Posts Tagged ‘heart attack’

What’s Happening Next in Paradise?

Wednesday, August 25th, 2010

First, thanks to you all for your attention and kind words over the last five years, especially those who’ve commented on the recent changes in my life.

Thanks even to those with less than kind words because you kept me on my toes, got my juices flowing, and gave me the pleasure of meaningless, misdirected, and, I think, harmless anger.

I’ve loved writing this column/blog more than anything else I’ve ever worked on, including myriad TV series, a few feature films, hundreds of short stories and magazine articles, and, yes, even my poetry books.

If there’s one thing I absolutely do not want to happen in my life, it’s lose the communication I’ve had with all of the LIVE! FROM PARADISE! readers. So here’s the situation.

Gwen and yours truly Larry B are comfortably ensconced in Paradise Sound, and my health is about 90% normal. Basically, I feel great.

Because I feel great, and because Gwen loves it here so much, I’m going to take the time here – as I did in Arkansas – to not write about our new digs (don’t yet know if we can call ‘em a new home or not) until I’ve lived here awhile and gotten to know enough people and places, and had enough adventures (and misadventures) to make what I’ve got to say interesting.

In the Ozarks, that took 2 and a half years. I’m hoping to be able to shorten the time span this time around because I’m 65 years old, have had two heart attacks (32 years apart!), and, well, you know.

In the meantime, I’ve created a blog on Salon.Com and will be reposting the material from this site there a couple of days a week. Re-edited so that, I hope, various typos and grammatical misconstructions and the weird characters that seem to show up on Word Press from time to time will be gone. And when I start writing more about our new lifestyle I’ll post it there too.

The URL for the Salon.Com blog, called – how shocking – “Larry Brody’s LIVE FROM PARADISE” is http://open.salon.com/blog/larry_b and I hope you’ll all visit there and rediscover old Paradise friends as well as find new ones.

Special thanks to my friends at Gannett Newspapers who made the original column possible: Betty Barker Smith, Janelle House, and Sonny Garrett.

Special “warning” to all who read this: I’ve created an e-mail list of everyone who has written, called, or otherwise contacted me about LIVE and will be keeping y’all informed on what’s happening via it. Starting (and this is the real warning) today when you’ll get this same info in your e-mail box so you know what’s up.

Back in the 1950s, the musical duo of Mickey and Sylvia sang, “Love is strange.”

Here and now, in the 2010s, I’ve learned that life is stranger still.

Wouldn’t have it any other way.

LYMI,

Larry B

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Live! From Paradise! #252

Friday, March 26th, 2010

My mention in this space that Gwen the Beautiful and I are going to Washington State for an indefinite time of rest and recuperation has garnered an array of responses, pretty much running the gamut from this, from “Yvonne:”

“It was with a heavy heart that I read your column on March 5 … I have read every single column you have written…have enjoyed every single one … Please tell me that you will still be writing even if it has to be from Port Paradise. Paradise will not be the same without you and Gwen, the Beautiful and your assorted cast of characters.

“I wish you continued good health as you recover from your surgery. My husband had the same kind of surgery … in … 2006. He claims to be feeling the best he has in years …

“I have found as I have grown older, that, as much as I sometimes resist change, good things are always waiting for me when I get brave enough to forge ahead. I am sure that will be true for you and Gwen.

“Bless you, and I pray that you will continue to use the gift of writing to touch people where they truly reside-deep in their hearts.”

To this, from “Benjamin:”

“So, that’s it, then? You’ve surrendered your life to Fear just like everyone else because your body let you down. I thought you, of all people, would realize your heart attack was just another Lesson the Universe handed you. Instead, you threw it all away … and ran for ’safety.’

“I’ve read your columns since the very first one and enjoyed them … I even changed some of my behavior because of what you wrote. No more.

“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am or how much you’ve let me down. Go to your ordinary life in some ordinary town and know this was one Lesson you didn’t learn.”

Even though I’m probably the world’s biggest believer in a good laugh, at heart I am, in the words of the Coen Brothers, “a serious man,” and I’ve taken these two emails, and every message in between, very seriously indeed.

Many people might look into themselves and question their actions, as in, “Oh my God! Am I doing the right thing? Have I gotten from this experience what the Universe wanted me to?”

