The following excerpt is from pages 271-275 of Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love

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November 6, 2018, my fifty-fifth birthday, was a day filled with hope and excitement. The night before, Monsignor Francisco Rios joined me, my family, and a few friends in a hospital room at Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center. He led prayers for a successful open-heart surgery the next morning. The thirty or so people who crowded the room sang “Las Mañanitas,” the traditional Mexican birthday song.

In the morning, the surgical and cardiovascular ICU teams sang “Happy Birthday” before wheeling my gurney into the operating room to implant a mechanical pump called a left ventricular assist device (LVAD). The procedure is straightforward. A surgeon cuts an incision in the chest, saws through the chest bone, opens the rib cage, inserts the titanium device into the lower heart, wires the chest bone together, and closes the incision. The operation typically takes four to six hours, barring any complications.

Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center established the LVAD program in 2017. The hospital hired Dr. Richard Ha, the surgeon who participated in creating the program at Stanford. While there, he successfully implanted 250 LVADs. After more than a year of planning and assembling a team, Dr. Ha performed the first LVAD operation at Kaiser about a month before my surgery. I was the second patient at Santa Clara to undergo the procedure.

Doctors were concerned about the condition of my heart. For eight years, the right side had been compensating for the damaged left side. The transplant evaluation confirmed that the right ventricle, which pumps blood into the lungs, was getting weaker. This causes elevated pressure in the arteries that carry blood to the lungs. The condition, called pulmonary hypertension, could be fatal during and after surgery.

In the months prior to the operation, doctors prescribed medication to relieve the pressure caused by pulmonary hypertension. This strategy worked until the weeks before surgery. During this time, I increased my activity level in a sort of “nesting” way. I wanted to make sure that my personal and professional affairs were in order before undergoing a major procedure.

When I checked into the hospital on November 2 to prepare for surgery, the lead LVAD doctor approved the use of intravenous milrinone, a short-term drug that helps the heart beat stronger and decreases pressure in the arteries that pump blood into the lungs. With that stress relieved, Sandra and I spent the next three days learning about the LVAD and postoperative care. The plan included up to two weeks in the ICU and another couple of weeks in the cardiac unit of the hospital.

After the festive singing of “Happy Birthday” on the morning of the procedure, the surgeon led an entourage of doctors, physician assistants, nurses, and support staff into the operating room at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Sandra, the girls, and a waiting room filled with family and friends anxiously settled into what was sure to be a long morning and early afternoon.

Just before noon, a physician assistant came out to inform Sandra that everything was going well. The surgeon had successfully implanted the LVAD and was preparing to begin the chest cavity closure process. The waiting room erupted in cheers and a round of hugs. With the nightmare of 2010 still lurking beneath the surface of everyone’s memory, relief and gratitude filled the space.

For the next couple of hours, there was a relaxed mood in the waiting room. After getting a quick bite to eat, family and friends settled down in anticipation of the surgeon confirming that the procedure was complete. The room grew tense and concerned as the hours began to tick by. Finally, the physician assistant emerged from the waiting room with additional news. This time the news wasn’t so good.

The physician assistant reported that complications had delayed completing the procedure. The surgeon and his team were diligently working on resolving the issues that prevented them from finishing. Once an update was available, a report from the operating room would be forthcoming. Everyone sat in stunned silence with the ghosts of 2010 swirling around the room. Prayers and whispered voices replaced the animated chatter and joking of three hours earlier.

Later in the evening, Dr. Ha provided a briefing to Sandra and the girls. Although he looked concerned, he still showed the same confidence we had become accustomed to. As feared, the right side of my heart reacted negatively to the procedure. This may have caused inflammation of the lungs. My lungs were too swollen to close the rib cage and complete the procedure. Also, the heart had grown so weak that any contact with the heart tissue caused it to bleed into the chest cavity.

The good news was that the LVAD was working. With that in mind, Dr. Ha’s strategy was to leave my chest cavity open until the right side of the heart pumped efficiently enough to decrease the swelling in the lungs. He also inserted three tubes into the chest cavity to drain the blood that was pooling around the heart and lungs from the internal bleeding. After answering a blizzard of questions from Sandra, the surgeon returned to the operating room.

