A BYPASS in DEFENSE of the FREE WORLD

Knowing that many of my friends and family had not yet experienced Open-Heart Surgery, I recently submitted to the procedure, intending to carefully document each step, so they might have some idea of what to expect. Does this make me some sort of trailblazing hero? That's for others to decide------but probably so----yes, I guess it does.

If you haven't yet read the story, "My Rude Awakening," you should do that first, as this story is what we in the publishing world like to call a "sequel" to that one. 

"Can you say, 'se-quel,' Pretty Boy?" 

But for those of you too lazy to find and read that story (most of you, I suspect) here's the gist of it: 

My family history of heart disease, high cholesterol and intolerance for statins led my Cardiologist to recommend a Nuclear Stress Test. This is a procedure in which lab technicians affix numerous electrical leads to the chest of some unfortunate chap whose coronary arteries may be clogged, requiring him to run on a treadmill until either his heartbeat reaches a predetermined target, or he expires, whichever comes first. As you may have surmised, my test was not fatal, but not for any lack of zeal on the part of the lab-techs. Frustrated that my heartbeat wasn't hitting their target, they cranked the treadmill from the "Alpine" to the "Himalayan" setting, and I managed to gasp out this question with what I thought might be my final breaths,

"How...many...patients...do you...lose on...this machine?" 

One of the techs answered, "About 25%."

"This is disconcerting," I thought, as I approached unconsciousness, "one in four Stress Test participants don't survive. This would have been helpful information to receive before I agreed to the test." (Yes, I often enclose my thoughts in quotation marks, if it's any of your business).

Later, when I questioned that death rate, which seemed a bit high, the tech explained that she meant that about 25% of their patients halt the test before completing it. This clarification provided a humorous moment for all those in the office who were not the patient.

The reason it's called a "nuclear" stress test is that some radioactive material is injected in the patient's chest during the procedure. I would have asked what percentage of radiated patients develop super- powers, but I had lost confidence in the lab techs' understanding of percentages.

My Rude Awakening

Last Tuesday I was waking from a semi-conscious state after a heart cath. I expected to wake to my Cardiologist's words, "Everything looks fine," or, "You had some minor clogging; but the stents I put in should do the trick; go home and eat more pie." But he was off script. "You have three major blockages, each at 70-80%. Imagine ten lanes of busy traffic trying to squeeze into two or three."

"I don't have to imagine it. I just drove through Atlanta."

"One of those blockages is in the Left Anterior Descending Artery, commonly known as the Widow Maker."

I didn't like the sound of that. The rural church I serve part-time already has several widows who need pastoral care. The last thing I wanted was to add another widow to the list and increase my workload, especially when I had just been informed that I have a heart condition. 

Then I heard the doctor use the words "bypass surgery." That's a relief, I thought, he's recommending that we bypass surgery; sounds good to me. I bet he's going to explain that the wizards of modern medicine have found a better way to fix my heart than by carving me like a turkey. Maybe now they can do it with lasers, or a Zoom call. I imagined him saying:

"Thankfully, you made it into the 21st Century, when the barbaric method of extracting veins from your legs, sawing through your chest and splicing those veins into your arteries is a thing of the past." 

But evidently the wizards have been preoccupied with other matters, like fighting worldwide pandemics, or helping that Potter fellow defeat Voldemort, because what he actually said was,

"You need to schedule bypass surgery."

"Rats! No stents then?"

"Your blockages are too severe."

"You idiot," I said to myself, "you should have skipped the dessert bar at Golden Corral."  

"But desserts are included in the price," I responded. "Only a fool would pay for dessert and not eat it. Would you rather be an idiot or a fool?"

"Are those my only two options?"