Category Archives: Miscellaneous Posts

Room 2301

Miscellaneous Posts
Room 2301, Kaiser Santa Clara ICU, July 30,2024

Agape love is selfless love . . . the love God wants us to have isn’t just an emotion but a conscious act of the will—a deliberate decision on our part to put others ahead of ourselves. This is the kind of love God has for us. ~Billy Graham, 20th Century American Evangelist

* * *

After 5,083 days, I returned to the scene of the crime. The scene was Room 2301 in the ICU at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center. The crime was being “intubated, sedated, and paralyzed.” That’s my medical record’s way of saying that I was on life-support machines, in a medically induced coma, on heavy muscle relaxation medication. The suspect was Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome (ARDS), a rare disorder that shuts down the lungs.

The reason for my return was visiting a family member who was recovering from heart surgery. Just as she had done 14 years earlier, I sat in the waiting room from Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love. I experienced the anxiety, uncertainty, and hope my family endured that fateful summer. The room was full of the same faith, love, laughs, concern, and ultimately relief when the surgeon reported a successful operation.

Much has happened in those 5,083 days. I returned to work as chief of staff for an elected official only to be unceremoniously walked out of my office when the politician resigned. I wallowed in uncertainty as a 47 year old man with severe congestive heart failure and a career in tatters. I started a consulting business with a couple of clients, but it didn’t take away the sting of failure or cure my deteriorating heart. As my badly damaged heart weakened, so did my mental health. 

I embarked on a faith and mental health journey that continues to this day. I’ve learned that faith is accepting God’s will, hope is an action word, and the meaning of true love is agape, the ancient Greek word for God’s love of putting others ahead of ourselves. The Buddhist principle of mindfulness, defined by mindfulness guru Jon Kabat Zinn as “paying attention, on purpose, in the present moment, without judgment,” is now part of my consciousness. I’m learning how to focus on the here and now.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from returning to the ICU where my life hung in the balance for more than a month. According to the National Library of Medicine, ARDS survivors experience “a high prevalence of substantial symptoms for depression, anxiety and PTSD.” I’ve experienced all three during the past 14 years. I wondered if returning to the scene of the crime would trigger one or all three of the psychological conditions. Regardless of those concerns, agape inspired me to be there to support the family.

Walking into the cardiovascular ICU waiting room was surreal. I surveyed the space and imagined what it was like 14 years earlier. Family members brought my imagination to life by sharing stories of that fateful summer. Water and sodas were stacked in that corner. Food brought in by visitors sat on this small table. Tío Pancho and Nino Miguel chomped down pupusas on those chairs over there. The summer of 2010 came to life as we anxiously waited for the surgeon.

Six hours after we arrived, our loved one was rolled into the ICU for recovery and the surgeon reported a successful operation to the waiting room. We were allowed to see her in pairs. When the heavy double doors to the ICU slowly opened, it was like walking into a time capsule. The names and faces were different, but the scene was the same. Doctors, nurses, and other healthcare professionals were busily caring for patients and keeping a close eye on the monitors that measured the progress of each patient.

As Sandra and I weaved our way through the ICU trying not to get in the way of the healthcare teams, we walked by Room 2301. The room was empty. I tentatively peered into the unoccupied space as a range of emotions washed over me. I pictured myself on the bed with a breathing tube in my mouth, a ventilator by the bedside, and a forest of IV stands holding bags of fluids and medications.

I thought about the suffering combined with hope that Sandra, the girls, and family and friends endured day in and day out while in the waiting room on the other side of the wall that summer 14 years ago. Surprisingly, I had no negative reactions. My stomach didn’t do a flip as it does when anxiety sets in. Neither sadness nor depression creeped into my psyche. For a few more seconds, I stood in front of an empty Room 2301 in awe of the power of faith, hope, and love.  A nurse leader graciously took a pic of me standing by the door.

The next few days turned out to be a reunion of sorts. In the hallways of the ICU and later the cardiac unit, I ran into the occupational therapist who taught me how to use my hands again in 2010. Nurses and technicians who cared for me after my LVAD (mechanical heart pump) implantation surgery in 2018 heard I was in the unit and stopped by to say hello. Their smiles and genuine hugs of joy to see a former LVAD patient thrive with a heart transplant warmed my soul.

At the end of the week, I felt a sense of profound gratitude. Kaiser Santa Clara’s top notch cardiology team performed another successful heart operation, its patient was comfortably recovering at home, and I was able to see my own journey from another perspective. The uncertainty of heart surgery and being bombarded with data, numbers, and medical terms difficult to understand is stressful. I saw my fellow heart surgery warrior and her nuclear family endure the week with grace, courage, and their trademark humor.

Perhaps more important to me, I took another step in my faith and mental health journey. According to Dr. Daniel Boscaljon, Executive Coach and Founder of the Healthy Workplace Academy, practicing agape “improves someone’s emotional well-being, offering a sense of deep connection and meaningful belonging to each situation.” I grew a deeper connection of belonging with the family. I also felt at peace in a place that caused so much suffering for me. 

As my mom used to say, Gracias a Dios. “¿Qué más quieres?” (Thank you, God. What more do you want?). 

Heartbreak in 2003: Part 1

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In the backyard with my big sister Patty – circa 1969-70

My big sister Patty and I are ten years apart. The first memory I have of her was from around 1968 or 1969. I was about five or six years old and she was in high school. My recollection is vague, so I’m not sure how much of it actually happened. She and our oldest sister Barbara wanted to take me to the playground at Richard E. Conniff Elementary School. The back gate of the school was at the end of the street where we grew up on Viewmont Avenue in east San Jose, California. 

I think it was during the summer because Mom was busy in the kitchen making dinner and the sun was still out. Of course, Mom was more than happy that the girls offered to get their travesio (mischievous) little brother out of her hair so she could finish preparing the food. After we entered through the back cyclone gate of the school, we marched right past the playground walking on the expansive lawn that served as a sort of athletic field. I hadn’t realized yet that my sisters had an ulterior motive.

We kept walking past the faculty parking lot at the front of the school and turned left on East Hills Drive toward the bigger houses uphill where the “rich” people lived. As we hiked up the street, it started getting hot and I started complaining with a grimace on my little flushed face. I think my sisters said, “we’re going for a walk because exercise is good for you.” My little legs were struggling trying to keep up with their long strides. I surely didn’t know what it meant to suffer, but I’m pretty sure I was suffering as I walked with heavy legs up the hill.

About halfway up East Hills Drive, we made a right turn on McCovey Lane. The streets in that neighborhood had names related to the San Francisco Giants. Candlestick Way and Davenport Drive were just a few short blocks away. McCovey Lane was even steeper! I had had enough. “I’m gonna tell Mom that we didn’t go to the playground,” I threatened as I huffed and puffed up the street. We were just going in a different way, they assured me. I soon figured out what was going on. They wanted to walk by the house of a boy one of them must have liked. 

We stopped in front of a house for a few seconds while my big sisters whispered and giggled together. I didn’t get it. I just wanted to have fun playing in the jungle gym and tan bark. No one told me that we were going on an epic journey to stop in front of some guy’s house for a few seconds. I was not a happy camper as we immediately turned back and headed down McCovey Lane, made a left turn on East Hills Drive, walked onto the Conniff campus, and finally made it to the jungle gym. 

