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.

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Piece of cake

 

I was getting the chief surgeon at the hospital, a tall strong man whose physical qualities I’m sure helped for the job he did every day. In his early fifties perhaps, personable and friendly while sticking to the matter at hand. First he explain carefully why I was here and detailed all the aspects of my problem. They were many. We talked about the failing of placing a stent in my prior visit the hospital and the reason of it in sight of the blockages of my veins leading to my heart. Then he spoke in generalities about patients with similar diseases and what is done to make them better. In my case he explained that my chest would be opened, a vein harvested from my leg, and he checked my legs for possible varicose, luckily I was not affected by the scourge, that they would be grafted to my heart to bypassed the blockages, that a graft of organic matter, either porcine or bovine, would replace a leaky valve, and finally a maze would be performed to reshape the electrical impulses that control arythmia , all done during my time on the surgical berth. This would take a few hours on the operating table, four or five. He spoke of vitally and mortality rate from the procedure and the benefits of it. He spoke of the mortality rate and gave ne numbers, the percentages. I asked him, jokingly what his was but was only answer with a glare. I was asked to approve the surgery and signed a for to that effect, he set on a date within a couple of months to have it done. And that was it.

All was set up. Again all my loved ones, all my friends furthering appeasing and optimistic opinions with allegories like oh, it’s just like plumbing, and again mentioning an uncle or a brother, pointed to the banality of the event. I was not much concerned either and showed no senses of worry. I was just curious how I got to this point, asymptomatic and without discomfort in my daily life. I started conserving my energy, stopped lifting heavy boxes of books like I was doing before my diagnostic, I stopped smoking pot, an activity that I was doing more as a routine than pleasure, as I was at a point of not getting the sensations that lifted me earlier on when I started smoking again. The break was neat without much signs of cravings. I was made like that, I had given up heavy drugs when I was young, before my daughter was born, it was not a struggle. I gave up smoking tobacco years ago after my young daughter said I should not. She had learned a in school. To quit was somewhat easy, whenever I had a craving for the nicotine I would pick up a cigarette, hold it between my fingers, sometimes getting seduced by its aroma, all the while thinking to myself that the devil is a killer and it would do me in. I was thinking to myself, that thing makes you die. I did not want to die so I quit in a short time. I had given up love for my second wife, the mother of my daughter, as my love had turned to hate after many years of marriage. That was not difficult either as in general, I’m not a hating person. I generally I’m pretty tolerant as I understand that every one has demons within, just like I have demons within. But most of us deal with their inner demons, I do. My second wife did not and the separation was inevitable. Then I gave up alcohol when I was diagnosed with hepatitis C, another silent killer discovered only recently and for which, at the time on my diagnosis, was no medication or cure. I volunteered for two different medication trials for it, when the drug company I was enrolled with finally found a regimen of medications to rid the virus out of my body. These experiences prepared me well for the future procedure and I was determined, for the few people I love, to get strong and healthy so I could get out of it well if not better.
before this ordeal as we have done the last dozen years, we had planned to spend a week week in Nice where, lucky us, have a small apartment there. The tickets were booked in advance and refund was most likely be denied. There were discussions about me traveling on account of the situation. After much discussions, at home and with loved ones, uncertain advice from the doctor who was concerned that if I had a crisis over the ocean, the plane would not be able to land for me to get treatment, but flying was okay, we decided to make a go at it.

