I’m a cowboy,
On a steel horse I ride.
I’m wanted, dead or alive.
Wanted, dead or alive.

—Bon Jovi, lyrics
___________________

I didn’t quite know what was going on when I got back home from my little excursion to the hospital, back over a month ago. But I knew there were some changes coming. New stuff, new ventures into scary new places. And I’m a person of routines, stuck in my ways. I liked it the way it was, is my motto. So I wasn’t all that eager to walk forward, to see what all that new stuff might be. But I gotta say, this far out. It’s been rolling right along, life has. And I’ve pretty much been rolling right along with it. And I was right, about those changes coming. Some real strange things have been going on. Real strange things, indeed.

Where to start? Where to start? Right here, I guess. I’m cooking for myself. I mean, actually frying stuff up in a frying pan on the stove. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of my history will grasp how astonishing is this fact. I got lectured pretty hard, by the grave doctor and his nutritionists. Low sodium only. You’ll really, really have to watch what you eat. And you can’t go out to eat, much. Most restaurant food is gonna set off those fluids in you again. Which means you’re best off fixing your own food at home. Cooking. For yourself. It did no good, and I was too shell-shocked anyway, to make much of any protest. But I don’t cook. I never have. You might as well tell me to learn to speak Latin, or some such senseless thing.

It all was what it was, I figured. And I figured, too, that most of my cooking would be done in my crock pot. That’s the most basic way to cook any food. And I had watched Ellen, way back, when she whipped up a crock pot meal. It was all pretty simple to do on my own, later on. And that’s about the only way I’ve ever cooked, ever since I’ve lived alone, these past nine years. And that’s the first thing I did after I got home, this time. I cooked up a batch of beans and spices and a hunk of organic buffalo meat in the crock pot. It all came out OK, and I ate the mess. But I got to thinking, along about that time. There has to be something more to life than a crock pot, when it comes to fixing food. There has to be a better way. There just has to be.

And there was a better way, all right. I would have to learn to cook, at least the basics. I had the pots and pans, I knew, to fry up what could be fried. My kitchen is quite well-stocked, in fact. Many years ago, my father discovered some special cookware imported all the way from Denmark. It was made of titanium, brand named Pyrolux. I’m not sure why Dad got all excited about this particular brand. But he did, and he became a dealer in short order. There must have been some perceived health benefit or other going on. And as he always did in all his business ventures, my father went all out. He wrote about this new magical cookware in The Budget and possibly in Family Life. And he stocked up on dozens and dozens of pots and pans of every imaginable size and shape. I mean, there were large pans and large pots, all with glass lids. And there were medium and small pans and medium and small pots, all with glass lids as well. And I know the man sold and shipped out hundreds of these pots and pans to customers all across this land and Canada.

All that, to say this. There was a space there of about a decade, maybe from the mid-1990s on, when I picked up a new piece of titanium cookware every time I went home to visit. Dad offered his wares to me quite magnanimously, I must say. And I never shrank from accepting such a gift. Oh, yes, I’d love one, I told him when he offered. And I’d venture into his vast storeroom of inventory and help myself to whatever item caught my fancy on that particular day. And over time, I ended up with just about all there was to get, when it comes to cookware from the Pyrolux Company in Denmark. I had small pots and large pots, I had small pans and large pans and flat square pans and round pans. Even after Ellen and I were married and stopped by home to visit, I always asked Dad. Got any cookware around I can have? By this time, the pot and pan business had long been extinct. But he still had a good bit of inventory kicking around. And much to Ellen’s embarrassment, Dad always told me to help myself, which I did, happily and without any guilt whatsoever. “Stop asking him for free stuff,” Ellen hissed at me every time. Oh, he wants to get rid of it, I said amiably, as I grabbed another two-hundred dollar pot from a large pile that sat there gathering dust.

And so there was not a problem finding the tools to cook with. My kitchen is a gold mine of all one might need. I can hold my head high, there. (I’m thinking titanium has fallen out of favor and might now be considered poisonous. Maybe that’s why Dad had so many of the pots and pans available.) The problem was, what can I cook? I mean, I could not have been less skilled than I was.

I asked around a bit. Did some checking, on low sodium foods. And I found a couple of things I figured would be pretty simple. Eggs. And potatoes. And yes, I know. Potatoes are loaded with carbs. But that didn’t concern me much. I wanted something that passed my new low sodium test. And raw potatoes and raw eggs have no sodium, naturally. Or it’s so miniscule it might as well be nonexistent. I could eat anything I fried up, as long as I kept the salt off. Or at least kept it to a minimum. And so I ventured out to the grocery store one day. And there I found what I was looking for. Some red potatoes. And a dozen large free-range eggs. I bravely trudged home with my victuals. Now, to see if I could fry up this stuff.