After what seemed like only a few seconds, the girls told me it was time to go home for dinner. I was pissed as I stomped through the field and through the gate onto Viewmont Avenue. Next to the gate stood a majestic old eucalyptus tree. Some loose branches from that big tree had fallen to the ground. Lucky for me! I kicked one of the little branches down the street as we walked. That stick kept me occupied as I zigzagged following it. A few houses away from home, Barbara and Patty stopped to tell me I better not tell Mom we took the “long” way to the playground. I never did.

Within a couple of years, Barbara married her high school sweetheart. He was in the Air Force and they moved to Alaska. My oldest brother David was away at college. Patty, big brother Steve, baby sister Sisi, and I had a little more elbow room in the small house on 48 Viewmont Avenue, but just for a short time. A year after Barbara left, Patty moved into her college dorm at Santa Clara University (SCU), a Jesuit college about 30 minutes from home. Steve and I shared a room and Sisi had one all to herself.

I loved visiting Patty in her dorm room. I thought it was cool that she had a roommate and lived in an “apartment” like on TV. Sometimes Mom would let me hang out with Patty and her roommate Rosie at the dorm. I’m not sure what Mom had to do, but she had toddler Sisi in tow. Who knows what Steve was doing or where he was. It was always up to my big sisters to watch over me when Mom had things to do.

There was a huge swimming pool right next to Patty and Rosie’s dorm. They would sunbathe or check out boys while I jumped in and out of the water. Wearing cutoff shorts and standing shirtless at the edge of the pool with my little gut sticking out, I created all kinds of pretend scenarios. One minute, I would be a cliff diver in Acapulco or a deep sea diver in the Navy. The day usually ended with me going up to the dorm room to change back into dry clothes.

Patty ultimately met and married a SCU classmate from Bakersfield, California. Rick and Patty Robles were married at Mission Santa Clara on the SCU campus, and moved to Bakersfield right after the wedding. I spent a couple of weeks in Bakersfield each summer when I was 12, 13, and 14 years old. Patty taught summer school in the morning and Rick had a landscaping gig to supplement his teacher’s salary.

I would get up at the crack of dawn to help Rick on his rounds. We had to go early to beat the suffocating desert heat. The gigantic houses on the west side of town were my favorites. I couldn’t imagine living in a house with a basketball court, tennis court, and swimming pool in the backyard. Although Rick had a college degree from a prestigious university, in those neighborhoods, we were the jardineros (gardeners).

Once the sun went down and and Patty and Rick were done working for the day, we would go to the movies, get fast food from time to time, or watch a movie on cable TV. I didn’t get to do any of those things at home. We only went to the Mexican movies downtown when Dad was in the mood. Fast food and cable? Not a chance at 48 Viewmont Avenue. Rick taught me how to play golf and tennis, and we played hoops late at night at the neighborhood park with his little brother Dave. I loved going to Bakersfield!

Over the years, I grew closer to Patty. When Sandra and I were married, Patty and Sandra got along almost immediately. They had similar personalities: straightforward, no nonsense, and a strong maternal love. Marisa and Erica were excited when Rick, Patty, and their son Matt visited. And vice versa. They knew a trip to Bakersfield meant going to the mall, always on Tía Patty because she “didn’t have girls at home to spoil.”

In early 2003, Patty had been fighting what seemed like pneumonia or bronchitis. Doctors couldn’t clearly identify the problem and decided to do exploratory surgery. The morning of the operation, I called Patty to wish her luck and told her that Sandra and I would make the four-hour drive to Bakersfield to see her when she emerged from the operating room. During surgery, doctors confirmed that she had myocarditis, a type of virus in heart. She needed a heart transplant immediately. 

In the waiting room, we prayed for a positive outcome and anxiously waited for the doctor. Shortly before dawn, the doctor walked into the waiting room and asked Rick to step into the ICU. He asked me and his brother Dave to join him and the doctor. Once in the wide and antiseptic hallway of the ICU, the doctor, in a straightforward and unemotional manner, told my brother-in-law that Patty’s heart had weakened to the point of failure and that she would die within the hour. I was stunned! 

The suffering I experienced walking up East Hills Drive with Patty and Barbara some 33 years earlier was insignificant compared to the pain I felt at that moment, and the days and weeks that followed. St. Paul the Apostle tells us in Roman 5:3 to “rejoice in our suffering” as that leads to hope. There was no rejoicing and no hope when I stood at the podium to speak at Patty’s funeral a week later. I didn’t know at that moment what was in store for me. The remainder of 2003 would tell that story and take suffering to a new and numbing level.

***

Note: Look for Part 2 of Heartbreak in 2003 next Wednesday

Rejoice in Suffering

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James Lick Invitational Tournament ~ 1980
James Lick Invitational Tournament ~ 1980
Sitting it out.

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering. ~Friedrich Nietzsche, 19th Century German Philosopher

* * *

I was in the 6th grade the first time my dad took me to the James Lick Invitational Tournament. It was a neighborhood institution that kicked off the holiday season. The gym was packed. I was mesmerized watching players run back and forth in a choreographed ballet to the soundtrack of basketball shoes squeaking on the polished maple floor. Cheerleaders jumped, chanted, twirled, and fired up the crowd. The whole scene was intoxicating.

I’ll never forget the excitement I felt watching the winning team cut down the nets as a souvenir and seeing the all-tournament team clutching trophies at center court as the crowd cheered. From then on, one of my dreams was to play in the tournament. I looked forward to someday standing on a ladder to snip a little piece of the net as a champion and imagined holding an all-tournament player trophy of my own.

Six years later, I had my chance. As a senior at James Lick High School, I was co-captain and starting shooting guard for the varsity basketball team. We won our first game on opening night. I had a good game and earned a top 10 spot on the all-tournament vote tally. So far so good. My stomach churned with excitement and anticipation.

After the game, a bunch of students celebrated the victory at the neighborhood Round Table Pizza. My teammates and I walked into the place like conquering heroes. On the way home, my friend lost control of his car and crashed it head-on into a telephone pole. A few hours later, I was sitting in the Kaiser emergency room as a doctor stitched the deep cut on my forehead. The doctor said no to basketball for a week. 

It felt like my dog had died. I suffered sitting on the bench wearing jeans and a letterman jacket watching my team lose the next two games. Something that I had wanted since the 6th grade went up in smoke right before my eyes. There would be no nets to cut down, no all-tourney trophy to hold at mid-court, no cheering crowd. I replayed the car hitting that pole over and over in my mind. Little did I know that those two nights helplessly sitting on the bench wouldn’t be the last time my heart would ache.

Suffering is part of life. The central story of Christianity is the suffering Jesus endured at the hands of his enemies. Buddhists believe that suffering is a natural state of living. Nineteenth century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said that “to live is to suffer.” Ancient philosophers don’t have the last word on suffering. A couple of 20th-century lyricists come to mind. They put into simple words what highbrow intellectuals have been telling each other for thousands of years.

Jose Alfredo Jiménez, arguably Mexico’s greatest composer, wrote in the mid-20th century about emotional pain and suffering.

