RunningBarb

For Mr. K, who never misses a beat.

August 2023: RunningBarb Can’t Run

We spent the next few months at home. During this time my fitness continued to decline, to the point where I could only bike short distances on flat terrain, and I was not able to run at all. My mind determined that I was going to jog, even slowly, but my body just wouldn’t do it. I affirmed my decision to try a new cardiologist when we got back from our next trip. Clearly I had to do something. 

We were planning for our upcoming adventure in August. It would involve hiking a few mountains in the Adirondacks, a bike trip in the Midwest, and lots of fun stuff in between. 

The Adirondack Park is home to 46 mountains over 4000 feet high. If you climb all of them you get to call yourself an “Adirondack 46-er.” If you don’t know, you don’t know, but if you do know it’s considered kind of cool. Mr. K was a 46-er, having climbed most of them as a child, then finishing them off with me. Many of the mountains do not have an established, marked trail, rather there is a “herd path,” cut by many feet travelling to the same place. At this point I was a 33-er, with 13 to go. I planned to knock out a few on this trip. If I was lucky we would nab around seven to nine. That would place me pretty close to the end.

The first group we set out to do was located in the northwest section of the park. There are four out here. Typically people summit Donaldson, Emmons, and Seward in one day, then do Seymour on a separate day. We headed out one August morning to finish the first three. We drove out to the trailhead, several miles down a rough gravel road. We started at 7:30. It felt like a good beginning. The first segment was blazed and easy to follow, and not particularly steep. The climbing would come later. 

After hiking in around five miles, we began the gentle climb to the base of Donaldson. There were no longer any blazes, but it was not difficult to follow the herd path, and we could always check with the GPS. At one point we needed to cross Caulkins Creek, and we got a little turned around, but eventually picked up the herd path again. We slowly made our way up and eventually found the cairn that marked the turnoff for the peak. We headed up that way and eventually spied the marker telling us that we had summited. High five! One down, two to go! I looked at my watch. It was 1:30. It had taken us five hours to go around a little more than six miles. Maybe not such a good start after all. I felt a little concerned. But we still had a lot of work to do. We passed over Donaldson and slogged over to Emmons. And a slog it was, with knee-deep mud. Slow going for sure. But we got to the top of Emmons. Next we had to go back to Donaldson, go back down to the cairn for the turnoff, and go the other way for Seward.

When we got back to Donaldson I looked at my watch again. It was 4:30. It had taken us three hours to get to Emmons and back to Donaldson, a distance of around two miles. Yikes.

Normally when we are in the Adirondacks and it is that late we are pretty near to getting out of the woods. We always leave lots of time to be out before the sun sets. We don’t want to be caught on a trail-less mountain in the dark. 

For sure, the last of the three, Seward, was out. We would be lucky to make it off the herd path and back on the main trail before night fell. We high-tailed it out of there as quickly as possible. Which – was not very quick. My legs, once again, had no energy. I tried to step carefully over the slippery rocks and concentrate on where to place my feet. I did not feel good about this. One wrong step and I could twist my ankle. We were in the backcountry, far from the road, without any cell signal. And it was my fault for being so slow.

When we reached the creek we again fumbled with the crossing, but eventually found the trail. I was determined to be off the herd path before dark. Although determination and ability do not necessarily correlate.

Finally we were back at the cairn at the edge of the marked trail. I knew that this path would be easier to follow since it was wider and its signposts were visible. I was no longer afraid of being lost in the woods. We were prepared for “what-ifs,” with headlamps and flashlights. After a few more hours more of slow trudging, we were back at our vehicle. It was just past 8:30. The 13 mile hike had taken 13 hours. This was an average pace of an hour per mile. 

There are spots in the Adirondacks where taking one hour to go one mile is not crazy. Parts are killer steep, there is serious mud, you have to climb up wet slabs of rock with almost nothing to grab on to, and often you are actually climbing up streams that include all of the above. But to average a mile an hour over the entire hike? That’s unheard of. We threw everything into the van and made our way out of the woods. I was pretty relieved when the pitted stone road changed to asphalt, then later when we turned in the direction of the guest house where we were staying. 

Okay, so we gave up on Seward, but RunningBarb didn’t end there! We also had plans to climb Haystack, Saddleback, and Basin, three mountains accessible from Johns Brook Lodge (JBL), a beautiful old bunk house tucked away in the park. Maybe I just had a bad day with Donaldson and Emmons. And RunningBarb never gives up! To get to JBL you need to hike in three miles. This means you are closer to the three mountains, so your hikes are shorter. I had made reservations for us to stay there a couple of months earlier.

Hiking to the lodge was relaxed and comfortable. I didn’t have any discomfort and did not have to stop. My legs were working fine. I thought this was a good sign for the next day’s hike. We arrived in the afternoon, and I took a dip in the freezing cold Johns Brook. Later we ate dinner, which was served by the lodge staff a’ la Phantom Ranch. It was fun to be around the other hikers and hear their stories. Lots of folks had bigger plans than we did, but I felt energized for the next adventure.