And I gotta say, it all turned out. Sure, there was a learning curve, especially in frying the eggs. I busted the yolk every time, the first dozen tries or so. Eventually I figured it out. Just don’t flip them. Crack’em open into the pan, cover with the lid, and let the eggs cook. Over easy is how I like them anyway. The taters were easy. I sliced and diced and chopped them up, cut up part of an onion, greased up the pan with olive oil, and cooked the whole mess up. And lately I’ve took to adding some bits of hamburger or thin steak slices, chopped up. That all makes some tasty goulash. And it all makes for a delicious mess when you top it with a couple of farm-fresh, organic, over-easy eggs. I’ve been dining real fine. One of these days, I’ll be confident enough to cook for company, even. And for me, that’s saying something.

And no, not every night do I fry up eggs and potatoes. Maybe every other night. I beg whatever I can from friends wherever I can, and I have a good supply of frozen, low-sodium foods in my freezer. Soups and such. And I dine out at least twice a week. I’m pushing that line on salt, seeing how far I can take it. Still careful, of course. But not paranoid. And so far, it’s all been going good. Including my cooking. Which is a very strange thing. But it’s not the strangest thing.

And moving right on down the list, then, to the next odd thing. And that is the extraordinary fact that I have grown a beard. Yep, whiskers. And a mustache, even. Such a thing is probably just about the last thing I would ever have imagined you would hear me tell, a few months back. But now it’s now. Things aren’t the same as they were yesterday. I’ve been very leery of beards for decades. Never dreamed of having one, with one exception. The wheat harvest, back in 1986. I grew a beard out there in the wild lands of Montana and Alberta, because somehow that seemed fitting. Mostly, though, I was a lost soul back then. And that beard lasted only a few months. Once I got back to civilization in Daviess, off it came. And that’s been my only experience, ever, with a beard, at least that I can remember. Until now.

I’ve never liked beards, because in the world where I grew up, beards were mandatory for men. At least after you got married. In Aylmer, you had to grow whatever beard you could when you joined church. I mean, their youth have beards. Or did, years ago. I can’t speak for today. I’d guess that’s still the rule up there. And that’s fine, if it is. I’m just saying, I’ve never liked beards, and never seriously considered growing one in the normal course of things. You get burned out, when something is mandatory like that. You shy away from the hard and fast rules. And it gets to be a pretty powerful motivator, not to fall in line, when you got that kind of baggage on your back.

I’ve seen it many times, over the years, and I always recoiled from it. Some guy will break away from the Amish, married or single. And next thing you know, he’s showing up, not with a beard, but with a huge old bushy walrus mustache. Because the Amish can’t have mustaches. And for some guys, it’s just too much to shake off, when freedom suddenly comes. I mean, I understand it. But I’ve always recoiled from it. You see an old friend, or just some guy you know came from the Amish. Beardless, he strolls about. But between his nose and mouth, there grows a great bushy mass of hair so huge that you know it has to interfere with his food when he’s eating. I’ve never been able to grasp why anyone would want to do such a thing. But it’s OK. I’m over my revulsion now. I’ve come to realize it’s none of my business, the personal choices others make. And I’ve remained pretty much free of beard and mustache over the course of my entire lifetime. And happily so. Until now.

There’s one thing that happens when you stay in the hospital for ten days. You don’t shave. Mostly, because you’re laid up, and you can’t. At least, that’s how it was for me. My first Monday there, I had Steve stop by my house and pick up a few things. Including my battery shaver. He dutifully lugged it in. And there it sat, in a bag, until the day I left. You don’t shave, because you don’t feel like it. And half the time I was there, I couldn’t get out of bed whenever I felt like it, anyway. And so, by day ten, I looked at myself in the mirror with some interest. I sure had a scruffy face. I wasn’t sure how I was gonna get all that hair off with my shaver, or a razor. And it hit me, about the last day I was there. It’s grown, now, for ten days. Trim it up, and it won’t look half bad. And by the time my nephew, Andrew, arrived to escort me out of that place, I had it figured out. I would go and buy a trimmer. Because I would need one in the future, to trim my new beard.