When Sandra and the girls were allowed to see me in the ICU, they found me in a deep sleep from the sedative medication. I had a breathing tube inserted in my throat and three tubes draining blood into three canisters sitting on the floor next to the bed. The gap in my chest was held open by a clamp-like device. A skin-colored mesh dressing covered the eight-inch-by-five-inch opening. Sandra and the girls could see blood flowing and my heart pumping through the sterile mesh.

For the next four days, I remained in this condition as the surgical team ushered me from the ICU into and out of the operating room. On the second day, my heartbeat raced to unsafe levels as it struggled to find a rhythm. Doctors administered many electrical shocks to pace my heart. During one of those incidents, I was in the hallway being transported to the operating room when family and friends heard a doctor shout, “Clear!” My body convulsed from yet another shock.

Finally, on November 11, Dr. Ha emerged from the operating room with a wide grin to announce to Sandra that the internal bleeding had stopped, and my lungs were no longer swollen. The procedure to close the opening in my chest had been successful. As Sandra listened to the surgeon, she could see and hear his team in the background near the operating room doors joyously clapping, hugging, and high-fiving each other.

The dedicated surgical team had remained in the hospital throughout the five-day ordeal. The surgeon who came to Kaiser Santa Clara Medical Center from Stanford to start a state-of-the-art LVAD program kept vigil outside my ICU room the entire time. There was little doubt of his commitment and dedication. His determination literally saved my life.

Some people mentioned to Sandra that I must have some sort of strong and amazing will to live. It had to come from deep in my soul, they reasoned. Nothing else could explain the vigorous fight I put up while heavily sedated and unconscious. At first glance, that reasoning makes sense. It’s one thing to be conscious with the ability to make the decisions to do what it takes to survive. It’s another when no conscious control exists.

That’s where faith comes in. Sandra and I relied on our unconditional faith in God to provide answers to my unconscious will to live. We went into the week with hope and the comfort of knowing that the outcome would be in God’s hands. As it turned out, another hopeless medical crisis ended in a miracle. I’m comforted that God will determine when it’s my time to leave this world. That week, my faith journey reached new heights.

With God’s grace, a talented surgical team, and a supportive community of family and friends, my life was extended yet again. At that moment, I was still in critical condition. The following days would surely be difficult but hopeful. November 11 ended the same way the previous five days had. The waiting room gathered in a prayer circle to thank God.

***

On November 9, 2023 from 6:00 to 7:00 pm, I will share more stories from my book at the Stanford Bookstore. Join me and my heart transplant surgeon for an evening of faith, hope, love, and signing books!

RSVP at this link:

https://www.eventbrite.com/…/an-evening-wauthor-eddie…

The following excerpt is from pages 124-126 of Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love

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By the early morning of June 18, the clot closed off the blood flow to the heart’s lower-left chamber, causing my heart to pump furiously in its efforts to deliver oxygenated blood to the body. Within seconds of the artery closing, my heart raced to 280 beats per minute. It was alarmingly above the average heart rate of 65 beats. In less than a minute, I went into cardiac arrest.

Cardiac arrest is a medical way of saying that the heart stops beating. Without blood circulation and delivery of oxygen to the body and brain, the patient loses consciousness. If cardiac arrest goes untreated for more than five minutes, lack of oxygen could cause death or, if the patient survives, severe brain damage. The best chance of survival requires immediate cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) and the use of an automated external defibrillator (AED). The AED uses electronic paddles to shock the heart so it can start beating and return to a normal heart rate. Unless someone nearby is trained in CPR and an AED is readily available, the chances of survival for someone who suffers cardiac arrest are remote.

I was fortunate to be in the hospital ICU when my heart suddenly stopped beating. My memory of that episode is brief but harrowing. The entire scene was hazy and chaotic as doctors and nurses appeared to be moving in fast motion, then slow motion, as they worked to save my life. It seemed like one minute, I was watching the NBA finals with my boss and the next minute, I was sitting up in bed violently screaming for help because I couldn’t catch my breath. According to the medical record, I repeatedly shouted, “I can’t get enough air.”