My life returned more or less to normal, digging at the mountains of books that had to be disposed of. My job was to help do that, and I liked it. The books are located in a warehouse near me, a twenty minutes rides and I went there just as needed, on my own schedule. In order to achieve our goals, to market as many books as possible , rapidly and efficiently, we set up weekly where the bidding price per lot was either five or ten dollars. We had commenced about a year before my diagnosis and the sustem worked well and the sales increased from auction to auction. Our auction took care of a few hundred books weekly and in light of the amount of books occupying some nine thousands square feet, some on shelves but the great majority on the books cradled in boxes stacked up six feet high on a 4×5” wooden palette. The amount of books to process was and still is in the hundreds of thousand. Our auctions only slowly make a dent into the pile, but the mouse does not eat the pound of cheese all at once, and every week we have another auction. Every week we set aside, either from the shelves or the books that we sort out of the boxes full of books . From the boxes we have several criteria for choosing the books we select. Desirability, value and condition. The books we deem un-marketable  we send to charity. We keep the rest and decide if they fit in the next auction. The rest is shelved for futur auctions or the shows, antiquarian book fairs, where we set up every year. Some books are culled but not many. It’s a lengthy and tidious process that can glaze your eyes after a while. It requires physical effort as well. Books in these boxes weight between 25 and 35 pounds, sometimes more depending on the box size. Most times they are in document size boxes, easier to handle, but most boxes vary in size and weight. The heavy lifting part is not ideal for a person in my medical condition, but I had done it for the past here. Not everyday of course but enough that it could have a toll on my well being..

Once the books sorted my friend and I would start listing and filling the lot allocated by the auctioneer, each working on a separate auction or combining our efforts on one. I liked numbering the lots to give them to the auction house for photographing, then describe from the photographs at home at my own pace. He liked describing the lots first then giving the books to the auctioneer for photographing. Both methods worked well and our auctions, timid at first,  grew to sales climbing to about ninety percent of the offered lots. We sell nationally and online exclusively, there is no previous viewing of the material we offer and the bidder rely on our descriptions and images provided for every lot. The way my method works for me is that my time at the warehouse is limited, it’s not a nine to five job.

I prepared a couple of auctions during the two weeks before I was leaving for france, I needed something to keep occupied while away and my method of working the auctions permitted that.

The trip

 

The flight to Paris from Newark went as planned without me having a medical emergency. I didn’t expect to have one. We flew business with all the comfort associated, ample room, seat reclining into a decent sleep position, clear large monitor screen and superb audio for entertainment, extra attention from the stewards and food of the best quality, champagne and wash cloth. The whole plane only offered business class and the flight was relaxing instead of tiring. I was able to sleep part way or use the available wifi to keep entertained. What a depart from the way we usually flied, in cramped seat, very limited service and just eatable food. We were bumped to business some years back, the plane was half empty and we were offered reduced business seats at the gate. We paid a bit extra of course, the offer was not free, and we took it. It was the best experience flying I had ever had.
For this trip to France my spouse had purchased the tickets as a birthday present for me, and for herself as well as she had decided not to fly normal class. Much too tiring a trip for her age, in a cramped seat for nine hours. The ticket afforded us the use of the private lounge with all the perks in it. Arrived in Paris and after staying or take a train or rent wheels, we opted for self transportation. I secured a car, a comfortable one and of we went to Nice. I think it took us eight hours, sharing the driving. I was glad to arrive in Nice, early morning, get in the apartment and garage the car nearby.  We slept well. The next day I returned the leased car as we do not keep a car in Nice.
Besides having little choice but sticking with the plans we made before I knew I’ll be operated on, the time in Nice now had an added purpose. I had to rest and be ready for the operation, both physically and mentally. Mentally was not a problem. I did not experience fear or apprehension, I was not worry about the procedure and trusted the surgeon attached to my case, he who would perform the necessary steps. My physical condition was fine as well, perhaps a bit fatigued otherwise as normal for me. But the daily exercise of walking, sometimes two or three miles, seldom using the tram or bus, was going to be beneficial.
we went on our daily Nice routine, breakfast, then to market on Monday, Court Saleya, or Saturday to the booksellers market, then we would meet for lunch and choose a restaurant who offered the plat du jour that appealed best to us, they were several to choose from, all five to fifteen minutes walking distance and we had lunch. I went for fish most times, being by the sea and never had regrets. We would navigate the same restaurants sometimes visiting consecutive days, seldom we strayed. Except once or twice, depending what part of the town we were at lunch time. Once we deliberately went to an Egyptian couscous specialist, a small unassuming place that make their own couscous and used market fresh vegetables. I choose the couscous with chicken , lamb and merguez, my favorite spicy sausage. The whole was served with plenty of broth and harissa. When the plates arrived it became evident that we would not polish our plates. There was enough to satiate us sitting at the restaurant and the rest neatly tucked in containers, enough to feed us another two nightly meals. Actually, after the copious lunches we had , our evening meals were small, some cheese and crackers , cold cuts and pates, olives, a bit of wine, something light to prepare us for a good night sleep. And we slept well, probably on account of the walking we did daily.
The days without market I would visit the bookshops. Most I had known the owners from my previous visits to the city and we always had good vibes seeing each other again, we chew the fat, I informed them of my new adventure and sometimes bought a few books. Like in the USA, I was assured that all will be fine and that it’s now routine, that the best place around for the procedure is Monaco, the French social security paying for it. I other words, I got the same reaction as the one here in the US.