La vida no vale nada. Comienza siempre llorando. Y así llorando se acaba. (Life is worthless. It always starts out crying and, like that, it ends crying.) 

His massive body of work contains beautiful and elegant lyrics on life’s struggles. The concept of suffering consumed him so much that he ultimately drank himself to death. Cirrhosis of the liver took his life at 47 years old.

American country music icon Hank Williams also wrote haunting lyrics about pain and anguish. His music brings life to the agony of everyday living, loving and loss.

The silence of a falling star. Lights up a purple sky. And as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome, I could cry.

The official cause of the 29 year-old singer’s death was heart failure caused by the combination of alcohol and morphine, no doubt to soothe his pain.

Suffering is loosely defined as experiencing pain, sorrow, or hardship. It comes in all forms. According to Buddhists, there are generally three kinds of suffering: mental and emotional torment, physical pain, and death. Catholic tradition adds two more: humiliation and physical exhaustion. More than 4,000 years of philosophy, spirituality, and scholarship tell us that there’s no way to avoid one or more of these types of suffering on a daily basis.

When we think of suffering, big things come to mind: a fatal illness, death, a break-up, physical pain caused by a car accident, broken limbs, or migraine headaches. Suffering also comes in small packages. A flat tire, getting to work late, a gossipy co-worker, and an ankle sprain can all cause some level of mental torment, physical pain, and humiliation. 

Like most people, I always believed that life was all about having fun interrupted by a few hard times here and there. As a kid, I lived with both parents and five brothers and sisters in a safe environment, played baseball with neighborhood kids at the school down the street, and basketball on my driveway. We always had food to eat and had the same roof over our heads until we left the nest. It never dawned at me that life could be anything but wonderful with minor exceptions.

In high school, things got more complicated as the pendulum started to swing. It hurt when Dad furrowed his brow and shook his head in disappointment or Mom was upset at me for one thing or another. Focusing on academic performance, pursuing athletic accomplishments, and managing relationships began to eat up more of my time. Mental, emotional, and physical suffering followed. Nevertheless, suffering was still the exception, not the rule.

Life after high school was hard. I flunked out of San Jose State University after three semesters. Despite a sharp intellect and a solid work ethic, I embarked on a string of dead end jobs. I agonized over my circumstances knowing that my natural talents were not visible to my work mates or future employers. Burying myself into books had no practical purpose for the arc my life was taking. I grew frustrated and my anguish accelerated.

Suffering was the order of the day everyday. Drinking and carousing provided brief relief from the pain that racked my mind, body, and soul. Once the music stopped, the anguish resumed with more intensity. The physical and emotional hangovers lasted just long enough to jump back on the merry-go-round of suffering, shameless partying, and feeling sorry for myself. I finally overcame academic failure and forged a new direction.

Although ambition and promise were the new orders of the day, sorrow and pain still paved life’s path. The passing of Mom and sister Patty, job losses, election defeats, political failures, a massive heart attack, a horrific summer on life support, and a decade living with heart failure kept heartache chugging along. Marriage to Sandra, the birth of our girls, professional and some political success, and a heart transplant only served to soothe the ache of sustained suffering.

Since my heart transplant, I’ve developed a fascination with suffering and where it fits in our lives. The emotional and physical pain suffering inflicts on all of us make us naturally want to avoid it at all costs. The Spanish word for fun is diversión. While not a literal translation, the word has the same root as the English diversion. What are we  trying to divert ourselves from? Suffering, of course.

My heart failure and transplant journey have given me a new perspective on suffering and its assortment of so-called remedies. A brief scrolling through social media shows people “living their best lives” on vacation, at parties, and doing all kinds of fun stuff. The question is, Are those activities what life is all about or are they merely short-lived diversions from the daily drudgery of going to work, paying bills, fighting with family, raising kids, doing chores, and on and on?

That question has real life and death meaning for me. Living my best life was working long hours, drinking gallons of beer with a few shots of tequila here and there, and eating gobs  of fatty and unhealthy food. After a decade of heart failure and transplant, those diversions from suffering are no longer available to me if I want to continue living. I had to flip the script. I needed to find a way to live my best life without work, alcohol, food, or elaborate vacations every year, among a host of other temporary feel-good distractions.

I went back to the highbrow intellectual guys to find answers. Taking another page from the Nietzsche playbook, “out of life’s school of war—what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” I’ve endured so much, especially during the past 14 years. Nevertheless, I’m still here. I’m mentally stronger with the character needed to face challenges head on. I have a better outlook on life and look forward to whatever each new day brings.

Nietzsche also told us that “to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” St. Paul the Apostle gave me a starting point. In his Letter to the Romans, he was trying to unify warring factions of the nascent church in Rome. As in any conflict, the differences in opinion among the groups caused much pain and suffering. St. Paul provided a recommendation to the Romans that has formed the foundation of my hope to flip the script on the never ending cycle of trying to avoid suffering through the pursuit of pleasure.

“Rejoice in your suffering,” St. Paul wrote in Roman 5:3-4, because it ultimately leads to hope. My heart failure journey came to an abrupt and blessed end on April 16, 2020. That’s when a new journey began. Suffering, real and imagined, old and new, continues to endure just as Nietzsche told us. “To live is to suffer.” My post-transplant story is all about rejoicing in my suffering “to find some meaning in it.”

***

Note: The story continues next Wednesday.

At a Crossroads

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Eddie García graciously shared his inspirational journey with our leaders. His relatable stories, wisdom, and experiences resonated with our leadership team and inspired us to continue performing at a high level. ~Rigo Topete, Regional Vice President Sales & Marketing, Comcast Pacific Northwest Region

* * *

I nervously walked into a hotel banquet room full of sales executives and managers in Olympia, Washington. The group was named the top performing sales team in the Pacific Northwest the year before. Company executives expected the team to repeat as the region’s most prolific sales team by exceeding its record-breaking performance from the previous year. The stakes were high. The company invited me to share my story and help inspire sales leaders to meet the moment.

My pregame jitters came from the fact that there were 100 or so seasoned professionals in the room who had “been there and done that.” What could I say that they probably hadn’t already heard? I prepped tirelessly for weeks to make sure I would deliver a unique and meaningful speech. I decided to start my remarks by developing a relationship with those in attendance by telling a story about how their beloved Seattle Seahawks faced similar expectations and challenges the season after winning Super Bowl XLVIII in 2014.

Many in the audience shook their heads at that memory, smiled, and acknowledged my presence on stage. It was calming and gave me the confidence to share my story. I moved along and talked about the challenges of suffering a massive heart attack, living a decade with heart failure, and managing a heart transplant. 

I described how accepting God’s will is the foundation of faith and how rejoicing in my suffering led to hope by giving me the endurance and character needed to survive. Ultimately, it was unselfish love for Sandra and the girls that gave me the courage to fight day in and day out. The moral to my health crisis story, I emphasized, was how the power of faith, hope, and love carried me through that difficult time.