A short and slender pulmonary doctor in his late sixties with thinning gray hair and a trimmed white beard was trying to calm me down. He instructed me to relax so he could help me. Fear of dying entered my mind for the first time as doctors and nurses hovered over me. They looked concerned and even scared themselves. As the doctor urged me to relax, I noticed a nurse standing calmly at the foot of the bed with a soothing smile, talking to me in a soft but audible voice that could be heard above the bedlam. She calmly said that everything was going to be OK, and I would be fine. The nurse looked exactly like my late sister Patty. Warmth and comfort came over me as the madness around me disappeared, and I peacefully fell asleep.

God entered the fray and intervened to calm me as my life hung in the balance. On the morning of June 18, my sister Patty was in the ICU as His messenger of hope. My medical condition was dire. I was in the right place at the right time. If I was anywhere else other than a hospital, I wouldn’t have survived.

At the moment I thought I had fallen asleep, my heart had actually come to a complete stop after racing to that stratospheric 280 beats per minute. The medical team immediately went into action to get my heart beating again. Nurses started CPR as technicians quickly prepared the AED paddles needed to shock my heart back to life. Seconds were rapidly ticking away as the heart monitor standing behind the bed stopped beeping with the familiar peaks and valleys of LED lines bouncing across the screen. In an instant, the monitor emitted a steady, high-pitched sound with a solid flat line, indicating that the heart was no longer beating.

With AED paddles securely in place on my chest, the doctor prepared to activate the shock waves that would send electronic signals to reactivate my heart. In most cases, doctors need to send several signals to the heart to restore a normal heartbeat. When the doctor administered the first shock, my back arched, my chest heaved forward, I sat up, and the heart monitor began beeping again. The procedure worked. God wasn’t ready to take me.

Two months later, a nurse walked into my hospital room with a wide grin and joy in her eyes. She’d heard that I was still in the hospital, so she came to see me to share an anecdote about the hectic morning of June 18. She recounted how she was on duty in the ICU and rushed to my room after hearing the public address system announce a “code blue,” indicating that an emergency life-or-death situation was unfolding. With a broad smile, she remembered how the doctor shocked me with the AED paddles, and I instantly sat up with a grimace on my face. With eyes wide open, I shouted, “Oh shit!”

She said that everyone stopped what they were doing, and for a few seconds, the room became quiet and still. With the deadpan delivery of a stand-up comedian, the doctor said, “I think we have a heartbeat.” The room erupted in relieved laughter.

***

On November 9, 2023 from 6:00 to 7:00 pm, I will share more stories from my book at the Stanford Bookstore. Join me and my heart transplant surgeon for an evening of faith, hope, love, and signing books!

RSVP at this link:

https://www.facebook.com/events/656597839920085?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A%5B%7B%22mechanism%22%3A%22your_upcoming_events_unit%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark%22%7D%5D%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3Anull%7D

The following excerpt is from pages 1-4 of Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love

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Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. ~ Saint Paul’s Letter to the Hebrews 11:1

* * *

My story is about youthful promise, unfulfilled potential, bad decisions, and crippling failure. What comes next is a frenetic quest to vanquish failure demons and short-lived vindication. A life-changing heart attack and heart failure trigger an exploration of faith. In the end, my spiritual journey, shaped by faith, hope, and love, leads to a remarkable recovery and long-lasting redemption.

There’s a supernatural higher power that mysteriously controls the world around us. Life does its own thing despite futile efforts to manage it to our benefit. No matter how hard we try to unravel mysterious phenomena with science, there are some things that can’t be explained. That’s when we turn to religion, spirituality, and mysticism to find answers. Mahatma Gandhi’s grandson once told a friend that his grandfather said, “Religion is like a mother. However good your friend’s mother may be, you cannot forsake your own.” In honor of the profound influence my mother had on me, I refer to God throughout this book as that higher power.

Wholehearted confidence in God is at the core of faith, inner peace, and happiness. Unfortunately, like most worthwhile endeavors, devotion to unconditional belief is easier said than done. I’ve spent more than a decade reading, learning, and thinking about how to apply the concepts of acceptance, gratitude, and reliance on the divine in my day-to-day life. While the literature opened my eyes, I could’ve looked no further than my mom’s life to find answers. She was a model of faith, even though I didn’t fully understand the impact of her words and actions.