And so far in, I actually kind of like it. It took some getting used to, I gotta say. I shudder to confess, though. I have a mustache. Gahhh. One never knows, when one is judging others. Some day, you’ll walk that same path yourself. Anyway, at my age, I got a lot of gray hair. So my beard is partially gray, too. I keep it trimmed way down, and neat. It’s a salt and pepper look. It all gives me a little more gravitas than I naturally have, I would claim. And it definitely makes me look at least slightly distinguished. Especially during conversations when I reach up and slowly stroke or scratch my beard with a wise and knowing look. With a beard like that, I think, you can fool a lot of people a lot of the time.

All that said, I’m not making any prognostications about walking about majestically bearded for the rest of my life. As fast as the notion struck me, it could well leave. To me, it’s nothing religious or moral or amoral, growing a beard. It’s just that I knew I’d be facing a new world, when I got home from the hospital. And for that new world, I’m sporting a new look. And that’s all there is to that.

OK, then. So I’m cooking for myself in my own kitchen, with my very own cutting-edge cookware. Bearded. Had you told me such a thing would be, six months ago, I would have expelled you from my presence. I would have told you to come back when your head’s feeling right again. And I would have done all this with a totally clean conscience. But things get stranger still.

I’m not even quite sure how it happened, just last week. I was strolling about in a department store one day, not really looking for anything in particular. Maybe some shirts off the clearance rack. I always buy my winter shirts around this time of year, when the spring clothes are getting stocked, and the old inventory gets way reduced.

I walked about, lollygagging. Looking at this and that. And then I walked right into a small section with several nice racks and shelves. On those racks and shelves were hats. Dozens and dozens of hats of every type. Spiffy little fedoras. Bowlers. English caps. I checked out a few with some interest. I hadn’t known hats were “in” again. They must be, for a store to stock a selection like this. And then I saw them, off to one end. Not really cowboy hats. Maybe you’d call them Aussie hats. Something like Crocodile Dundee wore, way back. Or Harrison Ford. A medium wide brim, turned down in front and back. And I couldn’t help myself. I took one that looked to be about my size and tried it on. It fit perfectly. But nah, I thought. I don’t do hats. I don’t wear hats. I just don’t.

And once again, my aversion to hats is something that can be traced straight back to my ex-Amish roots. From where I come from, in the Midwest, you don’t wear a hat if you came from the Amish. At least, that’s how it was, years ago. And since that time, wearing a hat of any kind has been just about the last thing I could ever imagine doing.

We always, always had to wear a hat outside, growing up. That’s the underlying issue. And when it gets drilled in you like that, you get burned out. And you shy away from it if you ever break free. I can remember many times, playing outside at home, gloriously grimy and hatless. And Dad would come strolling around, on his way to somewhere, maybe town. And if it was your turn to go with him, it was a big deal. And always, always, he said. “Go get your hat, so we can go.” And we did. Did we ever. A trip to town was way too big to miss, just because you didn’t have your hat on.

One of the most accurate scenes in the movie “Witness” involved a hat. The Amish mother and son sat there in the train station in Philly, waiting. The little boy asked to go to the restroom (where he would witness the murder that set things off). His pretty young mother smiled and told him he could go. The boy turned and was two steps gone, when she spoke his name, and he halted in his tracks. “Samuel,” she said. “Dye Hoot” (Samuel. Your hat). The boy turned back with an “ah, shucks” grin, and put on his hat. That’s exactly how it would have happened in real life. I’ve always marveled at the scriptwriters, that they got such a small detail so right on.

So it was from such a foundation of experiences that I stood there at that hat rack that day. Fingering that Aussie hat. Trying it on, and trying it on again. It fit perfectly. It’s hard to find a real hat that fits perfectly, I thought to myself. And it was a Stetson, a real honorable brand. And best of all, it was 50% off. Well, that’s what the signs claimed, anyway.

In my old world, it would have ended right there. With me toying with that hat, then setting it back on the shelf, and walking out of there. But the old world I knew for decades is gone, now. In this new world, I cook for myself. And I thought, what the heck? The new me don’t drink, and I’ve got a new beard. So why not a manly hat, for a whole new look? Those are the thoughts that flashed through me as I stood there, turning that hat in my hands by its brim.

Well, you can guess the rest. I took that hat right up to the nearest cashier. Shelled out my $23.00, which was half the listed price. And I walked out of that store with that hat. In my truck, I shaped the brim just right.

I wore my new hat out and about the rest of that day. And I gotta say. People look at you a little different, when you come around. Eye you up a little different, give you a little wider berth. And everyone is, oh, so respectful and polite. I’m not saying that’s the way it should be. But that’s the way it is.