Others might take the opposing perspective: “Who do these people think they are, judging my response? How dare they curse or even bless me for what I do and say?”

For a few seconds there, I followed each of these paths, but ultimately I found myself on a different one altogether. We’re all different from each other, “snowflakes” as many people have said (some with great sincerity and others while being snarky as all get-out) and throughout my life more often than not I’ve been so different from most other people that I’ve felt like a member of a whole ‘nuther species.

Maybe it’s my Asperger’s.

More likely, it’s simply because I’m a writer.

In this situation, because I’m a writer I ended up examining both what I’m doing and people’s reactions to it in terms of my responsibility as a creative being, as an artist … because the one thing I know best about myself is that an artist is what I truly am.

As an artist, I have two responsibilities.

One is to my audience. Writing is all about communication, and if I don’t have an audience, or can’t establish a link with an audience, then I’ve got nothing at all. Might as well daydream my little adventures, or misadventures, and let them evaporate into the smoke of pure imagination.

My other responsibility is to myself. To be honest and true and write what I believe. Most importantly, if I’m going to write about my life, then I also have to live in terms of what I believe. This is what I’ve done and will continue to do, no matter where I reside or where my work appears.

For ole Larry B, it boils down to this: Life is a hike up a steep, treacherous mountain. As I hike, I chronicle the trip for all who want to read about it. I work hard to maintain our connection, to entertain a bit, teach a bit, and learn a bit more.

My thanks to everyone for caring about what happens to the Brodys next. It’s good for all of us when we can laugh, or cry, or grow furious together, even — maybe especially — as I fall.

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 March 26, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #249

Friday, March 5th, 2010

I’ve always marveled at the fact that the most consistent thing in life is change.

The paradox is so clear that no one even blinks when it’s pointed out.

Unless, that is, the change is occurring to you … and it’s not the kind of change you were wishing for.

Here at Cloud Creek Ranch, Gwen the Beautiful and I have been going through a couple of months of change, with no end in sight. And try as I may to be ready for the new — mostly by keeping myself open to the unexpected so I can go with it — I’ve got to admit that recent, current, and future changes have me … well, how about if I protect my feelings by saying “off-balance” and let it go at that?

My health’s turn for the worse is the “recent” change I’m talking about. And Gwen and I and all the spirits at Cloud Creek (both living and not-quite-material) have been deeply affected.

My body no longer lets me do the things it used to, leading to a situation where I have to face a future without Huck the Spotless Appaloosa. A couple of weeks ago, in this very space, I put out a call for possible caretakers or even owners (as if anyone could “own” a free soul like him!) for my horse brother.

At first, it looked like Burl Jr., Blues Singer Extraordinaire, was going to take Huck to his father’s farm, but that fell through when our still-sputtering economy cost Burl Sr., longtime Paradise Farmer of the Year, control of the spread he’s owned for almost fifty years. This was accompanied by the end of Burl, Jr.’s day job, which means that he, wife Tera, and toddler son Strummer have taken off on another road trip not merely in search of musical fame and fortune but in need of it to pay the bills.

Huck’s future, however, still seems provided for. Even as I write this, the Landry family is packing up for a move from the coast of Florida to The Mountain, to ensconce itself on the property. The Landrys are even bringing their own horses with them so Huck will have plenty of company.

This future change isn’t without its dark lining. The Landrys will be taking over both the Main House and the Annex because Gwen and I won’t be here. Remember last summer, when we spent a month in Port Paradise, on the Pacific Northwest coast? We’re headed back there for an indefinite period of time, to be closer to most of our family … and snug in the bosom of Youngest Daughter Amber and her Amazing Jeremiah.

The easiest way for anyone in Paradise to envision Port Paradise is to think of the Ozarks’ Victorian haven, Eureka Springs. Add oceanfront. Stir in classic wooden sailing ships, galleries galore, nearby Seattle’s modern medical facilities, and a devotion to Credence Clearwater Revival unmatched anywhere else in the world and you’ve got the setting for my recuperation.

Accompanying Gwen and me will be Emmy the Bold, Ditsy Dixie the Golden Lab, and Decker the Giant-Hearted.

