Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win, it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,
At the old ball game. ~by Edward Meeker, 1908

It was a balmy summer evening in New York. The 37,339 baseball fans that came to Citi Field to watch the hometown Mets play the Atlanta Braves rose to their feet to sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game for the 7th inning stretch. The rhythmic swaying to the classic baseball song soon gave way to joyous dancing as a raucous rendition of Louis Prima’s quintessential Italian standard Che La Luna blared over the stadium sound system. The night ended with an exciting fireworks show. 

Oh yeah, the Braves beat the Mets 7-0. 

Things have changed since the last time I spent a night in a baseball stadium. The game seemed like a mere sideshow to the entertainment extravaganza. I might sound like an old man yearning for the nostalgic good ole days when a great catch or a soaring home run made the crowd oooh and ahhh, not a young DJ spinning hop-hop beats between innings on a humongous HD screen mounted high above the left centerfield bleachers. But, that’s not the point. 

The point is that I was there. Thirteen years ago, I was in a medically induced coma in the ICU and on a ventilator fighting for my life. Five years ago, I was again in the ICU. That time with my ribcage wide open for nearly a week because my lungs were so swollen after surgery that the surgeon couldn’t close the chest cavity. Three years ago, I was in bed lying in a fetal position after heart transplant surgery, depressed and convinced that I had failed my family by getting sick ten years before.

Last Friday, there I was in New York City. On a beautiful warm night. At a major league baseball game with my daughter Marisa and her boyfriend Brian. Sitting in great seats along the third baseline. Swaying to Take Me Out to the Ballgame and dancing to Che La Luna. Rocking out to The Cars and the Backstreet Boys between innings. Ooohing and ahhhing at an amazing post-game fireworks show accompanied by classic 80s and 90s hip hop. Oh yeah, and I watched a little baseball. The point is . . .  I was there! 

Of course, what is baseball without a hot dog, beer, peanuts, and Cracker Jack? No beer. No peanuts. And, no muthafuckas, I didn’t have a hot dog! I just ate a little bag of Cracker Jack.

My journey to Citi Field was a last minute decision. Two weeks ago the Honor the Gift Coalition invited me back to Washington, D.C. to advocate for transplant patients. I wrote about that trip in the June 27th ESEReport. When I went back east in June, it was a three day trip that included two travel days and one day on Capitol Hill. This time, I thought about staying for another day to visit Marisa since New York is a short train ride from Washington, D.C. Sandra encouraged me to stay through the weekend. That’s a benefit of being retired, she said.

Retired?!?! Red flags started waving through my mind, but soon gave way to acceptance. Until very recently, retirement was a frightening thought. My mind conjured up visions of a broken old man that lost his place in the world. I witnessed it in my childhood. While my friends have counted down the days to retirement since they started working, I always envisioned working until the “day they put in a box.” During the summer of 2010, “they” almost did. 

My health crisis eventually led to me no longer being fully employed and being a productive member of society, or so I thought. That misguided assumption was a major cause of my post transplant depression. I truly made myself believe that I had no value and nothing to offer the world or my family. Thankfully, a few years of intense therapy, participation in a heart transplant support group, and uncomplaining love from Sandra, Marisa, and Erica have helped me understand that these unfounded beliefs were just a figment of my imagination.

Within a few minutes of my conversation with Sandra, the red flags floated off into the netherworld where they belong. She was right, damned right! I’m retired. I don’t have to mope around like my dad and his buddies grumbling about being old just waiting to die. First, despite the few hairs that cling to life on my bald head, I’m not old. Fifty-nine is the new thirty nine, right? I still have much to offer the world and, more important, I still have much to offer my family. That’s it, I decided. I’m going to New York and staying through the weekend.

After a full day of meetings on Capitol Hill, I hopped on the 5:30 train to New York. The three-hour ride was calm and relaxing. When I got to Marisa’s apartment, I faced the daunting task of climbing four flights of stairs with a backpack strapped to my shoulders and suit bag in my hand. Not to worry.  Idaho is a beast! I wasn’t sitting at home waiting to die. I was in the most exciting city in the America. I was going to spend the rest of the week with my daughter. I’m retired, dammit!

The rest of the week was amazing. No Statue of Liberty tour. No Brooklyn Bridge. No Top of the Rock. We went to a few cool restaurants in Marisa’s Upper East Side neighborhood. We flipped the script on Take Your Daughter to Work Day and I spent the day watching my baby be a consummate professional. That afternoon, I walked across the street from her office to have coffee with an old high school friend who has lived in New York for almost three decades. I also spoke to a group of nurse leaders at a virtual town hall meeting from Marisa’s apartment. 

Oh yeah, we went to a Mets game. Heck yeah, I’m retired!

On Saturday night, the Alaska Airlines terminal at JFK International Airport was chaotic. I joined about seven others in missing the flight. No big deal. I spent a night in a hotel and left the next morning. The week was amazing, almost cathartic. On Sunday’s flight home, I took in everything that happened during the week. It was a beautiful example of faith, hope, and love. 

I fully accepted the fact that I’m retired, no strings attached. I now know that I can travel with precautions to take care of Idaho. It’s no fun wearing a N-95 mask for six hours on a plane. But I rejoiced in that minor suffering, endured, and became stronger and more confident about air travel. I met an amazing group of fellow transplant warriors in Washington, D.C. to advocate for an important cause in our community. I was fully present for my daughter.

As my mom would say, que mas quieres – what more do you want?