I urged the group to consider using that formula to lead their teams to another award winning year. They should have faith by accepting the fact that expectations were high and other teams were gunning for them. Rejoicing in that challenge would help them persevere through ups and downs, strengthen the team’s character, and turn hope into an action word, instead of an empty desire. I expressed how giving oneself for the sake of others is the very definition of love. By having each other’s backs, rather than infighting, unselfish teamwork would carry them across the finish line. 

When I concluded my remarks about 20 minutes later, the executives and managers rose to their feet in a rousing standing ovation. I was overwhelmed by the reaction and relieved that the mission was accomplished. After 30 minutes or so of taking questions, I headed to a table at the back of the room to sign books. I took time to talk with each and every person who wanted to share a story about family members with heart disease, cancer, and other chronic illnesses. With a story about conquering her own battle with cancer, one woman and I rejoiced together in our blessings.

On the flight back to San Jose, I reflected on the day and the meaningful conversations with amazing leaders. First and foremost, I felt gratitude for being able to touch the lives of others. I love being on stage and sharing my story to inspire people to persevere through life’s challenges. Another thought running through my mind was singularly selfish. Professional speakers make anywhere from $5,000 to $25,000 for doing exactly what I did in Olympia. My compensation for that appearance was nominal by comparison. 

Those thoughts and calculations came and went before landing at San Jose Mineta International Airport. Since that time, ideas about becoming a professional speaker have crossed my mind many times. My reasoning always begins with the opportunity to share my inspirational story with a wide audience and delves into potential financial gain. That’s where any further consideration of the idea slowly slips away.

I know what it takes to be a professional at anything, especially if the goal is to be the best I can be. It involves taking risks, hard work, and full commitment. At my age (60 years old) and because of the harrowing health journey I’ve endured, I’m just not sure I’m prepared to do what it takes to start a successful inspirational speaker business. I go back and forth in my mind analyzing the pros and cons of such an endeavor. So far, the cons are winning the day.

Recently, I became aware of a local organization in the market for an inspirational speaker. The proposed budget was around $7,500. The wheels in my head started turning and my stomach churned with excitement. I could do it, and for much less! I thought a second about offering my services before ultimately deciding not to speak up. I’m not sure why.

After thinking about why I didn’t make the offer, two things came to mind. First, the old imposter syndrome demons began to creep in because I wasn’t even considered. Maybe I’m not worth that amount of money and I’m just a legend in my own mind, the demons whispered into my ear. My previous speaking engagements told a different story. All audiences I’ve addressed react in the same enthusiastic way as the leadership team in Olympia. So maybe it wasn’t those old negative thoughts in action that kept me silent.

The second reason is that perhaps subconsciously I didn’t want to open a can or worms that couldn’t be closed. Could securing that speaking opportunity have been a slippery slope toward risk taking, working hard, and being completely dedicated to the work again? I’ve been down that path and it didn’t go so well for me or for my family. Nevertheless, the conversation put me in a self-imposed crossroads for a few days. 

I spent those days praying and reflecting on what really mattered. Was my ego tugging at my better senses? Yeah it was a little of that. Was it the potential financial gain? Yeah, of course. Who can’t use more money? Was it the fear that my inspirational story will never reach the masses? Yeah, that’s a biggie for sure. In the end, as always, it was faith, hope, and love that carried the day. 

If God wants me to be a professional speaker, He’ll let me know and I’ll do my part. In the meantime, I’ll rejoice in my suffering, fully accepting that I’m a great storyteller who isn’t on a big stage. I’ll persevere by seeking opportunities to speak at small gatherings and local events. Character, confidence, and commitment to the cause of inspiring others will strengthen my resolve and give me hope to keep sharing my story.

Between speaking opportunities, I’ll be home spending time with my family, washing dishes, folding clothes, and making dinner from time to time. I’ll also keep working on community passion projects by coaching emerging Latino and Latina civc leaders, teaching high schoolers about leadership, and advocating for my fellow transplant recipients. I’ll get in some reading and writing too. At the moment, this seems like God’s plan for me. I’m happy to do my part to fulfill His plan as best as I can, and I’m grateful that He guided me through the crossroads.

Roots at Harmon Park

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My parents (Lico and Marie) met on a late summer day in 1949 when Mom went out to the neighborhood park with a cousin to watch some boys play baseball. Mom caught the eye of Dad as he strutted around the diamond with a smile that could be seen across the field. He was calling at my grandmother’s front door the next morning, respectfully asking permission to talk to my mom.

~ Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love, page 11

* * *

I remember being a  little boy playing by myself with toy cars on the sandy dirt in the hot desert sun. Every few minutes or so, I stopped to marvel at the jumbo jets that roared just above my head and the roof of the small house on the south side of Phoenix, Arizona. After dark, I would go inside and endure the humidity caused by the old swamp cooler that was supposed to refresh those inside from the suffocating heat. Like clockwork, every few minutes or so, an airliner departing Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport shook the little home as its jet engines boomed above.

Those are the most vivid memories I have of visiting Grandma and Tía Lipa in the early 1970s. My parents grew up in South Phoenix and met there in 1949. I have many first and second cousins in Phoenix. Dad was the youngest in his family and I’m the fifth of six siblings. Due to distance and a huge age gap, I never developed relationships with my Phoenix kin, especially after my parents passed away. More recently, we have been connecting via social media. I hadn’t been there since the late 1970s, until two weeks ago. 

The occasion was my cousin Rojelia’s 80th birthday. The birthday girl’s mom was Dad’s older sister. It was an event many months in the planning. My big sister Barbara organized the Lico and Marie García delegation. As I’ve chronicled on this blog and in my book, the past 14 years have been a roller coaster of emotions for me. Faith, hope, love, and mindfulness have been the bedrocks on my post-transplant journey. Making a pilgrimage to Phoenix, Arizona wasn’t on my radar. Barbara persisted and Sandra insisted. How could I say no?

Sandra and I took an early morning flight out of Mineta San Jose International Airport for the three-day event. Landing at the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport had no special significance. We arrived in time for a big party (Dad’s parents had 42 grandchildren!) at the Veterans of Foreign Wars, Post 41 in South Phoenix on Saturday. Relatives from all over the United States danced the night away to a DJ and a live band after dinner. 

I had a blast catching up with California cousins I hadn’t seen in more than a decade. We were sharing and laughing at the same old stories that made us laugh every time we got together. Seeing others with whom I’ve been connecting with on Facebook was nice. It was the first time I’d seen many of them since the last García family reunion in San Jose 42 years ago. The 1982 reunion weekend gave me a sense of grounding to something bigger than my immediate García family. That had slowly dissipated during the past four decades, until two weeks ago.

On Sunday morning, after breakfast at VFW, Post 41, Barbara and Rojelia led a tour of my parents’ South Phoenix neighborhood. As we slowly drove by the house Mom grew up in on West Pima Street, the first thing I noticed was a jet leaving the airport. Suddenly, the tour stirred something in my soul I couldn’t recognize. Two blocks away, kitty corner to Mom’s house, stood the projects Dad called home throughout his youth. We got off the car and entered the complex as another jumbo jet climbed into the sky.

The pre-WWII buildings looked like army barracks facing an inner courtyard. After some debate about which apartment belonged to our grandmother, we settled on apartment #212. Rojelia recounted how she was born in the one-room living quarters in 1944. She remembers being a mocosa (snot nosed kid) watching Mom and Dad taking wedding photos in the courtyard. “It was all so elegant,” Rojelia reminisced. 

