Date:     Thu, 10 Apr 1997 Subject:   Hello Dear Peter: I'm a recent new guy to DRS. Like a voyeur I read the messages from folks to you after your surgery. Just read your WEB stuff about the long nasty road of heart stuff, which put my own bad knee, stray cartilage, say-it-ain't-so surgery in a different light... So, from a stranger in Colorado, get healthy, stay healthy, knees (and hearts) are as apt to fail us as they are to carry us up mountains (as mine did last year in the Pikes Peak Ascent -- and damn well better do again in August). The readiness is all. Cheers, Nancy

Down to extra-strength Tylenol and Motrin for my pain, now. There was occasional throbbing that became noticeable without the Percoset. But it was tolerable. What was not so tolerable was any movement or cough or sneeze or hiccup that forced my muscles to pull the sternum apart. As expected, the pain this caused was a sudden, sharp ache that faded gradually like a wave, but was very intense during the first few days. I quickly came to understand the necessity for those metal clamps the surgeons installed to keep my rib cage together ... it would have easily come apart a hundred times during the first weeks without them! I don't wish to exaggerate the pain - I was never brought to tears, not like the shock I got when I dropped into that chair that first morning after surgery. But I could rely on setting off lots of nerves in the general area many times a day regardless of my conscious efforts to avoid it. Then there was the annoying soreness in the backside of my rib cage, shoulders and neck muscles. Though it helped me to avoid the stress that came with pulling myself up from a bed, sleeping in the recliner only exacerbated those incidental muscle strains. The oddest of all discomfort, however, came from the regrowth of my chest hair poking it's way out from the tender area of my incision where the skin had been stretched back during the surgery. All of this was masked so well by the Percoset - no doubt in my mind the stuff is addictive.

Earlier in this story I alluded to my concern during the weeks prior to the surgery over how the scar would appear. Back then I tried to imagine it's size and conspicuousness. The incision turned out to be close to the length I imagined it would be. I was amazed at how thin and seamless it appeared during the first weeks, though its fresh red color was to be expected. Still, I forced myself to be realistic about it because as it healed would certainly widen. I hadn't given as much thought to how the bone would mend. I spent a small amount of time each morning in front of the mirror inspecting the scar and the profile of my chest. I grew a bit anxious about the hardness of the lump located at the top of my sternum. It seemed to be a result of the new junction of my rib cage. I couldn't tell if this was truly part of a new bony mass that was forming or just a temporary swelling. Each time I viewed it I was reminded of a kid in the neighborhood where I grew up. In the summer when we all had our shirts off I would notice how his breast bone came to a slight point. Our childish term for his unique structure was chicken breasted ... we simply noted it without openly poking fun at him. And later on in high school whenever I caught sight of him as we pealed off our gear after football practice, I could not fail to notice his protruding breast bone. I always wondered how and why such an evolution in humans occurred - obsessive as only a teenager could be. But now it was me and my new chicken breast I obsessed over! Could this be a permanent change? I no longer had the arterial arrangement I was born with. Now, possibly, I needed to accept some skeletal differences (albeit minor ones) from that which I inherited at birth.

All of these things led to a diminishing enthusiasm for exercise and an emphasis on self-pity. It was so much easier to be stationary. Something as minor as walking across the room exposed such heavy breathing that seemed so unnatural to me. I simply hated to bring it on. I preferred instead to surround myself with several books, some of which I had started reading back in the 70's and never finished. I spent hours at a time exploring the many graphics programs I had accumulated for my Mac over the years and never had the time to learn. I was on-line a lot, too - easily consuming the day with barely a concern for what the weather was like outdoors or whether I had taken my medication on time, if I hadn't completely missed it. Gradually I lost interest in these more sedentary activities as well. I eventually lost my appetite and began neglecting the fluids I absolutely needed. Not very smart - failing to nourish my body after such a shock! Despite a constant flow of support via e-mail coming from family members and folks from the Dead Runners Society, I quietly headed into depression. While Vikki kept a close watch on me much of the time when she was home, I believed I had successfully hid my condition from her. But she allowed me wallow in my misery for no more than a few days. Then that Saturday she sternly put her foot down.

She began the lecture with her observations of my careless attitude about recovery. She informed me of what she had read in the packet of booklets and brochures I had brought back with me after leaving the hospital and promptly ignored. I had refused to even watch the instructional video. The literature stated that I needed to begin a rigid program of walking at least 20 minutes each day beginning with the first day I was home. A mile was preferable, but the time spent was most important. Within a week it was expected that I should increase the frequency of my walks to two times a day. What had I accomplished after more than two weeks into recovery? Aside from my short and somewhat inconsistent trips to the Vikki's mailbox, I had logged a single walk consisting of about one mile! I had never witnessed Vikki's firm side before. But I should not have been surprised - she had raised three fine children and did so while working full-time in a rigorous hospital environment for the past 25 years as an RN - she wasn't about to put up with any crap. By the time she was finished the glaring contrast to the attitude I took with me to OHS was abruptly brought to light. I was immediately embarrassed by my poor showing. The disciplined work ethic of an avid runner, whose only concern was performing as high as my ability would allow, had fallen to the level of the self-centered pathetic "couch potato" I came to resemble since leaving DHMC. That's NOT who I was when Vikki first met me as she prepared me for arthroscopy the day my heart stopped. That day I was a sprinter anxious to lower my times before age would ruin my chances. Today, as I had for the past 13 days, I was looking for ways to not move, ways to avoid exertion. I would spend the day simply waiting for the hardship to pass. Let it suffice to say, the following day I woke up - it was time to straighten up and fly right!

Date:     Sat, 12 Apr 1997 Subject:   Re: Is 90% better than 89% Doug, Your answer to Grady's question on tempo runs explains a lot of stuff I didn't understand before. Thanks, man! ObWalkN: Will try for at least one mile today ... two, if I can stand the irritation of my incision rubbing against my shirt that long. Peter dellaFemina Date:     Sat, 12 Apr 1997 Subject:   Re: Is 90% better than 89% Peter, Glad to see that you're starting to get around pretty good. I read your story on your website. Wow, what an ordeal. I'm glad that it worked out well for you. Doug Fort Worth, Texas

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