This Friday will mark the two month "anniversary"of my myocardial infarction, a.k.a. my heart attack. "Myocardial infarction" - man, calling it that just takes all the fun out of even having a heart attack. That's like, you got to have sex with Pamela Andersen, but you refer to it as "a possible exposure to hepatitis". No; given the choice of the two, I prefer "heart attack" as a nom de guerre; it just sounds tougher, like you got scars or tattoos as a result of it. Still though, it's not really an attack, per say. I mean yes, it's a white hot ball of ever expanding pain in your chest, and while it's happening, you kinda feel like this guy,
but still - I don't know if attack is the right word. I smoked for 32 of my 45 years on the planet. I ate things I shouldn't have, drank things I shouldn't have, and made the creation, care and feeding of stress into an art form. All of this I dropped into my heart's inbox and said, "Here ya go! You're doin' a bang up job here - keep up the good work!" And then I'd merrily run off to another 13 day, 156 hour, 400 cigarette work week, secure in the knowledge that my good ole heart, my bueno corazon, my pulmonary pal was minding the store and would never let me down. Well, that's a whole lot to put on one heart, and even the best of hearts is gonna get just a bit pissed off after awhile, and it's gonna stand up. It's gonna get up in your face and tell you that it doesn't like the way you're running this ship, and you'd better straighten up and fly right sonny boy, or the Cardiac Kid is gonna saddle up and git the hell outta Dodge. Is that an attack? Sounds more like a revolt to me - maybe "Heart Revolution" would be a better way of putting it.
The kids are too young to remember, but you folks that are Daddy's age probably recall the movie, "Network". Whether you know the flick or not, check out the clip below. If my heart could talk, it would sound an awwwful lot like this guy;
Oh yeah, baby - mad as hell, not gonna take anymore, gonna screw with your blood supply right now. My heart was Howard Beale, and it was not happy. And, in retrospect, it's pretty damned obvious why. If I treated an employee the way I treated my ticker, they would have walked out on me years ago. If I treated friends that way, they wouldn't return my calls. If I treated my masseuse that way...well, you know there goes my happy ending.
Okay, full disclosure ('cause my wife reads this) - I don't have a masseuse. But I do want my happy ending. Many, many, many years from now, I want to look back on my mostly happy life and remember, almost fondly, the day my heart fought back. Between now and then, for sure there's going to be hard times, there's always gonna be pressure...but you find your release...and you don't blow...and you live to fight another day.
Saw this earlier and decided to make this blog a video tri fecta;
We've all gotta deal with Pressure...let's try to do it gracefully and have some fun along the way.
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