In fact, Decker’s already there. Thanks to Our Friend the Dog Trainer, a loyal reader of all I’ve written here, Decker’s natural good-nature, intelligence, and acute awareness of his surroundings have been professionally honed, turning him into a full-fledged Service Dog.

Our Friend is refining Decker’s training now, so he’ll be able to accompany us wherever we go along Puget Sound and, at the command of, “Take us home,” return us to our car or front door.

The perfect companion for a couple as “directionally challenged” as Gwen and I have found ourselves to be over the years.

Because we’ll be living in a small space with the kind of rules and requirements that normally chafe me to the bone (and, who knows, may do that still), we’re unable to take Belle the Wary, Emmy’s daughter and Decker’s litter sister, and Bob the Very Careful Cat.

As a result, Gwen and I are looking for homes for both of these loyal, lovable, and (because who would expect the Brodys to have it any other way?) slightly eccentric friends. If anyone out there, current neighbors and readers and friends of friends, wants to know more about either of these two fine furballs, I guarantee a prompt reply to any email sent to my larrybrody@cloudcreek.org address.

So, there we have it. Change.

Inevitable.

Relentless.

Tearful.

Excuse me while I blink.

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 March 5, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #247

Friday, February 19th, 2010

It’s been four weeks since my quintuple heart bypass surgery, and the most difficult aspect of the situation to deal with has been just that — the four weeks.

Time.

Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve always been a sprinter. An instant-gratification kind of guy.

“I want —”

“I need —”

And zap, I go out there on the hunt and I get.

I know I’m not the most virtuous man on the planet, but as the days of discomfort have crawled by it’s become increasingly clear that the virtue I most lack is patience.

I can’t go out and hunt for health. I can’t force my new arteries to mesh smoothly and perfectly with my heart. Can’t grab my incisions by their scruff and holler, “Heal, damn you!”

All I can do is take my meds and eat my veggies and rest in the new recliner and engage in the kind of exercise I would’ve mocked just a month ago (“Oh, boy, I’m walking around the house for six and a half minutes. S-l-o-w-l-y. Oh wow.”), and wait.

And, man, do I ever stink at waiting.

All together now. Let’s hear it for Larry B.:

“Sigh …”

I’m furious at myself for handling things as I’ve been. For trying to get way too much work done. For cursing at every twinge. For constantly telling my body, “You can do this. You can step over the doggy gate. You can stretch way up there to the back of the closet shelf and take down that old pair of shoes. You can toss that garbage can around like a popcorn-stuffed stocking, no problem.”

Because I can’t.

Stepping over the doggy gate or stretching my arms to the back of the closet or schlepping the garbage means losing my balance. Means catching myself by pushing against the wall. Means flexing stiff chest muscles and making myself wonder for a terrifying second if I’ve totally undone a month of breastbone healing.

“Ouch!”

That’s me.

“Take it easy, sweetie. I’ll get it for you.”

That’s Gwen the Beautiful.

“I don’t want to take it easy. I don’t want you to get it for me.”

Me again, of course.

“I know that, honey. I understand.”

Gwen again, naturally. “But I want to be there for you. The way you’ve always been there for me.”

I always thought it would be easy — more than easy, it would be wonderful — to be taken care of. To let others attend to my needs. Used to joke about how I’d married a woman substantially younger than I was “so she can push my wheelchair when the time comes.”

I was wrong.

Being a caregiver when Gwen had her “early” stroke was a walk in the park, psychologically, compared to being taken care of by her now. Helping someone I loved was the most natural thing in the world to me. But being helped, ah, it’s alien, icky, wrong.

A voice inside my head keeps crying out. “I can do it. I can do it. I’m really okay!”

A voice created by pride.

By habit.

By fear.

Fear of revealing weakness.

Fear of revealing fear itself.

Fear of becoming too demanding, too difficult to deal with. And, because of that, of pushing away my Team Brody partner.

Of losing her love.

Physically, I’m so much better than I was a week ago that I can barely remember what that old feeling was. I’m out. I’m about. In fact, at fifteen pounds lighter than before the heart attack, I’m most amazingly fit. Most of the time, my body feels like me again, only even better.

Actively good.

Hearty.

Sound.

