On June 1, 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, N.H. Regional Hospital 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 steering 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 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 was 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.
Tom Vartabedian
Latest posts by Tom Vartabedian (see all)
- Vartabedian: My Final Column - November 13, 2016
- A Hat to Match Any Occasion - October 19, 2016
- More Smiles Keep the Frowns Away - October 12, 2016
Tom,
May you have a speedy and complete recovery and live to see many more grandchildren!
Robert
Dear Tom,
Thank you for the poignant, inspiring column on your miraculous recovery and your heart-searching comments on the preciousness of human life, children, grandchildren, and family. We feel the handd of God most in our lives when we are touched by the reality of love or feel God’s hand in saving us from death.
Thank you for the delightful. charming columns on The Mekhitarists in Vienna. I visited the monastery for the first time last summer and relished entering the Armenian world of scholarship, religion, and culture. I wish I had had your experience of being there for a year. Perhaps I might have become a priest, but, like you, I love fatherhood and the glory of founding a family. God bless your Armenian spirit and heart always.
Mitchell Kalpakgian
Tom, antzatz elah… enjoyed your article… all good wishes for you and yours. Manooshag
Tom’s “gift of life” is really a gift for all of us who know and love him. We read his columns and are amazed at how simply yet eloquently he records everyday experiences. What would an AYF Olympics be without his predictable ever presence replete with camera and tiny note pad? He is probably the most recognizable and welcome person at the annual event! A veritable encylopedia of who won what event and who broke who’s track record over the last 5 decades. Better yet, who married whom as a result of attending the games or went to camp during his stint as a counselor. Always with smile and never a wry word ever, our Tom is around because of all the prayers of his readers and acquantances —I’m sure his time at the Monastary in Venice didn’t hurt either. No Tom, we’re not ready to let you go just yet, and obviously neither is God. You have a lot more to do here on earth for the Armenian community. Good luck, good health, and God’s speed!
Tom, I am very happy to hear of your recovery. Best wishes to you and your family.
Enjoy your wonderful family. Your writing style is clearly the epitome of American-Armenian life.
Thank you for all that you do.
Dear Tom, I enjoyed your article. I wish you a speedy recovery and many years of birthdays to celebrate with your wife, children and grandchildren.