When I was a kid, she taught us to say, “Thank you, God, and thank you, Mom” after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Of course, I understood why I was thanking Mom. She cooked the meals. The reason for thanking God never really dawned on me. I thought it was a ritual like everything else about church: sitting and standing at the appropriate times, praying “Our Father,” taking Communion, and reciting responses after the priest gave a blessing. For Mom, the words had deep meaning. Through the course of any given day, you could hear her say, “Si Dios quiere” (God willing), “gracias a Dios” (thank God), and “Dios te bendiga” (God bless you). These expressions of devotion were part of every discussion she had with someone. They weren’t mere clichés to her. She was patient, understanding, and thoughtful no matter the situation, good or bad. Mom was a woman who put herself in God’s hands.

As I grew older and more financially secure, I started to notice the beautiful simplicity of her life. I found time to visit her in the morning on the way to work almost every Friday. I loved to see her eyes brighten and her smile broaden when she opened the door. A warm hug greeted me before she escorted me to the kitchen to fix a plate of papas (fried potatoes), two over-easy eggs, a cup of coffee, and warm tortillas. Mom loved to hear about my week and shared news about my brothers and sisters. Her children and grandchildren were her prized “possessions.” When my siblings and I bought “nice” homes and filled them with “nice things” (her words), she beamed with pride. When she passed away, she had the same round kitchen table, simple living room furniture, basic dinette, and plain bedroom set that I remember as a boy. She appreciated every bit of it. I never heard her yearn for more or complain about what she didn’t have.

Mom genuinely believed that to live a happy and fulfilling life, one has to be truly thankful for all that God has provided. My guess is that she had a happy and fulfilling life. The struggles of living and the heartbreak of losing loved ones didn’t deter her from being grateful. She didn’t know her father. She grieved when she lost my grandma, dad, and an older sister. She wasn’t surrounded with “nice things.” She never visited the places she dreamed about. Nevertheless, she was truly thankful for what she had and appreciated every day of life God gave to her.

Faith is a powerful ride-or-die partner to have by your side, especially while riding the roller coaster we call life. I’ve been on quite a ride myself, most of it without the guardrails of faith and gratitude. The highs and lows and twists and turns of my story resemble a wild ride on the Giant Dipper, a whitewashed wooden 1920s-era roller coaster with bright red tracks that dominates the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. When I was a kid, we used to simply call it “The Roller Coaster.” Getting on The Roller Coaster was my all-time favorite thing to do every time my family went to Santa Cruz, which is about a forty-five-minute drive from where I grew up.

The Giant Dipper is a thrilling experience. Without warning, the coaster swooshes away from the starting point and quickly vanishes into a tunnel. Adrenalin shoots through your body while riders hoot, holler, and scream with nervous excitement. The train speeds through a pitch-black curvy tunnel to a low point before emerging from the darkness and begins slowly climbing to the first peak with the classic clicking sound of a roller coaster laboring upward. Once at the top, the train slowly scales the peak and screams down the other side of the tracks in a free fall as it rushes toward the ground. After scaling a couple of smaller hills and valleys, the train rapidly rises up into the sky to reach the top before it violently curves downward to its left, speeding through a deep, scary drop.

For forty-six years, my life followed the path of The Roller Coaster. I grew up in a working-class east San Jose neighborhood in the protective cocoon of my parents. After high school, I ventured away from the neighborhood to attend San Jose State University. Being outside the bubble was exciting and a little intimidating. I eventually flunked out of college and chose a lifestyle fueled by alcohol, dead-end jobs, and the next party. The ensuing undisciplined mayhem was like the Giant Dipper’s wild downward ride through the dark tunnel. Slowly, I put my life back together. I married a wonderful woman, returned to and graduated from college, worked my way up the corporate ladder, and served in public office. My wife, Sandra, and I built a family and a stable life.

On June 7, 2010, we were approaching our twentieth wedding anniversary, our two daughters were healthy and happy, and I had achieved success in my career. It felt like being on top of the world. But like the Giant Dipper’s next move after reaching its climactic bend, my life would soon make an abrupt and furious downward turn and plummet toward its lowest depths. That summer, I embarked on a quest to understand faith the way my mom understood it.