Psychologically, though, I’ve become my own whipping boy. Talk about a self-defeating state of mind!

My doctors, my friends and family who’ve been through this same surgery, and Web site after Web site tell me that what I’m experiencing is normal. “They’ve got meds just for this,” they say. “Take ‘em.”

I dunno about that. For most of my life, my way of controlling my emotions, of handling the blues, has been to move into the moment and appreciate the highs and the lows as the transient miracles they are.

And to write about them. Share ‘em. Own them by giving ‘em away.

Hey, what do you know? In the words of that immortal songstress, Britney Spears, “Oops, I did it again.”

Thanks for listening.

Couldn’t carry it off without you, y’know.

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 19, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #246

Friday, February 12th, 2010

And now it’s time for a little self-aggrandizement.

I mean, if a 65-year-old man who’s just had a heart attack and bypass surgery can’t show off a little of what’s helped him feel better and stronger everyday, who can?

Here, then, is a brief sampling of the astounding number of e-mails, letters, and even postcards I’ve gotten since first revealing what happened:

From Aebeth, here in Paradise:
“I for one hope you’re around to report on Paradise for a long time to come. I am truly sorry for what you have gone through; but I feel quite confident you will only allow the slowdown to help you ponder life and share your thoughts with the wind, and the rest of your loyal listeners. Get strong, Larry!! And get well soon!!”

R.D. in Arkansas:
“My prayers and best wishes for a quick, strong, high-energy level to come to (Larry B) … very quickly. He still has some things to do that call for passion. So recover quickly, kind man.”

D.Q., in Australia:
“I just wanted to say I am sorry to hear about your health and wish you a speedy and full recovery. I am sure all out there wish you the same and all understand that you need to heal. Having given so much of yourself to us, it is now time to give to yourself and grow stronger again. All the very best, mate, and positive vibes coming at you from down here.

J.T., in Wisconsin:
“Take good care and glad you are still with us … Thank you for being you, giving back, and sharing your journey with the rest of us. Best to you … in the next stage of your many-faceted wanderings …”

C.C., somewhere on the web:
“I was very saddened to hear of your recent heart attack. But I’m glad you’ll be surrounded by friends and family during your recovery. I’ll send a wish out to the universe for your continued and rapid recovery. (That’s as close as an on-the-fence agnostic like me can get to saying a prayer.)”

Loyal Reader D.C. Rowlett:
“Dad was 59 years old when his heart attack came … It was late October 1966 and bypass surgery had not been thought of … so recovery was a very slow process. Dad spent the greater part of the upcoming winter in the house, pacing the floor and looking out the screen door across the Ashley farm just to the north of us.

“As soon as the grass began to turn green in the early spring his demeanor changed. ‘Gotta get my boat out and see if it still floats.’ ‘Gotta get my shotgun and rifle cleaned up. I ain’t sitting in this house anymore.’

“He didn’t either. He stayed active till he was almost 80 years old . Hang in there, Larry B.; this is just a bump in the road.”

Of course, not all has been sweetness and light. A lawyer-reader had this interesting take:

“Do you know whose dog went through your trash? A case could be made that its owner is responsible for your heart attack…and liable for considerable damages …”

I do know whose dog it was. But to me this hardly seems the time for mean-spiritedness. I doubt that the Universe has hit me with what another reader called “this wake-up call” for reasons other than to urge me to be more generous than I’ve been. More open. More giving.

After all, what does the planet need me around for if I can’t help make it a better place?

Speaking of generosity, I have a favor to ask.

My heart’s misadventure has opened new doors for me but, sadly, also is closing old ones. No longer am I capable of caring for my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa.

Everyone who comes to this space knows about our relationship. A dozen years of sibling-style love and sibling-style rivalry as well. (“Why couldn’t I be the human and you the horse?” Huck once complained. “I guarantee you I wouldn’t waste one single moment of being two-legged and alive!”)

The time has come for me to entrust Huck to the care of someone else. So I’m putting out this call to my Paradise readers. If you’d like to hang with the wildest, woolliest, funniest, absolutely best equine pard ever, and have the wherewithal to do it, please, drop me an email and, sad as it may make me, we’ll talk.

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 12, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #245

Friday, February 5th, 2010

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

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