So I went on with my book buying, a hunt for pearls that I should bring back to the US and sale them for more than I paid for. A modest goal so to speak. I was searching and finding anything related to women for a Valentine auction I was planning. I cleaned the shelves of the titles mentioning women and found several books which turned out to be quite rare and valuable. A book by a Madame De Graffigny, Lettres d’une Peruvienne, printed in the eighteenth century that turned out to be a rare work on early feminism decrying the plight of women at that époque.  My cost was minimal, a few euros and it was well receive at auction with several bidders fighting for it. I also scoured the stores shelves on any less expensive erotica, lots of feminine sadomasochism, with illustrations, most done in the nineteen seventies, each no more than fifteen to twenty five euros. In the same vein I looked and purchased classic works on loving, like works by Pierre Louÿs and other semi erotic writers, I found older books on women hygiene focused on sexual activity and work on feminine beauty. Anything with the word Love in the title was fair game and added to the pile. It was fun and helped me spend full time doing what I enjoy doing, hunt for the rarest of the rarest. That I found asking my dealer friends at the market and in the shops I frequented. The most important by far was a 1584 account book for the Comte de Sault and his spouse after his death at battle, Madame la Comtesse de Sault, an imposant figure both physically and intellectually, who rallied both the Duc de Savoie and the King of Spain to her cause during the French religious wars in Provence where the Comte family holding were. At the time of the purchase, I had no idea what it was all about, only deciphering a word here and there in the hand writing but I paid my dealer friends without bargaining. I had made several purchases from him before and I’m sure it accounted for the price he demanded. I bought some finely bound works and some more recent manuscripts from him, without bargaining too hard. Booksellers appreciate that and sometimes reward you with fine items. I had a quirk of not pushing too much on the price with booksellers I liked and respected and bargaining hard with those I did not care for much.
When time to pack our bags for the return to the USA, I had a couple of suitcases and a backpack filled with mostly books and some items of clothing.

To return to Paris we took the TGV, the quickest and most comfortable to travel by land. The trip took about five hours, with a food bar and ample room to move around. From gare de Lyon where we arrived to the hotel we booked was a short ten minutes walk. We went on staying in Paris a couple of days, visited the newly restored Notre Dame and the musée Cluny nearby with its exhibit of the famous Dame a la Licorne tapestry, five huge tapestries hanging from the high ceiling. We liked it and I was mesmerized by its size and beauty, truly something everyone deserves to see in person instead of glancing at it in some art book. Of course, I had time to visit a few book shops and took advantage of it. I found quite a few nearby and a few books worth bringing back to the USA, all the while thinking about the very little room left in our luggage to fit anything in. I did not buy the forty thousand euros book of hours offered by a bookseller.

 

 

 

 

 

The wait and the deed

The taxi to Orly airport and the checking at the airline counter went smoothly. So did the long flight back in relative confort, well attended to by the stewarts, and we landed in Newark ahead of scheduled time. Entering the USA gave us a glimpse of future travels. We did not have to present passport, face recognition from a screen and a double check by a human let us into the country. Once our checked in luggage rolled out of the carousel, we found the waiting spot for the parking valet to drive us to our car. After going through the formalities to release the car, we drove home and arrived late afternoon, tired but happy to finally rest. The whole trip had been pleasant, without hiccups or gremlins spoiling it.

in ten days I was going to be operated on. I kept busy processing the pile of books I had brought back with me. Some had already been entered in an auction, the rest was sorted and researched. The manuscripts occupied most of my time, the Grecourt hand written 500 page book from 1742, filled with galant poetry, and the 1584 De Sault accounting ledger, about 150 pages filled with old style French lines of names and number. I was able to read some of it and will need a paléographe to decipher it more accurately. The provenance of this ledger was important, mid way through the book were the accounts of the Comtesse de Sault.
I had ordered several books about her and read to know more about this extraordinary woman who dominated some of the toughest men at the time and lived untouched until she died in 1611, quite young still at 58 years old, having secured a name and a place for her children.