Mom had a collage of that day hanging in our small living room when I was a kid. We were standing and taking pictures of our own on the very spot where Mom and Dad celebrated their wedding day 74 years ago . . . I was transfixed! We whipped our cars around the corner and stopped at Harmon Park. My cousin told us that the baseball field at Harmon Park is where my parents met. 

I wrote the passage on page 11 of Summer in the Waiting Room about my parents meeting at a park from memories and family oral history. I may have been to Harmon Park as a young boy, as I vaguely remember walking to a baseball field during the trips we made to visit Grandma and Tía Lipa. But, two weeks ago was definitely the “first time” I’ve been there. There was a baseball game in progress. I could picture Dad “as he strutted around the diamond with a smile that could be seen across the field,” and I could see Mom demurely smiling from the bleachers. 

Barbara woke me up from my trance when she said, “I didn’t know you loved airplanes so much.” She mentioned that I looked up at every airliner that flew by. I mumbled something about how the sound reminded me of our visits from over 50 years ago. It was another way of saying, “I love those jets flying out of that airport. The boy playing with toy cars in the sandy dirt had come full circle to South Phoenix.

When mom passed away in 2003, eight years after Dad, I felt empty inside like a hot air balloon floating through life without an anchor. I focused on my home base in East San Jose and the home Sandra and I were building with our daughters. That foundation created a strong tree trunk of our little family tree. But there weren’t any Mom and Dad roots. Through the years, we visited California’s central valley where Sandra’s parents started their story. I have friends who have ventured back to their roots in Texas, Mexico, and a Native American reservation in Northern California.

I was quietly envious of the stories they brought back. As a man, I didn’t have the experience of “this is where it all started.” Until two weeks ago. Standing in the park where my parents met some 75 years ago was amazing. I looked to my left and saw Mom crossing West Pima Street on her way to a baseball game. I looked to the right and saw Dad running across 3rd Street to meet his teammates on the diamond. Between those glances, I watched each jetliner fly by above. I felt the roots of the Lico and Marie García family beneath my feet.

We finished the tour at St. Anthony’s Church, where my parents were married in 1950. It’s just two blocks north of Harmon Park. It was cool, but a little anticlimactic after the cathartic experience at the baseball field. The next afternoon, Sandra and I were securely buckled in our seats on American Airlines Flight 1667 when the jet engines roared as the plane screamed down the runway. Less than a minute after lift off, we soared above the little house on West Pima Street, the projects on 3rd Street, and Harmon Park, where my roots are firmly in place.

It was a three-day whirlwind of emotions for the ages. Connecting with family members I hadn’t met and reconnecting with others I hadn’t seen in decades was special, especially since we all descended from a matriarch who lived in a public housing one-room unit. I don’t know if or when I’ll return to South Phoenix, Arizona, but I’ll always cherish this trip. Thank you, Barbara for persisting and thank you, Sandra for insisting. I love you both. And, yes. I love those jets flying out of that airport.

Get Away From It All

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I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor . . .

~ David Henry Thoreau, Walden, 1854

* * *

I’m fascinated with the concept of mindfulness. According to mindfulness guru Jon Kabat-Zinn, mindfulness is “paying attention, on purpose, in the present moment, non-judgmentally.” It first came to my attention about 20 years ago as a fellow with the American Leadership Forum, a national leadership organization with a chapter in Silicon Valley. At the time, I was an ambitious corporate climber and aspiring civic leader. I had places to go, people to see, and things to do. My mind swirled with ideas about the future. I didn’t have time to live in the “present moment.”

Too bad for me. According to the National Institute of Health, the benefits of the practice include reducing anxiety, improving sleep, lowering blood pressure, clearing the mind for better decision-making . . . the list goes on and on. Six years after becoming a Senior Fellow with the American Leadership Forum, my mind was cluttered, I was anxious, I didn’t sleep well, and my blood pressure was soaring.

Since a massive heart attack, living a decade with heart failure, and a heart transplant rocked my world, I’ve been fascinated with the concept of mindfulness. An amazing therapist with the Kaiser Santa Clara advanced heart failure team reintroduced the idea of mindfulness to me. Good for me. I no longer had places to go, people to see, and things to do. I read a bunch of books, had great conversations with my therapist, and subscribed to the Calm App to learn more. The more I learn, the more fascinated I’ve become. 

One of the books I read is an American classic, Walden by David Henry Thoreau. It’s a beautiful book about the author’s experience getting away from it all by living in the woods for 2 ½ years by himself. He describes in graceful detail the wonders of the natural world. His observations of a blue jay or sycamore tree take paragraphs to describe. The book is really hard to read unless you’re mindful of every word. Thoreau’s point is clear. There’s more to life than hustle and bustle.

The first sentence captured my attention. He writes, “I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor.” What he describes is in the middle of nowhere. His only connection to civilization was the “sound of a locomotive” far off in the distance arriving in the nearby town of Concord, Massachusetts. Otherwise, the surrounding woods were so quiet he could hear every faint sound nature makes. 

As I was reading the book, I had a hard time believing that he was that secluded. The center of town was 1.6 miles from Walden Pond. That’s not very far. I couldn’t imagine being in the boondocks a mile and a half from my house. While Thoreau’s prose is elegant and vividly descriptive, I couldn’t help but call “bullshit” that he was that close to town, yet completely isolated. 

I know, I know. The stuff that runs through my mind seems silly and inconsequential. BUT . . . come on Mr. Thoreau!

As I pulled into the parking lot at the entrance of Alum Rock Park the other day, I decided to test the accuracy of Thoreau’s description. Alum Rock Park sits in a rugged canyon in the foothills east of San Jose. It has many trails that lead deeper into the canyon and into the hills that surround the canyon floor. I thought it a perfect place to experiment with the idea that one could be isolated less than two miles from “civilization.” 

From the parking lot, I started at the trailhead of the Penitencia Creek Trail that winds its way into the park. My goal for the hike was to pay attention to the nature around me on purpose, in the present moment, and without judgment. Once I was 1.6 miles away from the parking lot, I would survey my surroundings to determine if Thoreau’s representation of his surroundings was convincing.  

Walking along the creek, I immersed myself in the sights and sounds of the trail. The rainy season turned Alum Rock Park into a beautiful canvas of many shades of green. The hillside is cluttered with uprooted trees and stray branches thrown about most likely from storms. Carpet-like grasses and thin tree limbs swayed in the wind while a couple of deer nibbled on leaves in the distance.

I initially thought that nature sounds playing in my airpods would be a cool soundtrack. No music. No podcasts. After a few seconds, I realized that it was a dumb idea of a typical 21st century Silicon Valley man addicted to electronic devices. The more I thought about it, the sillier it sounded. I chuckled at my total disregard for mindfulness. Water running through the creek, small pebble gravel crunching under my hiking boots, and birds chirping were the only sounds I heard as I walked. 