That evening, I strolled into Vinola’s, proudly wearing my new hat. I’d like to say I clanked in, but I haven’t worn spurs since my ranching days in Valentine, Nebraska. A few regulars lounged at the far end of the bar. I greeted them and took a seat. Pour me something exotic in a tall glass, I told the barmaid. Whatever you mix up with be fine. Just leave out the alcohol. That’s how it’s been, in my new world. I still stop at my favorite bar, to eat and chat. Not as often as I used to, just now and then. And I am very much welcomed. My friends at Vinola’s had heard about my stint in the hospital, and they all rushed around and hugged and welcomed me, my first time back. I can’t drink, I told them. At least, not for now. And they were totally fine with that. I harvested a lot of welcome hugs from a host of very lovely ladies. “Welcome back,” they told me. “And, oh, I like your beard.” I smiled and felt right at home, like I always do there.

And that night, my friends commented about my hat. Yeah, I said. I just wanted something different. Plus, it’s winter. You gotta have protection on your head. And I sat there, watching football with my buddies and swapping lies. And I ordered some food. A cheeseburger. They make everything from scratch, there at Vinola’s. And I tell them. I can’t drink. I can’t eat salt. They serve up the food, as salt-free as they can make it. And all of it is just beyond delicious.

After eating, I soon made noises to leave. My exotic, juicy drink was gone. My hamburger wolfed down. Time to head on home, I told my friends. And one of them asked me. “I want to buy you one for the road. Will you drink a cup of hot tea?”

Well. What do you say to that, sitting at any bar? You take what’s offered from a sincere heart, I figured. Sure, I said. I don’t know much about hot tea, but I’d love some. I called over the barmaid, and we had a little conference about what it is to make hot tea. Then, by magic, a cup of hot water appeared. And a selection of tea bags. I picked one and plopped it in. And waited while the hot water turned all murky. And then I sat there, hunched over the bar at Vinola’s in my “bad” new hat, sipping a hot cup of Earl Grey.

I shuddered to think of what Max Brand or Louis L’Amour would have written about such a scene. A couple of young toughs would walk up and insult me. That’s the formula. There would be words. Ha, ha, look at that wuss. He’s not man enough to drink real whiskey. He’s drinking hot tea. Shouldn’t you be sticking out your pinky finger when you lift that cup? Ha, ha, ha. I would stare them down, and they’d go for their guns. And I’d have to draw, lightning-quick, and shoot them both. All to prove I’m a man, and that a man can drink hot tea anywhere he’s darn well got a mind to.

I finished my drink, and slapped my friends on the back. So long, guys. And thanks for the tea. And walked out of the place. It sure is a strange thing, I thought later. My old routines got all busted. And here I am, cooking my own food at home. I got a new beard. I’m wearing a tough new hat to the bar, and drinking hot tea. And it’s been less than two months since I got back home from the hospital. I sure wonder what other borders are out there to cross. Or if I’ll have the nerve to cross them when I reach them.

I think I’ll have the nerve. Heck, the way it’s going, one of these days I’ll be rumbling down distant roads on my custom Harley.

I get around,
I kicked the habit (kicked the habit, kicked the habit),
Shed my skin (shed my skin).
This is the new stuff (this is the new stuff),
I go dancing in (we go dancing in)…

—Peter Gabriel, lyrics: Sledgehammer
______________________________

He walked in the other day at work to pick up a few things for a job he was finishing up. A small-time builder, a guy I’ve done business with for years. I got up and met him at the counter. I smiled and greeted him. And he smiled back, and spoke my name. “Ira. It’s good to see you,” he said. “I called in the other week, and they told me you were in the hospital. How are you doing?” And I filled him in a little, in the next few minutes. I’ve been back for a few weeks. Part days, at first. I’m back to almost full-time. I come in a little late in the mornings, and work til closing. I’m feeling pretty good. I figure I’ll be back to full-time before long.

He asked about what had happened, and I told him. My heart. A-Fib, turned into congestive failure. The fluids, and how I was filled with them. He listened, all sympathetic. I asked what he was after, kind of edged it in sideways, and wrote it up when he told me. And we kept talking about where I had been. It was close, I told him. It got a little tricky there, early on. I came very close to leaving it all behind, that first Saturday night. And I told him how it was. It was the strangest thing. I knew I was in bad shape, right there. I knew I might not make it. And he asked. “Did you see a white light, or anything?” The man never was particularly religious, at least not around me, so I was a little surprised at the question. I mean, we’ve always got along real well. But we have never, never discussed what we believed, when it comes to faith. And now, here he was, asking me what I had seen when death came stalking close.

