The gift of life renewed on eve of a (Grand) Father's Day

by Tom Vartabedian

Published: Tuesday July 12, 2011

Author Tom Vartabedian with his daughter Sonya.

Portsmouth, N.H. - On my way to open heart surgery, I looked the Grim Reaper in the face and told him to get lost.

"Not now," I told the macabre spirit. "I have too much to live for. Go find someone else to ply your misery."

I was on a gurney being transported into the operating room at Portsmouth (NH) Regional Hospital on June 1 where, five years prior, I became a candidate for two stents to alleviate some blocked arteries.

A triple by-pass this time around seemed a lot more involved and riskier.

"No need to worry," my surgeon assured me. "Pretty routine these days. You'll be better than before with all new plumbing fixtures in your body."

Only a few days before, I removed myself from a racquetball court after feeling some heart palpitations. My partners were concerned. They saw a stoic look on my face.

I rushed home and called my cardiologist who scheduled me for a stress test the very next morning. After five minutes on the treadmill, off I came, wilted to a pulp.

A cauterization was recommended and more stents were not the answer. I was a prime candidate for open heart surgery. I had heard the stories about cardiac patients and all appeared positive.

I woke up in an ICU recovery room with my wife staring down into my face with two pieces of news: the Boston Bruins had lost a play-off round against the Canadiens which only aggravated my condition and that I was going to be a grandfather for the sixth time --- an immediate sedative.

Eleven days inside a hospital and 10 more at a rehab center close to home brought my recovery into a firm grip. My mind went reeling with uncertainly. Would I ever swing a racquet again? Climb a mountain? Do a gregarious workout? Would I be able to lift anything besides a paperback?

A vein had been extracted from my leg and attached to my aorta. Would I ever walk properly again or with a limp?

Such immediate questions were better without answers. The fact I was able to breathe again and see the sun shining was compensation enough. The dawn of a new day became a welcoming sight. The rustle of a treetop and chirpings of a bird -- all precious gifts we normally take for granted.

I was discharged the day before Father's Day, just in time to catch my granddaughter's recital. I took a seat with my camera in hand, same as always, and fired off a dozen frames before she had taken her bow.

The next day belonged to me. Father's Day. To heck with the cards and the token gifts. Keep the brown ties and the after-shave lotions. No need for another book I might have already read or a CD I already own, except for one. "Dream with Me."

While I was rehabbing inside a nursing home, I became very much acquainted with Jackie Evancho, that 10-year-old singing phenomenon who dominated the PBS stations. With all the medications I was prescribed, none competed with what this young virtuoso did for me when I needed a quick fix.

The gift of life became the most precious gift of all.

A granddaughter the same age gave me an affectionate hug, saying it was good to have her papa back. A broken heart had been instantly mended.

The boys huddled around, wanting to play a round of basketball. Still premature, I told them. For now, I would be a spectator. And the 18-month old with the cheeks you love to pinch. If there was any reason to live, this was it.

That week, my community was rocked by the obituaries of three well-known acquaintances, including a 42-year-old woman who never gave up the will to survive. My heart bled for her husband and two teenage daughters.

I had attended the wake of a good friend who had been to a social function at my church one evening, suffered a stroke the next, and died. That could have been me inside his coffin.

While mourners were paying their final respects, many came over and extended their well wishes. "You look like a new man," they had said.

So, there you have it. Back writing some columns, looking for those happy stories, including this personal one. My house is a mess. The grandchildren came and left, leaving their mark.

One might freak out at all this chaos but it's music to my ears --- their wails and tales. I looked at my wife with some calculated advice of my own.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," I said.