th floor of OHSU. There is talk that he may even go home tomorrow. Not that we are surprised by this. He has been up and walking around the halls, making sure that everyone is doing their job. He is no longer attached to any medical leashes nor does he require assistance in his roaming of the cardiac ward (or the healing ward as it is oft-referred to). No 100m sprints quite yet, but he’s moving around rather well for someone who just four days ago underwent major heart surgery.

Mike is still coughing and clearing out the yuck inside him. It is hard to explain the yuck, but I am positive that he will have his own unique (and probably disgusting) means of relating it. Regardless, it is coming out. He hasn’t been on oxygen the past 24 hours – a step in the right direction. Oh yeah, he took his first shower in five days today. Insert joke about ripeness or stench here.

Things are looking very good. His physical condition going into surgery and his mental state coming out of it have both contributed to his successful recovery. He is incredibly proactive and is determined to get home as soon as possible. Tomorrow may be that day. Here’s hoping.

Click here to see video of Mike walking.

Pat