(Above: Maria made a new mask for me out of some fabric she brought back from India.)

Someone asked a famous surgeon what happens when people open up their hearts. “They get better,” he said. I think this is true.

I get better when surgeons literally open up my heart, but I get the point. Cormac McCarthy wrote that scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

I have another month to go in Cardiac Rehab, it has been good for me, giving form and structure to my recovery. I have to go there twice a week, so I do. My new arteries and I are getting off to a good start.

The nurses encourage me, take my temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. I don’t know if they really care about me or not, but they sure give that impression.

They know a lot about hearts and sometimes will even share what they know.

The exercise helps. So does the medication. So did the procedure, which gave me all my arteries and most of my blood back.

Maria helped most of all. There is nothing like someone who loves you:

“I’m here. I love you,” wrote Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat Pray, Love. “I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long; I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it—I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death, I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression, and I am braver than Loneliness, and nothing will ever exhaust me.” 

Yup, that’s Maria.

One learns in cardiac rehab that there is no cure for heart disease, despite all of the spectacular stuff doctors can do these days, as the cliche goes.

To live with it, I am learning to deal with it and manage it as well as I can.  Once in a while, listening to Gregorian chant on my bike, I feel sorry for myself. But I look around at the other people and I feel better. I am a lucky one.

The heart miracles work, sometimes for a good long time. I can forget about my heart disease for long periods of time, but I can never forget it, not if I want to live awhile. Very few men like to talk about it, but I appreciate it when we do.

I’m talking a truck driver in my neighborhood through it, he is scared to death, seeing me getting better makes him feel safer.

The heart informs so much about our lives, from its quality to what we eat, how much energy we have, and what we can really do. Men often think they are losing their virility when they have heart disease, I think I am just finding mine.

The nurses in cardiac rehab try to be informal and casual, but they are neither.  They watch me continuously on the machine that displays my heartbeat while I exercise. If I overdo it, they come and yell at me nicely. They encourage me, praise me, help me. They miss nothing and watch my heartbreak closely. “You’re doing great Jon,” they yell across the room, “good for you.”

Finally, teachers who like me.

“You’re at the top of the class,” one of them said today, “you’re just doing beautifully.” But there is always a “but,” of course. If I were really doing beautifully, I wouldn’t be in a cardiac rehab class at all.

The nurses meant that it was  great that I did 45 minutes on a bike at the 10-speed level and then did another 15 minutes on a stationary bike set on “hills.” I was proud of myself and pleased by the praise; I could not have done that a month ago, or even a couple of weeks ago.

Every day, I go to cardiac rehab, my gym, or walk up a steep hill. I’m not quite ready yet for my e-bike, but I’m getting closer. One of these days, I’ll hop on it and ride; I feel so much stronger and confident about my body.

Winter is moving in fast, it comes early and hard around here. I might need to wait until Spring to ride my bike.

My heart and my exercise issues – and the bike –  sent me back into therapy, and it is helping greatly. There is no cure for mental illness either, but you do get to recover every day.

It’s always hard for me to learn more about myself, I get sick of me quickly, but I need to do it.

I am grateful for having heart disease if I have to have anything.

It’s a very tolerant disease for writers, I am free to write as much as I want as often as I want.  No cardiologist has ever told me to take it easy with my writing. They could care less.

One of the UPS drivers on my route has heart disease; he has to retire.

I have to exercise less than I want more often than I ever have. Fair trade, I am starting to enjoy it. I never got far enough with exercise to understand that it feels good. That’s why they do it!

I’ve also learned that the surgeon was right.

Heart disease has opened me up, and when I open up, I do feel better. Okay, there are easier ways to have learned this, but better late than never. I’m not good at the easy way.

Marie, one of my cardiac nurses,  has taken it upon herself to help me feel strong about riding on my e-bike. We’re working on leg strength and balance. I’ve given her some books, she loves reading, she is in love with Hemingway, next up, My Antonia by Willa Cather.

I enjoy talking about writing with her.

Today, she put me on a stationary bike to replace the feel of a real block and help me get more comfortable about riding again.

I am a star student, I think, in rehab. But it’s not the Olympics.

For one thing, there are few other people there due to the pandemic.  And some of the people there are in much worse shape than me. They only allow a few people at a time into the program now, and we work well apart from one another.

The nurses mostly leave me alone now; I know the drill and have my favorite machines.  They shout encouragement from across the room.

Today I listened to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The USA” album while I biked. That will keep the heart going. Yesterday,  I did 45 minutes on a bike at my gym and 10 more on another.

I am tired but sore.

I think our wounds often let the light in; they are often the openings into the best and most beautiful and often hidden parts of us. My father was rough on me because I refused to exercise or play sports, and I sometimes wish he could see me now.

But not really. He would have said something that pissed me off and brought me down. I do hope you’re watching Dad; if so, at least you can’t speak to me. You were a good man, but you were not very nice to me.