In the morning we ate a good breakfast and were on our way. As is the case with a lot of this mountain climbing business, the early parts were relatively flat and easy. Soon we arrived at Slant Rock, where the real ascent began. I took my time. We were only climbing one mountain today, and it was only a total of around 9.5 miles from the lodge to the summit and back. Much shorter than the 13 of the previous hike. But as I kept moving it was becoming harder and harder. Soon I found myself climbing up one of those rocky creeks where you could barely find a place to put your foot. People wearing heavy packs were passing me as though I was standing still. How can they move so fast? I was getting nervous, because I did not have good control of where I was putting my feet. Again, it was like my legs had no power.

With one mile to go to the summit, I gave up. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I was slipping. I was losing confidence. It was not a good situation. With a ton of disappointment Mr. K and I turned around and went down.

With my failure at Haystack, there was no reason to try Saddleback and Basin. There was no way those were happening. Looked like my 46-er days were over. Okay, I just have to accept this. I mean, not everyone becomes a 46-er. Most people don’t. That’s it. 

The next day I hung out at the lodge while Mr. K climbed a different mountain. I made the best of it: I was in a beautiful place, surrounded by friendly people, and was safe and sound. Maybe RunningBarb was just getting RunningOld. 

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For Mr. K, who never misses a beat.

June 2023: Primary Shmi-mary

I visited my primary care doctor for my annual checkup. I had to push myself to do it, as I thought she was pretty useless. Several years earlier I had a doctor and a practice that I highly respected, and I received excellent care. The waiting room had a big window, and there was a stone waterfall mounted on the wall. The room was filled with books on health and nutrition, and everyone who worked there was friendly and helpful. The doctors listened well.

Unfortunately, they closed their doors and moved on, so I needed to find another primary care doctor. I think there should be something like speed dating if you want to find a new doctor. I mean, you can read their bio and search their reviews all you want, but there is nothing like having a face to face conversation to see if you are compatible. And, as I learned, I was not suited to this practice.

In the cramped waiting room they played a loop of drug ads. The desk staff seemed bored. I liked the guy who drew my blood, but he played a fairly minor role. I saw a couple of nurse practitioners and one doctor over the three years I was there. They did not leave much of an impression. I put up with this because during each of my check ups everything was fine. I really didn’t need much from them.

But now I have something going on. This time, when I first came into the exam room I was introduced to a new technician who was supposed to take my blood pressure. He looked like he had just graduated from high school. He fumbled with the blood pressure cuff for a minute. I wasn’t having it. I asked the Regular Technician to take over. My blood pressure came out high. Newby Know Nothing advised me “Don’t worry, we have lots of medications for that.” Why are you talking, I wondered. 

When Dr. Primary Care came in I explained what I had been dealing with. She didn’t know anything about my little foray into the hospital with a supposed deathly heart attack, even though the hospital had sent all the records over. I guess she didn’t think it was important to look at my file before coming in to talk to me. I stressed as strongly as I could that I really wanted her to do some testing to see why I was losing my fitness. I told her I used to be a strong runner but was losing the ability to run at all. I used to be one of the faster riders in my biking group, but now I can barely keep up. I was having trouble on long hikes.

I could see from the expression on her face that all of it was going past her. I can’t swear that she actually rolled her eyes, but I could see that she wanted to. I just was not getting through. She insisted that she would do all the necessary tests. But it didn’t seem like she was going to go beyond the basics. 

I also asked for a recommendation for a cardiologist, which she gave me. I asked her if she knew this doctor. “He’s been in practice for 15 years,” she replied. “But do you know him personally? Do you know what he is like with people, if he listens?” She wouldn’t say. Which made me think she didn’t know him at all. After my first experience I was reluctant to go to someone whom no one knew. Fifteen years doesn’t mean anything if you don’t pay attention to the person sitting in front of you.

The Regular Technician took my blood pressure again, and despite my frustrated state, it came back normal. 

A few days later Dr. Primary Care called to say my kidney numbers were high, and she wanted to refer me to a nephrologist. “On the basis of one test?” I asked. “But I don’t have any baseline data for you,” she replied. “Sure you do, I’ve been coming to your office for three years.” Of course I did not expect her to hold in her head all the unique details of my health, but I kinda expected she might take a teeny peek at my file before talking to me. How else could she piece together what was going on? She then suggested to start with a urine sample, which I agreed to. Now, in this office getting a lab referral was a multistep process. The doctor says she will write it. Then you have to wait a few days until it is actually written and available. Then you have to contact the office to confirm it is available, because you physically have to go to there to pick it up. They wouldn’t email it to you or even send it in the postal mail.

I contacted them a few days later to see if the referral was ready. The assistant sent me a message that they “didn’t need to do anything about [my] A1c at that time.” A1c? Was this a message meant for someone else? Did anyone there know anything about me?