Finally, I stopped at the ruins of mineral springs from a bygone era of the park. From the late 1800s to the 1930s, people flocked to Alum Rock Park because they believed that the mineral water there had healing effects. I was standing 1.6 miles from the trailhead parking lot and the housing development nearby. Looking around, I saw squirrels scurrying about, a couple of quail trotting across the trail, and a vulture gracefully gliding high above the ridge line of the canyon looking for lunch.

I was in the middle of nowhere! 

Birds were singing and chirping, the creek was babbling, the sound of wind blowing through the trees brought an indescribable peace and calm to my being. Like Thoreau’s “sound of a locomotive” in the distance, the only sign of civilization as I stood 1.6 miles from a neighborhood was the faint roar of a jetliner departing San Jose Mineta International Airport flying high above to an unknown destination.

I hiked a little further into the canyon before turning around to head back to the parking lot. The return journey was also filled with wonder. The sounds of singing birds, animals scampering in the brush, and rushing creek water were louder and more distinctive. I was admiring a family of ducks paddling in the creek when I noticed a vulture flying right at me. I smelled myself and checked the heartbeat on my Apple Watch just in case the vulture knew something I didn’t know. To my relief, the large bird landed on a tree branch with a dead bird in its beak. 

What did my little experiment teach me? Thoreau was telling the truth. You could be less than two miles from civilization, yet be totally alive, clear-minded, and isolated from the noise of the world. Maybe, just maybe, the real truth coming from my experiment is that “paying attention, on purpose, in the present moment, nonjudgmentally” can put you in the same place even amid the chaos of life.

Hmm . . . I have some more work to do on this mindfulness stuff.

Idaho is 4

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Getting ready to speak at the SJSU Latino Alumni Network Legacy Dinner – April 4, 2024

Good morning, Mr. García, Your new heart just arrived in the hospital. It looks great. We’ll get started soon. ~ Dr. John MacArthur, April 16, 2020

* * *

Sandra, Erica, and I were watching The Voice and spending a nice shelter-in-place evening together. We had just started to enjoy a small scoop of vanilla ice cream when my cell phone began to buzz. It was around 9:30 p.m. The number was that of my cardiologist’s office. The three of us looked at each other, intuitively knowing why the doctor was calling so late.

Our instincts were confirmed. She had called to tell me that Stanford had identified a donor heart that was a “great” match for me. She advised me that I should expect a call within the hour. After forty-five minutes of nervous anticipation, Stanford called with instructions on when and how to report to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, a cardiac nurse started preoperative preparations and gave me some light sedatives to help me relax. Soon, a surgeon walked in and said, “Good morning, Mr. García, Your new heart just arrived in the hospital. It looks great. We’ll get started soon.” The next thing I remember is the same doctor telling me, “Congratulations, Mr. García. You have a new heart! It’s working great. You have a Ferrari in your chest.” I named my new heart “Idaho.”

Just like that, I had a second chance at life. The past 1,460 days have been quite a ride. On my first day at home, I started feeling like the biggest failure in the world. That’s not unusual. About 63% of heart transplant recipients suffer from depression and/or anxiety within the first five years after surgery. I had both. In a big way. I was physically weak and mentally I wasn’t much better. I thought that someone more deserving could make better use of this fresh start.

Sandra and the girls showed their love by encouraging me to soldier on. I responded by reaching out to a physical therapist and a psychologist. One worked on my mind while the other worked on my body. Months of intense therapy gave me a fighting chance to find my way. By my first heartiversary – April 16, 2021 – I was hiking up hills, hitting golf balls, shooting baskets, and didn’t think I was that much of a loser. I’m still working on that last piece. It’s an ongoing process.

I started the second year post-transplant on a high note walking three to four miles every day and meeting with a therapist to work on my psyche once a month. Things looked promising until a special blood test found that my body was rejecting Idaho. Organ rejection is the leading cause of death for transplant recipients. The news was no bueno. The good news is that the blood test detected the rejection before Idaho suffered any major damage. I was back in the game!

Two months after my second heartiversary, I published Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love. That was a big day! It was also symbolic. The publication date – June 7, 2022 – was exactly twelve years after the massive heart attack that started this health mess I got myself into. I had my first book signing on World Heart Day – September 29, 2022 – at a health center in East San Jose, not far from where I grew up. Even though mostly family and friends were there, I was nervous about speaking in front of people again. It had been more than three years.

I wore traditional gray flannel pants, navy blue blazer, and light blue dress shirt with polished brown dress shoes just like I would have during my career as an executive and school board president. It turned out to be a great evening. For the first time in more than a decade, it felt like I was “back.” Long gone were the days and nights right after the transplant where I found myself in bed in a fetal position with a sore body and broken soul.

It was around this time that Sandra and other loved ones encouraged me to “enjoy life” and do “what makes you happy.” After everything I had been through, I deserved that, they said. To borrow a phrase from my party days, I thought to myself, “don’t threaten me with a good time.” In those days, enjoying life and doing what makes me happy always included unhealthy but great tasting food, plenty of alcohol, and laughing until my cheeks hurt. 

Since two of those three components are no longer at my disposal, I needed to find another way. The successful book signing event reminded me that I have a passion for telling stories and speaking in public. Could I do speaking engagements more often now that I kinda got my speaking mojo back? Or was that a one-time deal with the safety net of mostly family and friends? One thing was clear. I definitely enjoyed myself that evening and had fun. 

Shortly after that, God’s plan revealed itself. Opportunities started coming my way. By my third heartiversay, I was back to doing leadership training with the Latino Leadership Alliance and high school students. I was in front of small groups of professionals and teenagers telling stories and helping people. What followed were speaking opportunities in Washington, D.C., Seattle, and Fresno, four national podcasts, and several webinars. I was enjoying life and having fun! 

So what did Idaho and I do for our fourth birthday together? 

In the morning, we went to my high school alma mater to talk with students on Career Day. Later that afternoon, we met with the ASB student council at Luis Valdez Leadership Academy to brainstorm about a civic engagement project. We spent the evening with my family, the best part of the day. We had a decadent dinner at Olive Garden, and capped the evening binge watching Law and Order: SUV, drinking coffee and eating a strawberry cream pie from McDonald’s. Okay, I slipped a little. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. 

Idaho and I were enjoying life to the fullest and we were doing what made us happy!

We started a new year together the next day with a five-mile hike along Coyote Creek. At the halfway point at Hellyer Lake, I sat on a bench watching the cattails sway in the breeze. I could feel the gentle wind on my face as if God’s hands were caressing my cheeks. He was surely telling me, “that’s how you enjoy life and do what makes you happy.”  At that moment, it all made sense.

Hellyer Lake – April 17, 2024

I thought about another one of my party day mantras from back in the day, courtesy of George Strait. “I ain’t here for a long time, I’m here for a good time.” Now I have a new formula to enjoy life and do what makes me happy. Hanging out with my family, telling stories to whomever will listen, and public speaking. Sounds like a plan. Hopefully, I can also get in a few laughs until my cheeks hurt.

The Arena

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Walking the Uch! – 2024

This is the fifth installment of ESEReport.com’s Second Chances blog series.