Nope. There was no light, I told him. I was always conscious. But I can tell you one thing. I wasn’t afraid. I felt no fear at all. “Wow,” he said. “I wonder if I’ll be afraid when the time comes. I don’t know.” And we just stood there and talked about it, what it might look like to die, and what comes after. It’s amazing how easy it is to talk to just about anyone about the hard stuff, when you were as close to death as I was.

And that odd little scene right there is only one among many in the brave new world I’ve been walking through this past month, ever since I’ve been home from the hospital.

Home from the hospital. To anyone who’s ever been trapped in a place like that, those are beautiful, magical words. Home. Out of this crazy place, where bells and whistles and all kinds of beeping noises of every imaginable tone and volume go off at random at all hours of the day and night. Home, from this place where people come in and wake you up and stab you with needles to draw blood, and poke and prod you all over late at night. Home, from this place where rest is a mirage and sleep is impossible. Anyone who’s ever stayed at any hospital knows what that feeling’s like, to be told that they can go home, tomorrow or the day after. It’s like being told there is light after the deepest darkness, hope after despair, life after death.

And it’s all still pretty close for me, the whole experience. I remember so many things that happened, there at the hospital. Good stuff, and bad. A couple of defining incidents remain especially vivid in my mind.

Monday morning. I woke up in good time. Just coming out of that frightful weekend, when the death angel had come that close to taking me. Saturday night into Sunday morning. That was the lowest point. And then, on Sunday, I improved a bit. And now, it was Monday morning. And the doctor, the guy who had made the calls from afar, that doctor was standing in my room, looking all grave and glum. A small crowd had assembled around. A couple of nurses. The doctor. My brother, Steve. And my friend, Gloria, had stopped in for a few minutes on her way to the college classroom where she teaches art history.

The doctor stood there, in his white doctor’s gown. Like I said, he looked pretty grave. As he certainly had a right to do, I guess. I mean, the man had brought me back from the brink. He’s the one who had discovered my heart was actually failing, that I was filled to the brim, almost, with fluids. And here he was in person for the first time, at least the first time that I saw him. He stood there, close to the door. All eyes focused on him. All was silent. It reminded me for all the world of an Amish church service. The doctor surveyed the room, kind of like an Amish preacher does. I don’t remember that he cleared his throat, or anything, like an Amish preacher would. He looked around, looked at me, looked at the people assembled and standing around.

He never said my name, at least not that I remember. My head was a little foggy, I will admit, so I might be wrong. But he spoke. “The patient’s heart is very weak, working at only fifteen percent strength. (Fifty percent of capability is considered full strength, so if you multiply it out, I was actually at thirty percent of capability. But they never tell you that. They want that scare factor figured in.) The doctor went on, dramatically. “Had he not gotten treatment, he would have died sometime this week.” (That shocked me. Good Lord. That was a close thing.) The Amish sermon continued. “He had his last drink of alcohol before he came in. There will never be another drop of anything. No wine, no beer, no non-alcoholic beer. No nothing.” And I thought to myself. What does he think, that I’m asleep, that he keeps talking about me in third person like I’m not here? But I was too tired to be all that offended. Or to be shocked, much, at even that last astounding and horrifying statement about no alcohol. Right then, I just wanted to rest.

And I wanted this pesky doctor to go away and leave me alone. After a few more grave proclamations, one of which was the assertion that I would be in the hospital for at least two weeks, the man did leave. The small crowd dispersed with him. The nurses went out. Gloria left for her classroom. Only Steve stayed with me. He didn’t say a whole lot of anything. He was still too shocked by the doctor’s proclamations, probably. Which was all fine by me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, anyway. I sank back and closed my eyes. That morning, I was a pretty sick man.

And that was Monday, and about all that’s worth remembering about that day. And time went on, there in the ICU. I wasn’t focused on much of anything except resting over the next few days. I had one major complaint, though. The food. It was just atrocious. Inedible. It didn’t matter what they told you they were serving you. You lifted the heavy lid off the plate, and whatever name the food had, it looked the same and smelled the same. Slop, is what it was. And no one ever bothered to tell me that it was salt-free slop. During the first few days, I had no clue that I was even on a low sodium diet. No clue at all. So it never occurred to me, that what I plotted next was strictly against the rules.

My nephews, John and David, had arrived that Tuesday from points in the Midwest. They hung out a lot during the day, just chatting about things. And they went out to Steve’s house a lot, too, to clean up and sleep and eat. And I think it was Thursday, when I couldn’t take it any more, when it came to the food. And I told my nephews. When you go out for lunch, bring me back something to eat. I’m hungry for cheese sticks. Their younger brother, Mervin, had arrived by this time. And the three of them allowed that it should be no problem. If Uncle Ira was hungry for cheese sticks, then cheese sticks he would have. I mean, look at the poor guy, all wasted away, there in the ICU. The boys disappeared, to go downtown to eat. They were gone for quite a while. A couple of hours, at least. They were hanging out, the brothers. John and David were heading for home late that afternoon. They planned to drive all night, to get back.