***

On November 9, 2023 from 6:00 to 7:00 pm, I will share more stories from my book at the Stanford Bookstore. Join me and my heart transplant surgeon for an evening of faith, hope, love, and signing books!

RSVP at this link:

https://www.facebook.com/events/656597839920085?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A%5B%7B%22mechanism%22%3A%22your_upcoming_events_unit%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark%22%7D%5D%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3Anull%7D

The following excerpt is from pages 93-95 of Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love

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We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope. ~ Saint Paul’s Letter to the Romans 5:3–4

***

In his Letter to the Romans, Saint Paul the Apostle wrote, “We rejoice in our sufferings.” Rejoice in our sufferings? Was Saint Paul kidding when he wrote that? Who in their right mind wants to rejoice in suffering? We all experience suffering. That’s just the way it is. Faith is acceptance of what is. It’s also the first step of understanding hope. 

Hope is a tricky word. We use hope as a synonym for want or wish. In fact, Webster’s dictionary defines hope as “a desire of some good.” I’ve always used it in that way. I hope my daughters are healthy, happy, and successful. I hope the Giants win the World Series this year. What I’m really saying is, “I want, I desire, I wish.” If those things don’t happen, disappointment is soon to follow.

Saint Paul has an entirely different definition. He gives a comforting perspective on hope. He tells us that having hope is understanding that whatever barrier life presents is going to work out according to God’s plan, not necessarily what we want. In his Second Letter to the Corinthians, Paul wrote that there’s a “sure hope of a glorious future” for those who have faith. Does that mean everything will always go our way? No, it doesn’t. It means that everything will go God’s way. That’s where hope comes in.

I’ve struggled to wrap my mind around that concept of hope. Early in our relationship, Sandra showed her deep understanding of faith and hope with a strip of paper she lovingly put into the palm of my hand. Just in her early twenties, she was already endowed with precocious good judgment. I was a few years older with a swagger in my step, a chip on my shoulder, and determination in my eyes. I was confident that ambition and hard work would secure a successful future.

On that slip of paper were fifteen words of wisdom: “Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% of how you react to it.” Sandra offered this wise advice as a tool to relieve the obsessive resolve that consumed me when someone or something posed a threat to my progress. She folded the ticket-size strip, placed it in my wallet, and encouraged me to reflect on it when anxiety reared its ugly head. I cherished that piece of paper because Sandra gave it to me. For years it stayed in my wallet while my reaction to challenges didn’t change. When Eddie, Miguel, and Pancho playfully tossed me into a swimming pool fully clothed one summer, the fragile document disintegrated in the water. Sandra’s gift was ever present in my mind, but the lessons never entered my consciousness. Until June 7, 2010.

Beginning that day, I embarked on a medical and spiritual journey of epic proportions. Inspired to research where the quote came from, I stumbled upon the writings of an American Christian evangelist named Charles Swindoll. He said those wise words on that slip of paper during a sermon on hope. It was his action-oriented response to Saint Paul’s assertion that “suffering produces endurance.” In other words, we shouldn’t surrender to suffering by giving up. We should carry on by building character and giving ourselves hope.

Saint Paul’s definition of hope and Swindoll’s guidance to persist positively in the face of hopelessness bring to mind the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism.

First Noble Truth ~ Suffering is a fact of life.

Second Noble Truth ~ Not getting what we want causes suffering.

Third Noble Truth ~ Removing the desire to get what we want can end suffering.

Fourth Noble Truth ~ Living a meaningful life will help us avoid desire.

I descended into hopelessness and uncertainty in the days and months after June 7. Beginning that day, the roller coaster that represented my life went screaming down into a deep ditch of despair. The suffering that followed made my character stronger and gave me the spirit to soldier on. I ultimately endured and rejoiced in my suffering. I discovered the importance of hope.

***

On November 9, 2023 from 6:00 to 7:00 pm, I will share more stories from my book at the Stanford Bookstore. Join me and my heart transplant surgeon for an evening of faith, hope, love, and signing books!

