A Year Later
One year after major heart surgery, climbing back up that mountain and refusing to give in to fear.
The slope was steep, awful dang steep, and to add to my misery, it was covered with a myriad of slippery stones and fist-sized rocks — real ankle turners.
Thankfully, I had in the white-knuckled grip of my hand my old faithful hiking staff, a companion for 40-odd years now. My off-hand was busy grabbing onto fists of green branches to further steady my sharp descent as I plummeted downward into the bowels of the deep canyon.
"I'm gonna have one heck of a time climbing back out of here," I said aloud to no one but myself.
Over a mile later, which included a hike up a rock-strewn draw, another climb up the opposite ridge, and still another descent back into this very first canyon, I was now laboring up the same mountainside that I'd first come down.
I chose a rock-filled chute with a climb-angle of about 80 degrees to make my ascent part-way up the mountain, where my 'Zuki SUV sat waiting for me. Carefully and ever so slowly, I'd plant the staff into the debris and take one or two steps upward, counting off 15, sometimes 20 non-stop steps, before I'd halt to lightly blow.
Actually, the entire climb up and out was pretty effortless and I felt physically strong and exhilarated by the time I reached the top.
The entire hike had me congratulating myself because of how good I felt; I actually climbed the last 50 yards without stopping at all, let alone breathing heavily.
The reason for this congratulatory manner was the realization that, as you read this, it will have been one year from my heart stoppage and attendant heart attacks and two operations, all of which struck within a period of seven days.
"Ain't bad for a 62 year old!" I thought with a chuckle.
Looking back at my journey, I've learned a thing or two in this past year. First off, being one of those dreaded "Born-Againers," I remembered what the Good Book says, "Man is appointed once to die." That means to me that I have only one go-around to get it right (apologies to you reincarnationists!). So it behooves me to give myself the best quality of life that I can — more on that in a minute.
Second, I believe that our moment-of-death is appointed by the Almighty, and no one but the Forever God knows when our time will come. In turn, I've come to greatly relish and appreciate each new dawn as a gift from above that is not to be squandered.
Now more about that "quality thing." I've also come to realize that I need to, we all need to, exercise, exercise, exercise, right up to our body limits. That's called preventive medicine.
For my own self, it began just three days out of the hospital, four days out of surgery. I climbed the hill behind the house, clutching with both hands, turned white with gripping, that aforementioned hiking staff. Oh, I'd stop every five wobbly steps, pant and try to shake the dizziness, then move slowly up, and I made every miserably elated, nauseous step for a quarter mile! Hoo-rah!
By the end of the first seven days I was slowly hiking a mile, up one gradual hillside and down, albeit with ringing ears and dizziness always my companions. From then on, it was a cake walk!
I hiked Dawg an average of one to one and a half miles per outing, up and down hills, four days a week, and got stronger and stronger. And the hikes were at a quick clip too!
Nine weeks after the "incident," I went on a bear hunt: all day via horseback, and two-legged hiking in front of said horse, up one steep mountainside and down the other, over and over for 19 miles. Yeah, I was beat, and my body finally gave out, but it was still another step up on my journey back to full health.
But you know what was the biggest obstacle during this past year? Overcoming the paranoia — the nagging thought that every time I got even the slightest chest pain, that it was my ticker. I refused to give in to it, though; after all, such paranoia surely and swiftly leads to hypochondria, and I simply won't go there.
What gives me victory is the statement that my chief surgeon said to me, in front of his entire staff, on the day he released me: He told me that my heart and blood-delivery system were in excellent shape and I should never have a problem again, provided I maintain an exercise regiment, take my pills, and watch my diet.
So when pain comes, and it always does, I treat it for being a muscle strain or indigestion, or even just ignore it. Horrors! And no, I've not taken a nitro-pill after that first month post-op. Oh, I always carry 'em, I just don't use em! So far, I've guessed right.
Another friend had a heart operation two months before I did; since then he exercises way more than I do, jogging and hiking five or six days a week. The trouble is, every time his chest gives him a pang, he thinks it is his heart, and off he goes to the hospital — at least four times this past year. Virtually every time they have declared him healthy with no heart problems, but his cardiac paranoia is dangerously close to hypochondria and thus, a ruined life.
Ya gotta believe! Not only the doctors, but also, for me at least, in my faith that the Forever God is with me and is taking care of me — look up Psalms 91. By the way, I read that passage every day as a reaffirmation of my faith.
And so, a year later I'm climbing mountains, dropping into deep canyons, wading rivers, hiking with Dawg, and generally enjoying life and looking forward to each new adventure that every new day brings.
As always, keep the sun forever at your back, the wind forever in your face, and may the Forever God bless you too!
Larry Lightner writes Ramblin'
Outdoors
exclusively for Desert
Exposure.