Somehow, while they were gone, the nurse found out they were planning on bringing me food. She scolded me. “You can’t do that. You’re on a strict diet.” No one told me that, I said. I’m hungry for some food from outside. She left it at that, or seemed to. And soon enough, the three of them came shuffling back into the room. One of them carried a folded paper bag. I took it eagerly. The cheese sticks. Oh, yum. And dip, too. Good stuff, right there. I quickly scarfed down two of the greasy sticks, while the nurse was gone. That’s about all I could handle. I had the boys hide the bag in the back room, where there was a couch and a chair, and some shelves. Keep those things out of sight. No sense getting everyone all riled up about nothing. That’s what I figured.

The nurse returned while the boys were sitting around, just chatting. John and David wanted to leave around four, or so. The nurse did not seem very happy. She grumped at my visitors. It’s two o’clock. Only one person was allowed to be in the room with me from two until four. We had known this was the rule, but so far, no one had paid any attention to it. And no one had enforced it. This nurse got all bossy. The boys pretty much ignored her, and she walked out soon. Stay for a little, yet, I told John and David. Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s just mad that you brought me food.

The boys left soon, then, heading out for home. Mervin stayed with me. He soon wandered off, as I took a nap. I stirred and looked out of the room. The grave doctor was strolling by right that moment. The bossy nurse had stopped him, and was talking to him in an animated manner. The doctor’s face turned grim as well as grave. When the nurse had finished, he turned and walked right into my room. A short, curt greeting. Then he asked, ominously. “Did you just eat a cheeseburger and French fries?” I did not, I said. I ate two cheese sticks. He understood me to say “cheese steaks,” I figured out later. “That’s even worse,” he said. How could two cheese sticks be worse than a burger and fries? I wondered. But I didn’t argue. And he told me. That food is full of salt. If I eat it, it will trigger more fluids in my body. I had no idea, but I didn’t bother arguing with the man. But I did bristle a bit. The food here is slop, I muttered. It’s not fit to eat.

The doctor continued to look grave, as well as grim. “Look,” he said. “We’ve got you back this far. Work with me, here, as a team.” OK, I said. I’ll do that. I don’t like your food here. But I won’t eat anything more from the outside. He was satisfied with my weak promise, and left me then. I was relieved. The man had saved my life, that much was true and remains true. But he was also God-like and intimidating, always. I can’t say I have or ever had any personal liking for him. I respect him tremendously. But I don’t like him.

And that’s how I found out about the brave new world that awaited me when I ever got home. From those two little incidents. And they loomed there, on the edge of things, two massive changes, cold and menacing. These medical people had me trapped. They had saved me from myself, from my own stupid choices. And now they were dictating the conditions of my life. And I could accept that. Still, I didn’t want to think about it.

Home looked pretty barren and desolate, all of a sudden. I was an invalid. Walking along, weak and wounded. My food would be pretty much tasteless. No hot dogs again, ever. Or sausage sandwiches. And there would be no alcohol in my world. Either one of these things would have been bad enough, all on its own. Combined, they lurked out there like monsters, dark and frightening. I averted my eyes and my thoughts from such a dismal world as that. And as the week’s end approached, and my health improved dramatically, I chafed to get out of that place, the hospital. But I shrank, too, at the thought of going home. Of going home and facing that hard stuff I didn’t want to face. Alone. It all seemed like such a harsh and bitter thing.

And Monday came again. Today, I would get out of this place. Not in two weeks, as the grave doctor had foretold. But in one week. Well, if he was that wrong about such a thing as that, maybe he’d be wrong about other things, too. That desperate thought flashed through my head a few times that day. And noon came, then, and my last plate of slop. I actually was eating the food by then. It was tasteless, most of it, being salt-free. But it was food. And around two, my nephew Andrew walked in. It was time to leave this place. We picked up my stuff and walked out.

I felt numb as we drove along the highway toward home, and I felt it pulsing down there, deep inside. Fear. Fear of a lot of things, but mostly fear of the unknown. I was in a new place, here, a place I had never even imagined before. And yet, I felt gratitude, too. I was grateful just to be alive, to be here, to be able to go home. Yeah, things would be different. Tough, and a lot different. But life is life, wherever you find yourself. And I figured I’d live through whatever was coming at me. I always had before.