RSVP at this link:

https://www.facebook.com/events/656597839920085?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A%5B%7B%22mechanism%22%3A%22your_upcoming_events_unit%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark%22%7D%5D%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3Anull%7D

The following excerpt is from pages 115-117 of Summer in the Waiting Room: Faith • Hope • Love

***

The surgeon walked into the waiting room to tell Sandra that the procedure was a success and that there were no complications. In his no-nonsense manner, he advised her that my heart was badly damaged, and it would be a rough road ahead. He described to those gathered in the cramped waiting room how cardiologists measure heart function to determine how much dam-
age resulted from a heart attack. They use a calculation called the “ejection fraction,” which is the percentage of oxygenated blood that is pumped from the lower-left chamber of the heart
into the bloodstream with each heartbeat. In a healthy heart, 55 to 65 percent of the blood in the lower-left chamber is released into the body with every thrust. The doctor explained that the ejection fraction of my heart after completion of the procedure measured less than 30 percent. I would never be the same, he added. I would have to dramatically alter my lifestyle.

The room remained silent. Shelley later said that she was in shock and that she couldn’t grasp what had happened. Pancho started weeping and saying, “This can’t be real.” Our godson William Medina sat down, put his face in his hands, and began to sob. The doctor concluded by saying that I would be in the intensive care unit (ICU) in recovery for a couple of hours, then assigned to a room in the cardiac care unit (CCU) where the family could visit. There was a sense of relief combined with apprehension in the waiting room. Even though everyone gathered in a circle to hold hands to pray and thank God for saving my life, hope was in
short supply.

Just before midnight, hospital personnel rolled the bed from the ICU to the CCU. I was groggy, but I remember seeing my family and friends lined along the wide hallway waiting to see me. Mr. and Mrs. Peralta, my boss, the Medinas, Miguel, and Pancho were the first to come into view. Things were moving in slow motion again. Everyone was blurry and out of focus. They looked concerned as they saw the gurney roll by. When I saw Sandra and the girls, I felt safe and comfortable. I knew that everything was going to be fine, even though I don’t remember the looks on their faces.

During that brief moment, Valerie and Miguel said that I stuck out my arm, pushed my hand against the wall to stop the gurney, and asked Marisa and Erica if they were all right. Others remembered it a little differently. According to those observations, it appeared as though I wanted to protect Marisa and Erica when I saw them. I presumably put on my game face and weakly waved to those pushing the bed, asking them to stop. I smiled at
the girls as if to say, “I’m OK.”

Regardless of how those few seconds unfolded, one thing is clear. I was in a state of semiconsciousness, yet my immense love for Sandra and the girls and my fatherly instincts kicked in to provide me with a relentless drive to fight for my life. Faced with the real prospect of death, the deepest parts of my soul knew that my family gave me the courage to live. In his Letter to the Romans, Saint Paul the Apostle tells us that the first step to living with hope is to “rejoice in our sufferings.” I didn’t realize it at the moment, but the suffering that I endured on June 7, 2010, marked the beginning of living a life full of hope.

***

On November 9, 2023 from 6:00 to 7:00 pm, I will share more stories from my book at the Stanford Bookstore. Join me and my heart transplant surgeon for an evening of faith, hope, love, and signing books!

RSVP at this link:

https://www.facebook.com/events/656597839920085?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A%5B%7B%22mechanism%22%3A%22your_upcoming_events_unit%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark%22%7D%5D%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3Anull%7D

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?

***

I wouldn’t give you two cents for all your fancy rules if, behind them, they didn’t have a little bit of plain, ordinary, everyday kindness and a little looking out for the other fella, too. ~Jefferson Smith, played by actor James Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms. ~1 Peter 4:10

***

The Delta Airbus 319 slowly taxied toward the runway at San Jose Mineta International Airport. It was my first time on an airplane in 4 1/2 years. Destination, Washington, D.C. I last made a trip to the nation’s capital about 15 years ago. It was Idaho’s first trip to the east coast. Idaho is the name I gave my transplanted heart. You can meet him by clicking here.  

As the County Administration building came into view in the distance, I began reflecting on my life. Carefree childhood. Flunking out of college. Triumphant return and graduation. Tireless career climbing. Political battles. Massive heart attack. Decade with heart failure. Left Ventricular Assist Device. Heart transplant. Covid isolation.

