Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

One of the most reassuring aspects of life is its regularity. Regularly recurring events like the phases of the moon, the seasons, and, in Paradise, the cresting of the Buffalo National River give me feelings of dependability and reliability. Kind of a, “Hey! The chiggers are back! All’s right with the world!”

Turns out that my life also has its recurring events. In fact, one of them raised its not-insignificant head just three weeks ago.

Not, however, in what I think of as a reassuring way.

Thirty-two and a half years ago, when I was just a lad, I had the massive heart attack I’ve written about in this space before.

And in mid-January of this year I had another one.

Thirty-two and a half years after the first, give or take a few weeks.

On one hand, this is horrifying. On the other it’s just plain cool. If not for the pain and other consequences I’d be spending delightful hour upon hour analyzing and puzzling and trying every which way to figure out why I’m getting these regularly scheduled wake-up calls.

Who or what has set up the timer?

Why?

When?

That kind of thing.

All right, I admit it. I am putting in those hours. Can’t help myself. It’s how I’m wired. I’ve gotten some answers to my questions too. Mostly in dream time, where I’ve found myself confronting my past, present, and future, my dead parents and former friends and lovers, my enemies too.

The result of all this introspection is that I have a whole new outlook on life and reality … and what may be a genuine inkling of the true nature of the Secret of the Universe itself.

Or not.

Doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that I’m alive to throw myself into the search.

My heart attack occurred over a period of four days. Started when I was picking up trash some not-so-friendly neighborhood dog or coyote or bear or whatever had strewn all over the Cloud Creek driveway. Chest pain for 20 minutes, then the all-clear. Then pain again, until at last I wised up and told Gwen the Beautiful what was going on.

Gwen made the right call, and soon I was in an ambulance, heading for the emergency room, receiving a life-saving supply of oxygen and morphine and nitro pills. Two days after this particular race for life, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.

Four days after that I was home.

Two days later, I was in front of the computer, trying — and failing — to work.

The aftermath of the surgery has been “interesting,” à la the ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

Some of the time has been horrific, infused not only with pain but also with a sense of helplessness that has left me afraid to take the next breath.

But some of the time has been wonderful too. Peaceful. Filled with powerful emotions … and with a true awareness of the old saw about wherever there’s life there’s hope. I find myself more hopeful than ever, and filled with excitement about facing the challenge of recovery and the re-assumption of the mantle of ambition/aspiration that has always been my defining characteristic.

This time around, I find my surgery more meaningful than the heart attack itself. My moment-to-moment activity is, for all practical purposes, a response to having been cut open, messed around with, and then closed up again.

For example, I’m now terrified of lying on my back. Because it’s unsafe to use my hands to pull or push myself up (might strain my carved-up breastbone and keep it from healing properly, as well as hurt like hell), I’ve got to struggle into the next position using only my abs.

And you’re not going to catch me using a knife for awhile. Because I keep thinking I won’t be able to control it and, snick!, it’ll end up in my chest.

I’m not too keen on showering or bathing either. Because, “Aargh! The water, it’s beating on my chest wounds! And on my torn-up left leg, where they took out veins to make into arteries replacing those that were blocked!”

But this will pass. Each day gets exponentially better. Today, so far, has been pain-free. And Gwen and Burl Jr. are taking good care of me and the ranch.

Even as I get better I ponder about the future and what’s in store 32 1/2 years from now.

Wonder if I’ll be able to report on it here.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 5, 2010

Tags: bypass surgery, Cloud Creek Ranch, country life, country living, heart attack, Larry Brody, lifestyle, Live! From Paradise!, Living, Ozarks, paradise, philosophy, the writer's life, writing

This entry was posted on Friday, February 5th, 2010 at 9:07 am and is filed under Musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.