But still. God, I thought. I don’t know about all this. I need your help, getting through. You know that. I’m gonna figure you’ll be there, just like you always promised you would be. I’ll try not to whine too much. But I feel like I’m in the middle of a desolate land, here, with no way out. I need you to guide me. Help me. We got home then, and Andrew helped me carry my stuff in. Then we headed out in Big Blue to the health food store. If you gotta be on low sodium, I figured, go talk to the people who can help you with the right foods. I walked out with a small paper bag filled with sixty bucks worth of low sodium foods, spices, and vegetables.

And the first evening at home was a little surreal and strange. Not so much from the food. But because of the alcohol, or lack thereof. I know the family had some doubts about it all, that I’d be able to quit for any measurable length of time. There had been a few subtle inquiries, sliding in from here and there. Are you going to be OK, not drinking? How about getting rid of all your bottles? Don’t you think you should? No, I said. If you think getting rid of all the alcohol in my house is going to do a lick of good, well, you don’t know what it is to face a thing like that. It’s a matter of the mind. It’s choices. You choose to drink. And you choose to not drink. And if I’m gonna sneak around and drink, a dry house won’t do much good. Heck, I’ll just run out to the bar. So no, I won’t get rid of the alcohol in my house, and I won’t keep people from drinking around me. I don’t want people to be all nervous, to feel like they have to tiptoe around me. I want people to be who they are.

That first evening, I snacked on some of the stuff from the health food store. Andrew took a nap on the couch for a while. And then it was dark outside. And soon Steve stopped by, to see how things were going. I was tired, I got tired very easily those days. And I told Andrew, when he asked. I don’t really have a place for you to sleep, except the couch. Go on over to Steve’s house. I’m fine. I’m going to bed very soon. I’ll stop over tomorrow morning, before you have to leave for the airport. And that’s what happened. Andrew followed Steve to his home. And that night, for the first time in ten days, I was all alone in my home.

It was strange and it was scary, those first few days. At least for the first week. The low-sodium diet scared me more than not drinking. For the alcohol, it was very simple. The grave doctor had pretty much told me. One drop, and you’re dead. Well, not dead, but I might as well be, the way he talked. I knew he was way overstating his case, but I was determined to listen to what he told me. No alcohol means no alcohol. Just don’t drink. But the food with no salt? Well, that was a minefield, right there.

I learned pretty quick. Almost all prepackaged food at the grocery store is loaded with sodium. I had never bothered to check the labels before. I mean, who does that? Why would you? But now, I had to. And that first week, I stuck pretty much with veggies and organic meat from the health food store. I cooked up a mixture of some sort in the crock pot. No salt at all. Just spices, pepper, and Mrs. Dash. The food all tasted quite bland, those first few weeks.

And I went back to work, at least part time, right from my first full day back home. You gotta stay busy, doing something. And it was a relief, to get back in the swing of things at work. My builders all welcomed me back when they called in or stopped by. Glad you are here and doing well. That was their sentiment, across the board. I’m happy to be here, and I’m glad to be back, I told them all.

And now it’s been almost exactly one month since I walked out of the hospital. I’ve had three or four follow-up checkups in that time. After the first full week, the grave doctor had me stop by. He checked me out. Everything seemed good. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen. The drugs, I said. They’re giving me vivid dreams. Every night. Not nightmares, necessarily. But strong dreams. He glanced at me, rather disdainfully. “No, those drugs do not give you dreams,” he said. And that was that. OK, then. I didn’t speak much more with him about anything after that. What good does it do to talk, if the person you’re talking to isn’t listening? I did ask one more question, though. How long will I be on medication? “The rest of your life,” he told me. Which was not a very nice thing to say. It threw me for a serious loop, into a real depressed state of mind.

A few days later, the A-Fib doctor disabused me of that notion. The drugs I’m on are toxic. They want to get me off all drugs, as soon as they can. Definitely within months. I rejoiced and thought dark thoughts about the grave doctor.

I’ve been getting comfortable with my new lifestyle. Don’t get me wrong. Of an evening, especially when I’m sitting at my computer, writing, I sure would like a drink. I would really like one. But it’s never been even close, so far. No alcohol means no alcohol. And right now, that’s the world I live in.

The sodium, too, doesn’t scare me as the monster it was a month ago. I’m learning to cook at home, now. I fry up a lot of potatoes, and cook up a lot of eggs. And now and then, I eat foods that I know are loaded with salt. Cheese. Sliced summer sausage. A bite here, a bite there. Just not much, at any single time. And every morning, I weigh myself. Just to keep track, to make sure the fluids are not building up. And over the holidays, the weight has fluctuated, sure. But it’s been because of all those goodies that people keep pushing on me. Coming right up, real soon here, it’s going to be time to get serious about a few things, like exercising at the gym. And I plan to.

