It’s strange

It’s strange sometimes, how you receive news about yourself,  health news. You ponder it in an optimistic way, when you tell your loved ones and your friends, they point you in that direction, reassuring with direct experiences. Some had friends or relatives with similar problems and solution. My cousin had it done and he is 81 now, or my mother had it done and she’s fit as a whittle since. And then they are the ones praising today’s médecine, almost banalizing it as if it was daily routine. You’re gonna be fine, you’ll see, you’ll be up and running in no time, piece of cake.

After all, my active life showed no sign of slow down, I had no symptoms suggesting alarm. I truly enjoyed my life doing what I was doing and it was exciting, almost starting a new business at 74, I had not had as much pleasure than then,  September of 2024. That’s when the docs found out the problems facing me. It was strange for sure, I had a busy unimpaired life both personal and professional without signs of slow down. If I got light headed a couple of times, I chucked it on having not eaten at my usual time, most of the rest of my ailments or discomfort I squarely blamed on my aging body, when when I was younger, I didn’t think I’ll pass 50. I still remember, when I was about five or six years old, malnourished and with a start of tuberculosis, the doctor saying to my stepfather, “he’s not gonna make old bones”. I had no idea, at the time, what they were talking about, . But the words stuck in me, he’s not gonna make old bones. Now, when I look back, it’s seems that I also lived my life as if it would not reach past 50. I’m 24 years past now, in I thought in a fairly good health, and damn these two sons of bitches prophetizing my early demise. Oh don’t get me wrong, at my age the future seems closer than the past and it is. The years are marching quicker than when I was young. It happens fast and naturally, it’s the fate of been born, no one can escape the barcode we were born with and its expiration date.
I don’t fret about it much, I keep busy and my mind has not been on mortality. I’m a fatalist, que sera sera, why worry about a process that is inevitable, and why would I want to live forever anyway. I think of my own death as a right of passage, so to speak, a final hurrah into oblivion, without fanfare or cheerleaders, basically alone with my last thoughts. It’s not that I welcome death, I’m too selfish for that and still enjoy the earthly pleasures, with moderation, but also with a happy vitality, pleasing myself all along.

So when the doctors, after a stress test, decided that I would benefit of stents, I took the news without alarming fear, with concern but with a sense of résiliation an certainty that the doctors knew what was best for me. After all, my mother went through the procedure and so did my brother. Mother died at 83, my brother still likes to walk miles in country roads through the fields and woods paths in Normandy were I was born and raised and were he still lives. I, had left young, never to return.
The days approaching the procedure of inserting a foreign object through my right wrist all the way to my heart passed without excitement, the usual life routine of feeding the body and getting occupied with work, same all, same all. The day of the surgery I felt no fear or trepidation, after all it was done everyday I was told, just like plumbing some were saying. The real most annoying feeling was the necessity of fasting at midnight. The forty five minutes drive to the hospital was uneventful and we arrived on time. Processing me as  a patient went quickly and efficiently adding to the routinely aspect of the affaire. Everyone was pleasant and cordial, adding a feeling of serenity in a place where pain and suffering is routine. I was taken almost right away and after signing consent forms, I was ushered to the preparation room and then to the surgery room. Nothing so far was uncomfortable or frightening and I was calm and posed to start the operation. I should say, for the doctors to start their business. The only discomfort was the injection of anesthetic fluid through the vein catheter, a feeling of burning, just a few seconds. I was not put under totally, and was awake during the entire process I was lying on my side and couldn’t see the monitor used bu my surgeon to navigate his probe, I could see my heart pump. I could see when the surgeon injected dye to better see the shape of the veins leading to my heart. The whole affair went on for about twenty minutes it seemed to me when the surgeons told me, no, we decided that the blockages were too great for stents, that I would need surgery instead. They pulled their equipment out of my body and was sent to a recovery bed and referred to a heart surgeon, at the same hospital. I was given an appointment and let go. The ride home was quite, each other in their own thoughts, with a few words said here and there, wondering what will happen next.