I went back and forth about seeing the cardiologist she told me about. Was it going to be just another wild goose chase? I had no confidence in Dr. Primary Care, but that didn’t necessarily mean that Dr. Recommended Cardiologist wasn’t any good. I wrestled with this for a couple months, but then put it off, as we were preparing our next travel adventure. 

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For Mr. K, who never misses a beat.

March 2023: Declining

Over the next few months I continued to grapple with problems with my running fitness and endurance. I started researching the issue and even bought a book, “Fast After Fifty,” by Joe Friel. It was a good book, filled with tips for how to improve, and sample workouts. But it seemed written for people who had once been athletic and later in life spent too much time on the couch. That was not me. I always was working on fitness. I did an Ironman triathlon in 2014 just before my 55^th birthday. An Ironman consists of a 2.4-mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride, and a 26.2 mile marathon. In that order. One after another. On the same day. Not exactly for sissies, if I do say so myself.

I also did a few Half Ironmans (Ironmen?) before and after that, the last one being in 2019. And half marathons. And multi-day bike rides. And swims. And big Adirondack hikes. And who know what-all else. I don’t think I was the audience for this book. However, I tried the recommendations. 

I did not improve.

I also was trying to figure out what was going on with my biking speed and stamina. That was deteriorating along with my running. I was riding a Trek road bike that I bought used in 2008. I loved it. At that time I had wanted to do a triathlon and needed a light bike. I walked into my favorite store, Goodwill, and lo and behold, there was a bike that had just been brought in, with aero bars, water bottle holders, and other accoutrements, plus a tag on it from a recent Half Ironman race. Perfect. I bought it for 50 bucks, took it to a bike shop to get it properly fitted, and I was on my way. 

It worked really well for me until one day I picked up someone else’s bike and noticed how much lighter it was. My biking buddies told me that having a lighter bike made a really big difference in speed. So I did some investigation and dropped a couple of grand on a (used) Trek Domane. I was excited to see how much faster it could make me. I hopped on, clipped into the pedals, and took off.

I did not improve.

I even contacted a triathlon coach I knew to see if she had any recommendations. I told her my whole story. She said that the only thing she could think of that I wasn’t doing was strength training. So she outlined for me a weight lifting plan, which I strictly followed.

I did not improve.  

Mr. K and I were looking forward to a trip to the Grand Canyon in March. You can read about this great adventure here,here, here, here, here, and here.

But let me tell you about what I didn’t say in those posts. Hiking down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on the South Kaibab Trail was fine, no problem. And after being at the bottom of the Canyon with one day of rest I felt strong and ready to head back up to the top. We were going up a different path, the Bright Angel Trail. This is the way it is done, down the South Kaibab and up the Bright Angel. This route was steeper and shorter going down, and gentler (relatively speaking!) going up. It would take 10 miles of hiking and 4,400 feet of elevation gain to make it to the top. We had a lot of daylight, and conditions were good.

The first five miles were pretty easy going. The trail was fairly flat, and it even descended in some parts. Now, let me say, I really hate descents when the goal is to make an ascent. What a waste! But I didn’t have any say in how the Canyon was designed. Anyway, after we passed the Havasupai Gardens the trail began to get serious. From here there is around 3000 feet of climbing over the last five miles, with the trail steepening as you get closer to the rim.

I had planned for this. I knew that if I wanted to be able to hike up a steep route I would have to put the work in by, well, hiking up a steep route. Prior to this, Mr. K and I had hiked in the Appalachian Mountains near our home many times. Not that they had the same elevation, but it was kind of baby steps practice. I had also loaded up a backpack and walked up and down the four flights of stairs at a local parking garage, up and down, up and down, up and down, again and again, to strengthen my legs. Yeah, I know it sounds weird.

The thing is, though, I didn’t feel like this preparation was working for me. When I climbed a hill on the Appalachian Trail I had to stop from time to time. My legs just wouldn’t go. It didn’t matter if it was early in the hike or later in the day, my legs just did not have mojo. I was not tired or out of breath. I just had to stop for a few minutes before I could move again. In the parking garage I could go up and down just fine, but I never felt like I was improving. Normally if you do a hard exercise again and again, over time it gets easier. That never happened. 

So now in the Grand Canyon I was headed up, and the familiar my legs just won’t go was back. The same as on the Appalachian Trail. Only here the path was more intense. I used all of my mental power to will my legs forward. Still, I had to stop. Then I could go a few steps. Then stop. Go. Stop. Go. It was getting ridiculous. 

Finally we made it to the top. What were my first words upon achieving this amazing goal? “Wow, I’m so happy we made it!” “What a great trip!” “Congratulations Mr. K, let’s get pizza!”? No. They were “I am shot. Just shot.”

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For Mr. K, who never misses a beat.