It was all a blur as I settled into the familiarity of sitting in a plane. As a Comcast executive, air travel was a regular thing. Albuquerque. Charlotte. Chicago. Dallas. Denver. Houston. Los Angeles. Philadelphia. Phoenix. San Diego. San Antonio. Santa Fe. Seattle. Portland. San Juan, Puerto Rico. Washington, D.C. was a regular stop. After everything that’s happened during the past 13 years, it felt surreal to be on a plane again headed for the Capitol. 

As an executive, my days and nights in Washington were filled with countless meetings, luncheons, cocktail receptions, and dinners. Rubbing shoulders with politicians and corporate leaders while talking business and chit chatting was enchanting to a boy who grew up in the working-class neighborhood of east San Jose. The very idea of it all was seductive.

This time was different. I wasn’t excited like I had been many times in the past. There would be no lavish dinners, hours of networking, or representing the interests of a multi-billion dollar corporation. I had no plans for sightseeing and museums – my favorite things to do when in Washington. My itinerary included flying back east on Tuesday, meetings on Capitol Hill on Wednesday, and returning home on Thursday.

The flight was smooth and uneventful. I didn’t have the stress and anxiety that usually accompanied me on work trips. There were no notes to pore over, no emails to draft so I could send them as soon as a signal returned to my BlackBerry once we touched down. There was no worrying about leaving Sandra and our two young daughters for a week. I was relaxed while reading a biography about Queen Elizbeth II and staring out the window at the empty expanse below.

On the Uber ride from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, sitting in rush hour traffic didn’t faze me. We passed the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial. I remembered how exciting it was to see them for the first time almost 30 years before. When the car crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, I turned to my right to see the Capitol sitting majestically on the hill. It also reminded me why I was there.

The Honor the Gift Coalition, a national non-profit transplant patient advocacy organization, invited me to Capitol Hill to advocate on behalf of Medicare organ transplant patients who lost a potentially life saving benefit earlier this year. Organ rejection is the leading cause of death for heart transplant patients. In the past, transplant recipients had to undergo a biopsy after experiencing organ failure symptoms. This was the only way to detect rejection. 

Many times, detection was too late to save a patient’s life. An innovative technology changed everything and gave patients hope. In 2017, Medicare agreed to cover the use of a diagnostic test that detected organ rejection before symptoms and damage set in. This spring, Medicare decided to stop covering the cost of the test. The decision is going to negatively, perhaps fatally, impact Medicare patients who can’t afford the $3,000 price tag.

I have first-hand experience with the new technology. During my first two years post-transplant, a phlebotomist would come to my house to draw blood for the diagnostic test every three months. On the morning of June 24, 2021, the transplant care team called to inform me that the diagnostic test had detected rejection. Within a few hours, I checked into the hospital for eleven days of treatments. It worked. Six months later, Idaho was free of rejection and still healthy. The diagnostic test caught it early and probably saved my life.

I spent the day on Capitol Hill last Wednesday with transplant advocacy group executives to share my diagnostic test success story with members of Congress. The goal was to highlight my experience to persuade Congress to pressure Medicare into restoring the benefit. I’m no longer in the high-risk timeframe for rejection, so the Medicare decision doesn’t affect me personally. Like Jefferson Smith in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, I hope members of Congress “look out for the other fella” on this one.  

Moving from office to office in two large buildings, we spent seven hours in back to back meetings and I logged over two miles on my Apple Watch. As I stepped out of the Rayburn House Office Building, I saw the Capitol Dome standing tall above the treeline. Despite the current political dysfunction in our country, the image reminded me that the power of democracy lies in the freedom to share stories with leaders who make decisions about our lives. Hopefully, my story made a difference and not too many people will have to die prematurely because they can’t afford the test.

Although Idaho performed like a champ, walking through the halls of Congress and being “on” for every meeting can be exhausting. When I returned to the hotel room, I plopped onto the bed for a two hour nap. I ended the evening by taking a shower, having a quick dinner alone, and packing my bags before calling it a night for the early morning trip home.

