Doctor John Lubing is not entertained by my vision of old age. There were facts - slightly raised cholesterol, borderline hypertension, family history of both, and only this: a feeling of pressure in my thumb when I biked into a strong wind. And about all that enthusiasm for exercise he found it necessary, a couple of years ago, to remind me: “Bill, you will die someday.” At my annual exam last November he invited me to consider a stress test where I learned - days after that early December snow storm and the last time I shoveled heavy, wet snow - that I was a prime candidate for that surprise heart attack that trims the herd.

With diploma and scars to show I passed all the exams, I would like to contribute to heart care - not in medicine, exercise or diet where I am the amateur - but using a skill at hand, assembling words. A degree in five months makes me nearly an expert in getting out of bed - yes the sass came back - I’ve redefined the word “recovery” to my own satisfaction:

Recovery is dying of unrelated causes.

Recovery is the unbearable brightness of being loved.

Yes, the friends. I had thought going into this I would pretty much be on my own. Their regard for my well being has made me a man humbled. I now admit I need people around.

They brought rides, food, song, yoga and Reiki, flowers, balloons. They brought bliss. I write because the ShoeBox^TM thank you notes on my desk seemed lame. Thank you all - in public, from the rooftops. ( A roofer thought it would be a good idea. )

Next: Flunking the Tests

“Yes, the friends. I had thought going into this I would pretty much be on my own. Their regard for my well being has made me a man humbled. I now admit I need people around.”