So the wait for the day of surgery filled with occupations that helped me remain calm before the deed. I had developed some sort of silly bravado going to the day the doctors would take charge of my body. All to avoid the anxiety of knowing people would cut my body apart, harvest veins from my leg and remodel my heart so it ticks well again, hopefully for many years after.

Finally the day of the surgery arrived, I was to get there early after fasting all night. I was processed at the registering desk and the time seemed interminable, I wanted to get on with it without further delay, now I was anxious to have it done quickly. At last my name was called and I was attended to prepare me for the procedure. Strip naked, covered by the hospital gown, the doctors introced themselves and spoke about what was going to happen to me in the nest 5 hours, I signed consent papers and the nurses got busy shaving me, pricking me for blood, sticking wires and tubes in my arm and neck. None of it was uncomfortable or painful. A pinch here and there, that’s about all. After an hour or so, I was wheeled to the operation room. I was greeted by a half dozen of people in masks and gloves, the room was bright and filled with medical equipment, some I recognized and other foreign to me. I’m not sure there was much said. I believe I asked for music and I believe they said of course we could have it, I believe they asked me what kind of music. I said play some blues. I believe I heard some music but it was not blues. And that was the last of my consciousness that day.

I woke up bound the bed. Both my wrists were attached to the sides, obviously so I would not pull the breathing tube coming out of my mouth or the ones draining my thorax or the catheter directing my urine to the bag it was connected to. It was a difficult awakening. My bravado had dissipated and was replaced with a sense of helplessness, tethered to tubes and wires designed to help me stay alive but more and more uncomfortable as I started to become conscious of my situation. When fully awake I try to gesture about removing the breathing tube. I was understood but totally ignored as, they said I still needed it to breathe. That did not make it less annoying and the night came. I must have slept some, seemingly waking up what it felt every hours, with the bid red digital click crawling through the hours. This was the ICU, I was kept there four nights. The three meals offered did not open my appetite, only to munch on yogurt fruits and ginger ale or apple juice. All along asking for them to remove the breathing tube. It was pulled out finally and my breathing was difficult and painful, I was told, on account of the two drainage tubes in my thorax  pressing on the side of the lungs. I was fitted with an oxygen tube. That and the medications gave my mouth an unpleasant dryness with a metallic taste that lasted several days. At last after three days in the ICU, the chest tubes were removed and my breathing, albeit laborious, improved.

All the doctors, nurses and orderlies were personable and pleasant. I had them sign a white tee shirt adorn with a big heart and as each group entered the room, I asked them to put their names in red marker. That warmed them up to me most saying no one had asked them to do that before. All were eager to sign on, from my surgeon to the orderlies. Laboriously my breathing started to improve. The machine recording my vitals rang from time to time with shallow breathing. I fought it trying to take large breath in order to get more oxygen in my lungs. Eventually the dinging stopped and I arrived to acceptable oxygen rates. It became a job. On the fifth day I was discharged from intensive care and moved to the convalesce floor, almost tubeless. The room was smaller and I had a roommate, an eighty year old man who talked in his sleep. A Vietnamese vet assigned to support unit. I never saw combat he said almost apologetic. I’m not sure why he was there but overhearing his interviews  with the doctors I believe it was also an affair of the heart. At my age, he would tell the doctors, what good is it, perhaps it’s my time. Then in another instance he was hesitant when told that without the operation he would die. The next day we got to be a bit chattier and we spoke. I related my situation and encouraged him to take the operation if he was hesitant. He liked that, he seemed to be encouraged by my words telling me he needed that.