November 2022: Not Getting to the Root of the Problem

Well, that could have been the end of the story, but the fact was, it wasn’t just the murmur that I wanted evaluated. I had noticed my fitness dropping over recent months. For many years I had run regularly, and if I wasn’t training for a race I didn’t pay too much attention to my time. But one day I happened to look at my stats, and I noticed I was really slow. Getting lazy, I guess. Then, when I took a longer run I had to stop and walk from time to time. That had never happened before. What was going on? 

I had explained all this at the cardiology office. I said that it was like when you are in a car and press the gas pedal, and you don’t go. That’s how my body felt. I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t out of breath, I wasn’t working hard. My body just wouldn’t go. I would say I told all this to the cardiologist at that office, except I never saw one. I saw only the physician assistant. I was puzzled. You make an appointment with a cardiologist, but you never see one? What is the point? I thought maybe I would see the real guy after being screened by the assistant. Nope. And especially with all the drama of the non-existent heart attack. Where was that guy?

After I left the hospital I received a phone call from the hospital asking how I was doing. And then, from my insurance company. They wanted to know how I was doing. Who says insurance companies are heartless? But the physician assistant who told me I was ready to die, and the boss of all the cardiology in the place? Silence.

The stated diagnosis given when I was in the hospital was “likely myocarditis.” Myocarditis is an inflammation of the heart muscle. I had never heard of it. I asked the cardiac nurse how I could have gotten it. 

“It comes from a respiratory infection that goes to the heart.”

“But I haven’t had a respiratory infection.” 

“Oh, you can still get it anyway.”

No one in the hospital could explain how a seemingly healthy, athletic, never-sick human person could acquire an inflammation in her heart out of the blue. And they talked about it like it was a confirmed condition, not a “likely” one. My take was that Dr. Catheter Cardio needed to put something plausible down so that the insurance company would pay. So I didn’t believe the diagnosis. 

The hospital people sent me home with buckets of Tylenol to chow down, and told me if I started throwing up blood I should come back to the emergency room. Isn’t medical advice interesting!

The doctors there kept telling me I have to “follow up” at the cardiology office. Okay, I’ll go back there and find out the real diagnosis. After all, for the last two days the very nice medical people have been needling out my bodily fluids, collecting my pee, counting every heart beat, and appraising every millimeter of blood pressure. Surely those attentive professionals at the Cardiology Office Where I Never Saw a Cardiologist will put these pieces of the puzzle together and come up with the reason they thought I was dying. Surely they know that “likely” doesn’t mean “definitely” and that they can do better than “likely.” Surely they will figure out what is going on.

Hahahahahaha!

I went back to the Cardiology Office Where I Never Saw a Cardiologist and saw the same physician assistant. She began lecturing me about cholesterol and my diet and cholesterol drugs. I was pretty surprised. Dr. Catheter Cardio told me my arteries were perfectly clear. I did not have a heart attack. Didn’t she read the hospital records? Didn’t she check and see what happened to me? I asked her what the basis was for recommending drugs. I had researched this and done some on line assessments from the American Heart Association and the American College of Cardiology and others and, according to these, my risk of a cardiovascular problem was very low. Plus, I studied the AHA/ACC/AACVPR/AAPA/ABC/ACPM/ADA/AGS/APhA/ASPC/NLA/PCNA Guideline on the Management of Blood Cholesterol: A Report of the American College of Cardiology/American Heart Association Task Force on Clinical Practice Guidelines. RunningBarb is no slacker! And yes, that is the real name of the thing! I wanted to know what her evidence was for recommending that I become a life-long consumer of these drugs. She told me she would send me some articles. She had also mentioned that since my mother died of a stroke I would be more likely to die earlier than I would otherwise. What? Don’t your chances of dying early depend on more factors than the age of your parent when she dies?

But I had another issue on my mind. During my first visit she listed a bunch of tests that could potentially be given to find out what was wrong with me. They could put me on a treadmill while I was on a heart monitor and see what was happening to my body when I exercised. They could do a nuclear stress test (scary!). They could do an MRI. And several others. But this time she never mentioned any of this. She told me to stop eating nuts, eat lots of berries, and come back in three months and she would do another blood test. 

I left the office completely disillusioned. I wanted to know why I had “likely myocarditis,” didn’t she? I felt like the Cardiology Office Where I Never Saw a Cardiologist was a big factory, and I was treated exactly the same as everyone who went there, and we were on a conveyer belt and as each of was carried by we opened our mouths and had a couple of drugs popped into them, and that was our remedy. No investigation, no curiosity, no interest in getting to a legitimate resolution. It was disappointing, depressing, and deflating.

However, when I later received the articles I had requested from her I read them thoroughly and, I have to admit, she was right about everything. 

No, just kidding. I never heard from her again. I tossed the throw-up-blood-inducing Tylenol in the trash and didn’t go back. 

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For Mr. K, who never misses a beat.

October 2022: The Beginning of it All

My primary care nurse practitioner said she thought I had a heart murmur and recommended I see a cardiologist. Okay, heart murmurs usually are no big deal, right, and it doesn’t hurt to get it checked out. So I made an appointment with a cardio-man.