***

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. ~ Theodore Roosevelt, 26th President of the United States

***

It was a beautiful spring evening in San Jose, California on March 30, 2010. The temperature was in the low 60s on that cloudless day. A Republican multi-millionaire tech executive running for governor named Steve Poizner scheduled a campaign event at Mt. Pleasant High School to announce the publication of his book about his experience teaching one class for one semester at the school. It was a vehicle to launch his education reform campaign.

As president of the East Side Union High School District board, I sent a letter to Poizner prohibiting him from visiting Mt. Pleasant for campaign purposes, citing California law. The book was filled with negative stereotypes about Latino kids and students in general from the east side. The community was in an uproar and planned to protest the candidate’s scheduled book signing later in the evening.

There was a mix of tension and anticipation outside of Barnes & Noble bookstore in Eastridge Mall. About 100 students, staff, and community members gathered there to take a stand against the book and its author. As Poizner approached the side entrance to the store, I asked him to justify his critical portrayal of our students. Unimpressed by his meaningless campaign talking points, I listened intently anyway, unaware of  news reporters that crowded around us. 

Eye to eye with Steve Poizner – March 30, 2010

The media covered our brief exchange. Every local newspaper and television news crew covered the story. The episode made statewide and national news including stories in the Los Angeles Times and on National Public Radio. Poizner never recovered from that day. His campaign was dead on arrival. It was scary to take on a tech multi-millionaire, but it was exhilarating too! If a heart attack hadn’t stopped my career in its tracks, I would have had a powerful political enemy for life.  

I miss being in the arena.

Little League Champs – 1976
James Lick High School – 1980

I’ve loved being in the arena since I was a kid. There was the time I was the winning pitcher in a Little League championship game. The coach ran onto the field toward the pitcher’s mound and lifted me into the air with a big bear hug. My teammates were excitedly jumping up and down around us. A few years later, I stood on the free throw line in a packed gym at James Lick High School. If I made the shot, we would have won the game and been tied for first place. I missed it. It hurt so badly that it felt like my dog died as I walked off the floor.

Some 20-plus years later, I was standing tall in the middle of my campaign office with two-year old Erica in my arms. I had just beat two opponents and won a spot in the 2000 general election for San Jose City Council. The crowd around us cheered as I rallied supporters to get ready for a spirited campaign in the fall. Five months later, a smaller group of just family was gloomy as we sat watching the election returns on TV at a local restaurant. I lost the race in a big way. The crushing defeat took a toll on me.

Win, lose, or draw, I miss being in the arena.

Over the past two months, I’ve been writing on this blog about second chances. I’ve written about how my spiritual and mental health journeys have given me a new perspective on life. Trusting God and living right here, right now have been the guiding lights on this journey. I hope I’ve inspired readers to give faith and living in the moment a try.

Of course everything isn’t hunky dory now that my relationship with God is stronger and mindfulness meditation is part of my daily routine. Far from it. I often wonder if these concepts are really helping me or I’m just trying to convince myself that they do. Some readers are probably wondering about that as well. I know this much to be true. I believe that faith and living in the present moment are the paths to inner peace and happiness. 

Staying with it everyday is the hard part. For every time I put myself fully in God’s hands or experience a Zen moment, there are just as many moments of  uncertainty and doubt. The journey reminds me of that old country song, One Step Forward (Two Steps Back) by the Desert Rose Band. Determination and perseverance are in my DNA. I’ll keep working through it  no matter how many times I take two steps back.

The world is wonderful and life is beautiful. But let’s face it, they’re also harsh. The world that occupies our minds is even harsher. I’ve been through a lot. There’s no sensible reason for me not to be grateful at all times. I get that. But . . . there’s a little corner of my mind that still aspires to be in the thick of things. On a recent trip to the Seattle area, I spoke to a large group of business executives. The feedback and standing ovation stirred my aspirations to get back into the arena. Adrenaline sparked the small section of my brain to scream, “You belong here!”

Speaking in Olympia, Washington – 2024

But then again, there’s something special and serene about leisurely folding towels, laying back on the couch reading, and walking Erica’s puppy. If I sound confused about what to do with this amazing gift of a second chance, you got that right. My situation isn’t unique. We’re all searching for meaning. Since we can’t soften the harshness of the outside world, finding that sweet spot where we can calm the harshness of our inner world is like finding gold.

There is no right answer. Despite stumbling through my faith and mental health journeys, I’m going to keep going. Maybe, just maybe, God has chosen this part of my journey to be the new arena I’m looking for. To be sure, I’ve missed God’s signs for most of my life. Maybe I ought to give doubling down on faith and mindfulness a chance. To paraphrase President Teddy Roosevelt, if I fail, at least I’ll “fail while daring greatly.” 

Purpose & Passion

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This is the fourth installment of ESEReport.com’s Second Chances blog series.

***

For the most part, I minded not how the hours went. It was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished. ~ Henry David Thoreau, 19th Century American Transcendental Philosopher

The Lord is not being slow in carrying out his promises, as some people think he is; rather he is being patient with you. ~ 2 Peter 3:9

***

February 28, 2024 (San Jose, CA) ~ I started the morning like I always do. Sporting blue pajamas with white pinstripes and my trusty brown slippers, I made my way to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. After preparing a couple of cups, I spent the rest of the early morning watching MSNBC, sipping the cup of joe, and talking with Sandra as she got ready for work. 

The morning continued as usual. I read the daily mass, said morning prayers, did 10 minutes of mindfulness practice, and went to the kitchen for breakfast. That too was like any other day. I took morning meds with a 16 ounce glass of water, ate oatmeal with berries and walnuts, and finished off the meal with a hard-boiled egg and another glass of water.

After breakfast, I got ready for a morning walk. The day was unusually springlike. Instead of wearing the usual black Adidas track pants and black NorthFace windbreaker, I put on a pair of khaki shorts and a blue long sleeve dry-fit shirt. After slathering my face with sun block, putting on a wide-brimmed hiking hat, lacing up my black Adidas crossfit shoes, and filling up a Hydro Flask water bottle, I headed out the door.

Since I had been nursing a little cold for a few days, I decided to go on a leisurely mile and a half stroll, rather than the usual fast-paced four mile walk. My podcast selection for the day was The Armchair Expert with Dax Sheppard. It’s a cool podcast with interesting guests. This time the guest was Bradley Cooper. I ended up getting bored pretty fast. For some reason, listening to the exploits of two handsome actors wasn’t moving me. I spent the rest of the walk with the Doobie Brothers.

My daily routine usually comes to an end once I’m out of the shower, dressed for the day, and finished eating lunch. This is the time of day when I work on a few little projects. I teach a high school student leadership class, facilitate the Latino Leadership Alliance (LLA) Academy, and volunteer on the San Jose State University Latino Alumni Network board. I also do occasional speaking engagements for my book and volunteer with a national transplant advocacy organization. When I feel creative, I write for this blog.

I use the word “dressed” loosely because my daily uniform is a pair of sweats, sweatshirt, and the trusty brown slippers. Most of the busy work I do is on my laptop. After the morning routine on February 28th, I settled in to read for a couple of hours. Benjamin Franklin: An American Life, by Walter Isaacson currently occupies my reading time. I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Erica’s puppy Uchis, watching the news, and scrolling through social media. “My name is Eddie and I am a social media junky.” Step 1 is admitting the problem.

