I promised an update last month on my then pending bypass surgery. Let me backtrack and apprise you the consensus among medical professionals has been that my survival of a back country heart attack fell somewhere between very and damned lucky. August 17 I was wheeled into the cardiac operating room at St. Joseph’s hospital in. Even lying on my back, I could tell the amphitheater looked like a set from a Star Wars movie. Eleven masked and begowned nurses, cardiologists, surgeons and nurses greeted me. I was introduced to my profusionist, an avuncular chap of about 60. When I inquired what a profusionist does, he replied that he was responsible for keeping all the equipment working.

Inquiring whether this included the heart lung machine, he laughed and said he had a back-up for it. I quipped that I hoped he planned to remain though the entire procedure, and he assured me he would. Five hours later I regained consciousness in a cardiac ICU bed only to learn I had received four, rather than three, bypasses. Apparently, the arterial blockage which precipitated my heart attack reopened slightly during the month I was awaiting surgery and my surgeon discovered far less muscle damage than he expected. Thus, a fourth bypass. With new piping my heart is allegedly functioning at 97% efficiency – likely better than has been the case for years. Nonetheless, I still felt like I’d been struck by a truck that rolled across my chest.

It was suggested I go online and watch an open heart surgery on YouTube. I took a pass on that – maybe during a blizzard next winter. My surgeon, who fashions himself a plumber by contrast with orthopedic mechanics, seems pleased with his handiwork which I take as an encouraging sign. 115 minutes on a heart lung machine, 77 minutes of which my heart was stopped, is an unnerving image – not to mention the 30 inches of veins they ‘harvested’ from groin to ankle down my left leg leaving truly frightening bruises. I was reminded of a college anthropology course that theorized modern medicine was merely an extension of the grooming behavior common among our closest primate cousins. I’m sorry, but cracking open one’s chest is an order of magnitude removed from flicking ticks and fleas from your mate’s fur.

The small army of physician assistants, nurses, personal care attendants and others who were blurred by painkillers over four days recuperation in the hospital felt like a delegation from the United Nations. Nearly half the staff in Cardiac recovery were either immigrants or first-generation Americans, including my cardiologist and surgeon. I was able to identify the following nationalities: Viet Namese, Filipino, Polish, Ugandan, Salvadoran, Honduran, Nigerian, Cameroonian, Indian, Indonesian and Cambodian. I’m sure I missed a few. What they had in common was their expertise and shared dedication to the cardiac unit’s patients. They were uniformly attentive, caring and supportive.

I couldn’t help noticing many were from the sxxxhole countries our recently departed president seems to loathe so much. In the wee hours one morning, after I inadvertently overturned my urinal bottle on the floor, I asked my nurse how all these different staff backgrounds meshed when coordinating treatment. He responded by saying, “That’s what makes us so good. There’s always someone whose experience can help inform decisions. That’s why we’re such a strong team.” He was frankly bursting with pride. I replied, “I just wish all my fellow Americans felt the same way as you do.” We both grinned. Nothing more needed to be said. With a national shortage of health care workers, these recently minted Americans aren’t taking jobs away from anyone. We could use more of them.

Now, two weeks downstream from surgery, I’ve quit my pain pills and am reluctantly accommodating myself to the heart healthy diet regimen it appears I will pursue to the grave with occasional lapses. A small serving of lasagna earlier this week tasted like heaven and I’m only two weeks from returning to caffeinated coffee each morning (to get my heart started, of course). The cardiac practice at St. Joseph’s is rated among the ten best in the United States. Patients trek here from along the entire Rocky mountain spine well into Canada.

If they’ve purchased me another 10-15 years of active outdoors life in Colorado, I’ll be a happy camper. Next up are cardiac rehab and hours at the gym. I’m ready. I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout out to our governor for keeping COVID-19 under control. My surgery was one of those “discretionary” procedures which could have been postponed if an influx of virus victims had overwhelmed available beds. I can assure you, it’s far better to have your profusionist waving in your rear-view mirror.