At the cardio-man place the first thing they did was hook me up to an EKG. In making small talk with the technician I learned she had been on the job six weeks. “Oh, did you come from another medical office?” I asked. “No, they taught me everything I need to know here,” she replied.

After a few minutes a physician assistant came in and told me my “ST level” was a little high. Ha, I’m such an over achiever! I thought the wave looked kind of pretty, like a water wave. But she was a spoil sport and asked the technician to run the EKG again. I thought that was a little weird. If you have a new person doing it and you don’t trust the results, wouldn’t you watch the second time? Or have someone else do it? Or do it yourself?

This was just the beginning of the weird. 

After the physician assistant read the second set of results she said something along the lines “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

Hm.

Next, there was all kinds of shuffling in the hallway and lots of murmuring, not all of it in my heart. Then the echo echocardio-man came to escort me to the echo echo machine. As he was looking at pictures of my heart (big and all-encompassing, I thought), I noticed the room filling up with very worried looking people wearing white coats. The echo echocardio-man nodded toward a tall one who was talking on the phone. “He’s calling a ride for you to the hospital,” he explained.

Who’s he calling? Lyft? Uber? Big Yellow Taxi?

A second later four hunky, tattooed emergency medical technicians strutted into the echo echo room carrying all sorts of serious looking gizmos and gadgets. The room was starting to look like a medical version of phone booth stuffing. Don’t let anyone say RunningBarb is not doing her part to keep the medical community employed!

I told them I felt perfectly fine and could not understand what all the fuss was about. No one explained anything, but from the way they were behaving it seemed like they thought that I was having a heart attack in that exact moment. What timing. Now I was starting to wonder if there really was something wrong with me.

“Do you have any chest pain?”

“No.”

“Any pain radiating down your arm?”

“No.”

“Any shortness of breath?”

“No.”

“Any lightheadedness or dizziness?

“No.”

“Any idea what tomorrow’s Powerball ticket numbers are?”

Okay, they didn’t really ask that one, but they did ask a lot of questions.

I tried to focus on something a little more positive, like the picture of health I thought I was. They were heavily focused on machines and read-outs, so I waved my hand to get their attention. I cheerily reported “Uh, I swam 2000 yards this morning!” “Oh, fit,” replied one of the hunky technicians.

The 911 posse did its own EKG and told me “We are not seeing what they are seeing,” leading me to believe that their EKG was not consistent with the EKG done by the brand spankin’ new office EKG technician. I was doubtful of the diagnosis by the physician assistant.* Oh, by the way, she told me I might die on the way to the hospital.** I was completely confused. Shouldn’t my life have been passing before my eyes? Shouldn’t I have felt some kind of discomfort? Something?

Nonetheless, I calmly strolled over to the stretcher and they strapped me on it and rolled me outside. That’s when I noticed a giant fire engine parked behind the ambulance. I looked around for smoke. Was that big, bad fire engine sitting there because of me? What next, I wondered.

They loaded me into the vehicle, then we were on our way.  

A few seconds later we leisurely rolled into the emergency room of the hospital. What a cool place! Total noise and chaos. When you close your eyes you hear all these beeps and buzzes and voices, but you can’t really understand anything. It’s a great environment to focus on sounds and try to empty your mind. Best meditation atmosphere ever! I intended to find calm, even if I was standing outside death’s door. Eventually a hunky, tattooed medical technician came over, asked me a bunch of questions, and drew some blood. Not gonna lie, he told me he was impressed with my veins. 

I was losing all track of time, as well as my grip on reality, but at some point somebody wheeled me over to an area with a bunch of beds so that I could wait some more. That’s when I noticed how thin the walls were. I could hear every word of the discussion the guy in the next room was having with the doctor. Wow, that wall just seems like a thin wisp of fabric, I thought. I looked at it. Oh, that’s because it is just a thin wisp of fabric!

They brought me a bunch of forms to sign. 

There was a permission form. “I permit you to do any kind of medical procedure you want, and I won’t mind.” Check.

There was a money form. “I promise to pay the bill no matter how much, and I won’t mind.” Check.

A privacy form. “I understand that I have none, and I won’t mind.” Check.

They invited me to spend the night.

A very nice aide wheeled my bed up to a room and stopped outside of it. “Are you able to walk over to that bed?” she asked kindly. I kindly rolled my eyes where she could not see them and replied that I could. I peered into the room. Then I drew close to her. “There’s a problem, though,” I whispered. “What?” she whispered back. “There’s someone in the room already.”

“Oh, all the rooms on this ward have two patients.”

“Everybody has to have a roommate?” 

“There are no private rooms here.”

So now I am part of a demented summer camp cum medical experiment on how to heal from a near death experience while sleeping alongside a stranger. 

I managed to walk all the way across the tiny room, where they gave me a gown that was so big the neck opening reached halfway down my shoulder. This must be on purpose, right? Surely in a major metropolitan area in the year 2022 they are aware that people come in different shapes and sizes. They must know about XS, S, M, L, and XL. This is not a secret and has not been one for years.