Last Saturday, I was driving around in Big Blue, running a few errands here and there. Around late morning, I found myself close to the Waffle House along Rt. 30 in Lancaster. I’ve always loved the Waffle House breakfast of hash browns, smothered in onions, eggs over-medium, and buttered toast. I thought about it. Could they fix it without salt? Can’t hurt to try, I figured. So I went in and sat at the counter. The waitress, a cheerful hard-eyed woman in her fifties, took my order. I don’t want any salt on anything, I told her. Will that be a problem? She assured me it would not be.

She slung my plate down a short time later. The food looked as greasy and delicious as it always does. I settled in and just chowed. The eggs were fine. The toast was fine. The hash browns, well, those were pretty much laced with salt. I chewed and swallowed bravely, every last shred of food went down. And I could feel the taste in my mouth and throat. Salt. Lots of salt. I was careful the rest of the day, to eat only bland salt-free food. And the next morning, I was relieved that the scales showed I had actually lost a pound from the day before. My little foray to the Waffle House had come off OK, seemed like. I felt relieved.

And the next Monday, I had another checkup scheduled at the grave doctor’s office. But when I got there, he had handed me off to an assistant. A nurse practitioner. My vital signs all checked out at optimum levels. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen. All perfect. I feel real good, I told the doctor. I haven’t felt this good in over a year. I think my heart was running wild for months, I just didn’t know it. The doctor looked very pleased. And she asked me. “How’s the diet coming along?” Good, I said. But then I told her of that salty breakfast a few days before at the Waffle House. She seemed unconcerned. “We figure you’re going to splurge once in a while,” she said. “We just don’t want you to go out and eat a whole pizza, or anything like that.” I was pretty relieved. I’m sure the grave doctor would have been way less kind or understanding. I won’t do anything like that, I assured her.

And then she asked about what I knew she was going to ask. The alcohol. From my records on the charts, they all pretty much figured I was a drunk. There was no way I could have kept from drinking this long. And she looked at me, a little resigned. She knew what my answer would be. But she asked the question bravely. “How’s it going, with the alcohol?” And I told her. It’s a remarkable thing. I haven’t had a drop. But that don’t mean I don’t want to. I can’t tell you how bad I want a drink.

She didn’t scold me at all, or talk down to me in any way. She looked me in the eye and told me a little bit about how it was and why it was that way. And she got me talked out of having a drink, at least until the next check-up, right at two months out. And then, we’ll see. Two months. That was about all I could find in me to promise.

Two months. I guess we’ll see how it goes when I get there.
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Well, the New Year has arrived. A few words, and a few reflections, about all that.

Last year was a dark and brutal time. The last two years were. I remember a year ago, writing about how I’m ready for whatever comes, even if it’s worse than the year that had just passed. And I guess I was ready. I could not have imagined at the time what 2015 would bring. It came, it brought a few days of light and many weeks of darkness. And now it’s gone. Passed on, like all things must pass.

It was a tough time for the family, the last twelve months. Two of us almost crossed over to the other side. My sister Maggie and me. We walked right up, both of us, to the banks of the River Styx. And yet, somehow, we did not board the boat for that final crossing over those dark waters. Somehow, the death angel stayed his hand. We drew back, into life. And we stayed.

And through all that, Dad is still rolling along like he always has. His children may be dropping like flies, but the old man chugs along. He just turned ninety-four, and he just traveled to Pine Craft, Florida, for his annual winter stay. He’ll be there until March, sometime, writing and holding court. The man just cranked out the third volume of his five-volume memoir. Our Stay in Canada. His memories and reflections of the twenty-three years he lived in Aylmer. To me, this was the most interesting volume, because I was born during that time. And the world he describes is the world I grew up in.

And the rest of the extended family rolls along, too. All going about their lives, busy and industrious. One generation ages and will soon pass, the next generation pushes up to replace the one before. People come and go about their lives. They now rise and live; in time, they will fade and fall. So it is, and so it has always been.

And looking forward to 2016, I suppose I should be anticipating all the great things that might come. But mostly, I feel ambivalence. After the last two years, I don’t have a whole lot of expectations about anything. About the only thing I can say with any confidence is this. Whatever the year brings, whatever the future holds, I will walk forward into life. And I will face whatever comes without fear.

Happy New Year to all my readers.