Page 3 of Finding Silence
I should be relieved.
My heart has been given a clean bill of health a full year after my triple bypass surgery.
The surgery saved my life after getting hit with a massive heart attack while on the job. But, apparently, it left me with something my cardiologist tells me is PSPS, or post-sternotomy pain syndrome. Some people are left with it after they crack your chest for the heart surgery.
The pain has caused me plenty of sleepless nights, but I’ve been too stubborn—or maybe too scared—to see a doctor until now. When I mentioned it to my cardiologist, I was assured the pain in my chest had nothing to do with my heart, which did put my mind somewhat at ease. But now I have something else to add to the list of ways in which my fifty-three-year-old body is deciding to let me down.
Dangit.
There was a time not so long ago, I could still outrun, outlift, and outlast even most of the younger guys working for me. But those days are gone, and with it the ability for me to do my job effectively or reliably, which is why I chose to hand off the reins to my daughter, Savvy, and take an early retirement. She’ll do a good job, I trained her myself, but after devoting nearly thirty-three years to the office, living and breathing my job, I feel as useless as tits on a bull.
Now I have this chronic pain condition that doesn’t seem to have an easy fix, other than popping more damn pills. I swear half the crap I take is burning holes in my gut.
Speaking of guts, I should probably stop at Home Depot to pick up some more pellets for my smoker. I’m almost out and I really want to smoke that trout I pulled out of Gold Creek last night.
As I’m pulling into a parking spot, my phone rings.
“Hey, Toots. What’s up?”
“Hey, Daddy. What did the doc say?”
My daughter is as subtle as a steamroller. No easing into the conversation or idle chitchat when she’s got a point to get to. We’ve had one too many arguments about my health over the years, and that damn heart attack proved her right. I was still in the hospital recovering from the surgery when she laid a heart-to-heart on me, the weight of which I feel to this day.
Savvy had been in tears, and I haven’t been able to stand seeing my daughter cry since she was twelve, got tossed barrel racing, and broke her collarbone. She’d been inconsolable and so had I. Making her cry made me feel even worse than I already felt. She’d been fuming mad though, telling me she’d already lost too many people too soon, and wasn’t about to stand by and watch her last remaining parent play fast and loose with his life.
Since then, I’ve done my best to be more open with her instead of brushing off health concerns she might’ve brought up.
“Ticker’s good to go.”
“Good news. Did you ask her about the pain?”
I groan. She caught me wincing the other day and, in the spirit of honesty, I mentioned I had some discomfort in my chest and I’d bring it up with the cardiologist.
“Nothing to do with my heart.”
“So…what is it?”
I grind my teeth; she is tenacious, which is what makes her damn good at what she does, but I’m not a fan when it’s aimed at me. Reluctantly, I fill her in on what the doc told me, that it’s likely something I’ll simply have to contend with. I could hear the tapping of her fingers on the keyboard of her computer, and I know she’s already doing research on the subject before I’m even done talking.
“Toots, do me a favor,” I preemptively stop her from spouting off the results of her findings. “Give me until tomorrow to process before you start tossing out articles and studies on alternative treatment options and shit like that.”
I’m met with silence, and I know she’s biting her lip to keep from doing exactly that.
“Fine,” she finally concedes, but she doesn’t sound happy about it.
“You know what? I caught a nice trout yesterday; why don’t I smoke it for dinner tomorrow night?” I can find something else to eat tonight. “It would probably go well with your broccoli salad,” I add.
That has her laughing. “Is that your way of asking me to bring my broccoli salad?”
I grin. “Well, you’re the one who made me eat it in the first place.”
Ever since I got home from the hospital last year, Savvy’s been trying to get me to eat more roughage, since I lived my whole life a meat and potatoes kinda guy. I’m trying; there aren’t a lot of green things I actually get excited about, but Savvy’s broccoli salad is definitely one.
“Oh, fine. I hope to be out of here by five, but I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
After ending the call I head into Home Depot, get my smoking pellets, and a few other odds and ends I need to finish a project I’ve been working on.
I’m trying to build a secure pen for Angus, my rescue goat, who keeps escaping the pen he currently shares with the chickens. Also rescued, by the way, since Buck—our local vet and one of my poker buddies—keeps bringing over these animals for me to look after. He tells me it’ll give me something useful to do, force me out of the house now I’m retired.