Soon a hunky, tattooed nurse came over to explain to me why I was there. Because I had a funny EKG they thought I had a blockage in my heart and were going to do something called a heart catheterization. But before that they had to give me all kinds of drugs, my favorite being Lovenox. I don’t know what it does, but is that name irresistible or what? “Hey, come get your Lovenox!” “How’s the Lovenox today?” “Need any more Lovenox?” It’s so endearing. 

When you are in the hospital there is a steady stream of personnel that comes by to check on you, oh, every five minutes or so. There are nurses, nurse practitioners, hospitalists, pharmacists, and phlebotomists (look it up). There are administrators, physician’s assistants, lab technicians, and radiologists. There are M.D.s, R.N.s, L.P.N.s, C.N.A.s, and I.P.A.s. Who are all these people? What do they do?

Also, you can’t do anything by yourself. If you have to go to the bathroom you have to call the nurse, because they hook up an alarm to your bed, and if you get up without telling anyone they come in and yell at you. Or something. Really, I don’t know what they do, I just held it in the whole time. Who could be bothered. 

I was scheduled for the heart catheterization the next day. I was not supposed to eat or drink anything from 10:00 p.m. that night. It was easy not to eat, because nobody brought me any dinner! So glad I had some training in self-denial on good ol’ Yom Kippor. However, the next day one of the aides came in with a plastic cup full of orange juice and told me I needed to drink it because my blood sugar was low. I didn’t want it. I never drink orange juice. After it raises your blood sugar doesn’t it just go back down again? I argued with her for a while and finally gave up. I have better things to do with my low blood sugar than to argue with a stranger in a hospital room.

Five minutes later another medical person came in and yelled at her for giving it to me. I “was not supposed to have anything to eat or drink!” Heh, heh, I thought. 

Later that day I was wheeled down to a room for my big event. Dr. Catheter Cardio explained all about the procedure. He told me it was safe, that there were hardly ever any complications, and there was only a one in one thousand chance of dying. Better than my chances yesterday, I guess. They glued a couple of defibrillator paddles to my front and back just in case.  

Dr. Catheter Cardio said they would be checking to see if there was any blockage in my heart, and if they found any I might end up with one or more stents placed into my arteries, or even bypass surgery. Whoa!

I hope you never have to have this procedure, but guess what, it’s really cool. They thread a tiny tube up through your wrist, across your chest, and into your heart. Yes, your heart! Then they let go with this dye, which feels really hot throughout your upper body. You can watch on a screen as the dye goes shooting through your heart vessels. So much better than Netflix! I craned my neck to view the monitor. Zoom! Into the right corionic arterial stream! Zoom! Into the left multi atrial ventricle! Zoom! Into the sideways convex carotid! Yes, I did make those names up, but they sounded real, didn’t they!

It was a unique experience, and I am tempted to give it five stars, but upon thinking about it some more, I’m going to give it four. Reason is because the image was black and white, not color. They really should let you choose something that matches your personality. Or, say, a holiday. Red and blue for the Fourth of July, or Election Day (mostly blue there), a fall palette for Thanksgiving, purple and gold for Prince’s birthday. Go crazy!

I had expected a party that fun to take a long time, but it was done in six and a half minutes. Bet they bill by the hour though! Good news, RunningBarb didn’t need a nasty stent or a yucky bypass. And she didn’t need to be shocked back to life. Her arteries are fine! Her heart is fine! Her atrial this and that and so and so is a-okay!

Back to the room where they invited me to stay yet a second night. They actually fed me this time, which was the least they could do.

And they fed me in the morning, too! Sort of. They brought me a plate with a paper that listed what was on it that included “scrambled eggs.” But the thing on my dish resembled something that was trying to become eggs but not succeeding. Fake eggs, maybe? Also, the list identified the coffee as “decaf.” Lemme tell ya folks, two words that should never be used in the same sentence are “decaf” and “coffee.” Luckily Mr. K smuggled me in a homemade breakfast burrito and some real joe, so I survived.

After that everyone in the medical parade informed me I was ready to go home, I just had to wait for the Very Important Discharge Paper. I sat on my bed for hours in the gown that didn’t fit, staring out the window and wondering if the rainy world noticed I was missing. 

The VIDP arrived around noon, and I was free. 

Later I found out this unexpected escapade cost me a bundle.

Never heard a peep about the murmur. 

*When I later read the medical report of this incident it said I was being sent to the hospital because of a “myocardial infraction” (not “infarction,” haha, love that typo!). 

**Not her exact words.

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I jumped the gun on posting a recent blog. Don’t read it yet! There’s a new one coming out on January 1, so you have something to look forward to in the new year. Blame everything on WordPress!