I emerged from my Tik Tok stupor just in time to make dinner, a cool little dish that Sandra taught me to prepare. I began by cutting potatoes, carrots, zucchini, onions, and a couple of chicken breasts. After placing everything into a glass baking dish, I spread Campbell’s cream of chicken soup over the top, sprinkled sweet peas into the pan, and stuck it all into the oven. An hour and a half later, “voila!”. Sandra, Erica, and I shared stories about our day over a nice meal. We rounded out the evening binge watching Griselda on Netflix.

That sounds like a pretty good day for a retired heart transplant recipient. Some might say that I deserve a day like February 28, 2024, and many more.

I started working part time after school when I was 15 years old. There were untold hours burning the midnight oil to make up for my initial college failure. What followed was a relentless climb up the corporate and political ladders. Then there was the horrific daily, sometimes hourly, fight for life during the summer of 2010. The hardest climb was my ten-year battle with heart failure that led to transplant while doing consulting work. 

Despite the thinking that I may have earned a relaxing retirement, I felt uneasy throughout the day. There was a slight churn in my stomach. It was like something was missing or just not right. I ignored the sensation and went on with the day, but the feeling never quite faded away. Even though I still felt a little anxious, I went to bed with an overall feeling that February 28th was a pretty good day and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, my routine started all over again. The worried sensation had disappeared. After the morning ritual and lunch, I opened up the laptop to put finishing touches on the day’s lesson plan for high school students. I meet with them once a week. On the drive to the school, I thought about how to present the concepts in an upbeat and interactive way. The students and I engaged in a great discussion about the importance of emotional intelligence for leaders.

I feel alive, useful, and productive when I’m working with students and LLA leaders, sharing my story with Summer in the Waiting Room readers, advocating for equitable healthcare, writing, and speaking with groups large and small. We live in a society where work, productivity, and industriousness are valued almost above everything else. I grew up in a home where hard work was the answer to nearly any problem. 

That’s why I feel uneasy and anxious when I have a day like February 28th. My subconscious (the Boo Voice) starts asking why I’m not working and making a substantial contribution to the household income. I have a new heart for crying out loud. Why am I wasting time playing fetch with Uchis, sitting back on the couch reading about some old guy who lived 200+ years ago, and scrolling through LinkedIn while everyone else is achieving?

Upon reflecting on that day, I remember that God has given me a great gift – a second chance at this thing we call life. I’m pretty sure He didn’t give me a second chance to toil my life away for material things, recognition, and self-aggrandizement. I say “pretty sure” because the Boo Voice and society are tugging at my ears telling me otherwise. We all struggle with that balance of working our passion for good and seeking worldly success.

It’s wonderful to see a student’s eyes light up when they get a concept or when a LLA cohort shares stories of true servant leadership. Listening to people share stories of their own families’ overcoming heart disease fills my soul with faith, hope, and love. Deep down inside, I know that the things I love to do make a positive impact on people. I need to stay focused on doing them for that reason.

I try to make the best of this second chance by trying to focus on what really matters. I’m starting to accept and understand the value of mindfulness and the Transcendentalist principle of being aware and awake for every moment. Sometimes it works like a charm. On the few days when “nothing memorable is accomplished” and feelings of something is missing haven’t crashed the party, my purpose and passion are crystal clear.

The Boo Voice and societal expectations to be “successful” make that hard to sustain. But, I’ll stay with it. St. Peter reminds me that ‘the Lord is being patient.” Good thing for me. I’ll get there . . . someday. As Mom would say, si Dios quiere (God willing).

Life’s Essential 8™

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The Boys of ’81 – James Lick High School

This post is dedicated to

Rudy Lopez

October 14, 1962 ~ January 20, 2024

James Lick High School, Class of 1981

***

I was at a memorial service on Sunday. Another friend had passed away. Heart attack. He was 61 years old. Moose Lodge #401 in San Jose was packed with family and friends. The Moose is an old building with hardwood floors, no frills, no decorations on the walls, and a bingo board hanging from the rafters. It’s an institution on the east side. I’ve been there for wedding receptions, family gatherings, birthday parties, community meetings, and after school events. It’s a great place to get together and laugh, dance, and have a few beers and well drinks.

I’ve been to the Moose for other funeral receptions too. My Nino (godfather) for confirmation and another friend who succumbed to heart disease a few years back were the last two I attended there. The hall was set up as it always is. Rectangular folding tables were lined up in rows from front to back. A screen to show a video and easels with old pictures lined the foot of the stage. A small group of James Lick High School friends stood in the back of the room to pay respects.

As we waited for the program to start, we shared hugs and old stories that never seem to get old. In high school, our late friend seemed quiet and unassuming to those who didn’t know him. On the football field he was a force of nature. He was built low to the ground like a bulldog keeping tacklers away from the ball. When he played defense, not a soul dared run up the middle without fear of running into a brick wall.

Off the field, he was a straight-talking, honest, and no nonsense kid. As a friend, you knew he always had your back. He wasn’t a bad guy to have around when trouble was brewing. From the testimonials at his memorial, it was clear little had changed. He went to work everyday despite health challenges and did everything with pride. We heard stories about his love of classic cars, football, and his commitment to the Raider Nation. He was a man of integrity to the end. 

It was a nice service. 

The most inspirational part of the day was when his nephew referred to the high school football star as his real dad after the young man’s biological father had left the family. What struck me most about the afternoon was the emphasis on family. While the families in attendance ate a traditional Mexican lunch at the rows of tables, the old James Lick guys in the back of the room shared stories with each other about kids and grandkids. 

This is what is so sad about chronic heart failure. Friends and families are left in the wake of this nasty disease. It’s the #1 killer in the world. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “one person dies every 33 seconds in the United States from cardiovascular disease.”  In 2021 alone, about 695,000 Americans passed away from a heart related illness. I learned on Sunday that yet another classmate lost his life to cardiovascular disease that very year.

I’m one of the lucky ones. With God’s grace, an amazing family, and an outstanding Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center healthcare team, I’ve survived a heart attack, a decade of heart failure, and a heart transplant. That’s why I’m so passionate about doing my little part in sharing with others that slowing down the rate of heart disease is possible. There is hope.

As a volunteer for the American Heart Association, I learned about Life’s Essential 8™. Following these eight guidelines helps lower the risk for heart disease, stroke and other major health problems:

  1. Eat Better
  2. Be More Active
  3. Quit Tobacco
  4. Get Healthy Sleep
  5. Manage Weight
  6. Control Cholesterol
  7. Manage Blood Sugar
  8. Manage Blood Pressure

To borrow a phrase from my dad (he died of a cardiovascular disease), doing these things consistently is easier said than done. Before my 2010 heart attack, I only did #2 and #3 on a steady basis. I was active, including somewhat regular exercise, and never smoked. Doctors told me that doing these two things probably saved my life, although it certainly didn’t prevent a heart attack in the first place.

As American Heart Month comes to a close, I encourage . . . I urge . . . everyone to go to the American Heart Association website and follow Life’s Essential 8™. It could save your life and, just as important, it can give your family more time with you.

RIP Rudy.