Our nearly seven weeks in Japan is now over, and we are settled back at home. People have been asking about the highlights of the trip. There were many! Including:

• Sitting in an outdoor onsen at a Japanese inn, staring at Mt. Fuji while the sun was going down
• Hiking from Karuma to Kibuna, past a shrine and a temple, through the woods and along a mountain stream
• Listening to and watching monks bless children, with chanting, drumming, and incense at the Zenkoji Temple in Nagano.

There were everyday experiences as well:

• Stumbling on the Sarue Onshi Park, located in the hustle of Tokyo, but feeling like it was set in the distant past
• Shopping at the grocery store and scoring wins when we could decipher the products in the Japanese-only-labeled containers
• Riding the bus.

Taking public transportation gave us an eye on regular ol’ people living their lives, going about their daily business.

Japan’s public transportation system is mind-blowing. Trains, busses, and subways are available almost everywhere. The system is clean, easy to use, and reliable. And on time. Every time.

One day we were riding the bus from Lake Hamana back to Hamamatsu when a gaggle of school children boarded. There were around twenty, aged six or seven-ish, all wearing the ubiquitous Randoseru backpack and school uniform: sailor suits for girls and military style jacket and shorts for boys. They were adorable. I wanted to plop each of them on my lap and tell them a story. 

When you get on the bus you need to tap your fare card against a machine in the middle of the bus where you get on, then later, tap at a machine at the front before you go on your merry way. This way you are charged the proper amount for the trip. I watched as each child tapped as they got on. Then they proceeded to do what children do: clown around, talk and laugh, and overall act silly and have fun. The driver reprimanded them a few times, but it didn’t seem to quiet them. I was glad. They have plenty of time to be bored and grumpy when they grow up.

At each of the next ten or so stops one or two children got off the bus and began walking (actually, mostly running) down the street, across the street, alone or with each other, no adult in sight. The bus route terminated at the huge Hamamatsu Station, where busses, trains, and subways converged, and a big shopping mall was attached. The remaining children got off there and, I assume, boarded another type of transportation for the final stretch home. 

When one of The Darlings was 14 we had a trip planned for him to visit a relative. He was supposed to fly there. Mr. K also had a flight that day, for a work meeting. They went to the airport together. But there was a glitch – The Darling did not have the right ID, so was unable to board the flight. Mr. K had to go to his meeting, and I was at work. What to do?

We explained to him how he could take the Metro from the airport to a transfer station, then board another line, next get off at such-and-such stop, get on the local bus, get off near our home, then walk the 10 or so minutes to our house. 

When I arrived home that evening he met me at the door. His face was serious and determined. 

“Mom,” he began. I waited for him to continue.

“I can go anywhere in the world,” he announced. 

 “Yes, Darling, you can,” I replied. “Yes, you can.”

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We have been in Japan since October 23. Halloween was October 31. The next day Christmas preparations started. First it was music. “Silent Night” in the grocery store. An over the top dramatic rendition of “Silver Bells” in the camping store. “The First Noel” in the train station shopping mall.

Next it was the fake Christmas trees in office buildings and at town landmarks. Then Santas started appearing. Santa in a red suit with a bag full of presents. Santa strumming a guitar. Hawaii Santa in shorts and a flowered shirt. But as it turns out, the Japanese have morphed the holiday to make it their own. According to one of our bike guides, it is a day of sweethearts – where girlfriends and boyfriends get together to celebrate each other. Awwww!

However, what surprised me the most about Japanese Christmas was the report I received from one of The Darlings: the go-to food on Christmas is KFC. That’s right, not just fried chicken – of which Japan has tons of, by the name of karaage – but specifically Kentucky Fried Chicken, complete with Colonel Sanders. 

According to CNN, “KFC Japan pulled in 6.9 billion yen (roughly US$63 million) from December 20 to 25 in 2018, with lines out the door starting on December 23.” The KFC franchise aggressively marketed the product to Japanese consumers, linking Colonel Sanders with Santa Claus. They even played the song “My Old Kentucky Home” – one that I’m sure most Americans do not know – as part of the campaign. I can attest to the familiarity of this song in Japan. A couple of days ago we were at a music museum. At the end of a presentation children were invited to come up and play a barrel organ type instrument. Each song that came out had a Christmas theme: “Jingle Bells,” “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer,” “White Christmas.” Then, “My Old Kentucky Home.” I noticed heads bobbing to the music. Clearly those heads had heard the tune before. I would venture to say also that it invoked positive memories. 

I find music puzzling in Japan. We were at Lake Hamana waiting for our turn on a ropeway when we heard a Scottish Highlands riff being played over and over. Then, as we were traveling above the lake, we listened to a jazz instrumental of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound.” Who makes these choices? Do the music mavens really know these songs?

But back to the chicken. I guess symbols can take on whatever meaning you attribute to them. Why is the peace sign the peace sign? Why do N and Y overlapping symbolize the New York Yankees? And how about the hanging out tongue? Everyone knows that represents the Rolling Stones. 

I guess if people in Japan want to relate to a fast food enterprise as a meaningful symbol in their lives, that’s up to them. Certainly Americans ascribe certain meanings to events that may not accurately correspond to the historical incident. And we make those meanings central to our national narrative. Thanksgiving anyone?  

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One of the things I have loved most about being here in Japan is the opportunity for running. Most cities we have visited have a river flowing through them, and most of these have a path on at least one side for people on foot and on bicycle. While running on city roads here you have to constantly stop at intersections – and unlike in the United States, here you actually obey the walk signs – while on the path you pass through intersections on underpasses. It’s a nice way to go. 

It seems like the Japanese are experts in funneling water away from where they don’t want it into places where they do. Drain grates are all over the streets. You know that at home, if you are walking along a busy lane during the rain, cars will fly across puddles, causing water to spray all over your dry ol’ self? In Japan, the water drains efficiently so that does not happen. Also, there are walls built up along rivers to keep them within their bounds. There is a lot of H2O in Japan, and a lot of thought and engineering goes into keeping it contained.

While you are running you get to see the flow of the river and the many gradations of elevation, creating small waterfalls. But the agua is only part of it. There are bird critters all over the place, looking for breakfast. Some of the trails have signs warning of bears, and some runners wear bells, I assume to keep Yogi away. (When we were in Alaska we learned that the residents laughed at this, also at bear spray repellent. They referred to the latter as “seasoning,” as in added flavor for the two-legged critter about to be eaten by the four-legged one.) 

Besides runners there are dog walkers and lots of folks biking to work. In Japan nobody gives an audible warning, so you can be jogging along lost in thought and suddenly a two wheeler will come flying by, causing you to jump a few feet.

When running in Japan I have tried not to be too adventurous in my explorations. Typically when I run in a new place I wonder “What’s down that road?” or “Let me see what’s around that corner.” This often has led to me getting lost and depending my keen sense of direction to get back to the start. This did not work well for me in Sofia, Bulgaria a few years ago, when I could not read the Cyrillic street signs, did not have a map on my phone, and lost my orientation. Nonetheless, I found my way back. Here in Japan I just run out along the river and back, no way to get lost, and I just revel in the beauty of the environs.

I am profoundly grateful to be able to exercise in this beautiful place. For a while I was incapable of running at all. (More about that in upcoming posts!) Being out there with the sun on my face, the sound of the moving water, the footsteps of the other (mostly passing) runners, the feeling of my heart beating, and the rhythmic intake of my breath gives me a precious sense of alertness and aliveness and a confirmation of how fortunate I truly am. 

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When we arrived in Fukuoka there was an air of celebration. We noticed that there were lots of men and women wearing traditional Japanese clothing. There were dance performances at the train station. And I noticed the guy sitting next to me at the bus stop was dressed like what I thought was a sumo wrestler. What gives?

Turns out we were in Fukuoka during the Fukuoka Grand Sumo Tournament.

We turned on the television back at the hotel and began watching. You probably know that sumo wrestling involves extremely large people of the male variety who wear teeny little ribbons around their nether parts. They battle in a small ring and try to push each other out of it.

These guys are big, and the matches are short. They remind me of two bulls who don’t see eye to eye.

After watching for a few minutes I saw a guy who kind of stood out. He had blondish hair and blue eyes. Did not have the classic Japanese look. So I did a little research. Guess what? He is not from Japan, he is from Ukraine! Aonishiki Arata has been sumo wrestling since the age of seven. He became a Ukrainian national champ in 2021, when he was 17. He arrived in Japan in 2022. Ultimately – get this – he won the Grand Sumo Tournament that we were watching. Fascinating. This newcomer is at the top of the game in a country that he has only lived in for a short three years. Quite the achievement. 

So my next question was: How did he get here? Sumo wrestling in Ukraine? Turns out there 3,000 sumo wrestlers and 18 sumo clubs there. I’m not sure how it started, but today Ukraine’s interest in sumo continues to increase, and it has created a pipeline into the sport. 

So, obviously, my next, next question was: Do we have sumo wrestling in the United States. Yes, we do! Looks like sumo wrestling is everywhere.

Sumo wrestling has its roots in ancient Japanese traditions, including Shintoism. Competitors live a regimented life. There are numerous rules to follow. For starters, they live in a dormitory group called a “stable,” their activities are determined by rank – those lower on the echelon serve those higher – they eat two high calorie meals a day with specific ingredients, and they must wear Japanese style clothes in public.  

Interestingly, the wrestlers lose their abundant weight after they retire. And while some continue on in sumo as coaches or performing other functions, most do not. Some stay in the public eye by coming TV personalities or actors. But others find themselves as loose ends, as sumo had been their life for so many years, and they did not have opportunities to acquire other job skills. As a result, many of them have problems adjusting to regular ol’ everyday life.  

All in all, seems like a challenging way to make a living, But I guess that is the point, right? With the contests come wins, fame, glory. Then you’re done, and everyone moves on. The fragments of the moments disperse and scatter.

But until that time, you are King of the Hill. And the size of one, too.

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