My professional experience has taught me that these things take time and persistence. Honor the Gift Coalition leaders will diligently stay on top of the issues and continue educating members of Congress on the importance of diagnostic testing for transplant patients. We’ll have to see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll keep family, friends, and readers posted. I may call on you to send letters and emails to your congressional representatives. Stay tuned.

The flight home was also smooth and uneventful. I thought about my mom and her own battle with kidney disease. I thought about her strong faith and belief that everything happens according to God’s plan. “Si Dios quiere,” she would say. “If that’s what God wants.” Will I help again if called upon? The short answer is, yes. God has given me many gifts, Idaho being one of the most important. I plan to continue using His gifts to serve others . . . si Dios quiere.

It’s National Heart Month! How am I going to celebrate? Maybe I’ll make the bed or take out the garbage.  

My guess is that you might think that I’m out of my mind to suggest that doing chores is any way to celebrate anything. Let’s face it, making the bed and taking out the garbage aren’t the most exciting things to do. I doubt that anyone is counting down the hours to do menial household work as a form of celebration. 

But . . .

Making the bed every morning and taking the garbage out every Tuesday are like Thanksgiving for me, just without the turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes with gravy and pumpkin pie with Cool Whip. Fluffing up pillows and dragging bins to the curb are moments of pure appreciation. I still don’t enjoy doing these thankless tasks, but something special always happens when I do them. I have an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

I think of the time during the depth of heart failure when it would take ten, sometimes fifteen, minutes to make the bed after Sandra left for work. She insisted I leave it for when she came home. I insisted on doing it, taking breaks and slumping onto the bed to catch my breath between smoothing out sheets and flipping over the comforter. Now it just takes a minute to do the same thing. Gratitude!

There was a time when taking out the garbage was a struggle. Rolling the garbage can and recycle bin down the driveway wasn’t so bad. Walking back up was another story. I had to stop a couple of times to lean against the fence to catch my breath before going into the garage that leads to the back door. I finally couldn’t do it at all. I now smile and thank God for his grace as I stroll down and walk up the driveway with bins in tow. Gratitude!

Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about making the bed and taking out the garbage. Laboring up the driveway during those tough times pops into my mind every once in a while when I’m out for a long walk. I smile, chuckle to myself in amazement, thank God, and keep chugging along. When I quickly and easily make the bed to start the day, I’m reminded of my damaged heart huffing and puffing. I smile, chuckle to myself in amazement, thank God, and keep chugging along.

Here’s the thing. Having a bad heart is no joke. We take it for granted when it’s working the way it’s supposed to work, kind of like we do with life partners. When things are good, it’s all laughs and love. When things are bad, it’s like, “how did we get to this dark place?” The key in both cases is to take care of what takes care of you before it doesn’t anymore.

Let me be more clear. Your heart runs the show. Bad heart, bad show. No heart, no show. Since my heart attack in 2010, I’ve lost a sister-in-law and friend to cardiac arrest, and my next door neighbor to a heart attack. Three friends suffered and survived heart attacks, another just had a pacemaker placed, and a cousin recently had bypass surgery. 

My relationship with heart and cardiovascular disease didn’t start that fateful summer in 2010. When I was ten years old, my maternal grandmother passed away from a heart attack. I can still see Mom’s anguish when she told us how doctors tried to revive Grandma with the electric paddles. Mom and Dad both had heart attacks in their 50s. Dad died of a massive stroke. My sister was 49 years old when she passed away because a virus attacked her heart. My oldest brother is currently recovering from a stroke. It’s not a pretty picture.

Cancer gets all the press. Who hasn’t seen or heard the phrase, “Cancer Sucks”? Well, heart disease sucks pretty bad too. In fact, it sucks even more. According to the American Heart Association, heart and cardiovascular disease is the #1 cause of death in the world. Over 500,000 people die every year in the United States alone because of heart disease. Every year! Here’s the kicker: Unlike cancer, heart disease is largely preventable.

Losing family and friends to heart disease can get demoralizing. During the past thirteen years, I’ve learned a lot about the heart and the disease that ultimately catches up to many of us. As a volunteer for the American Heart Association, I’m passionate about prevention, and I plan to use my gift for writing and speaking to raise awareness about this pandemic.

To celebrate National Heart Month, I ask you to take a few minutes to become more aware of the causes of heart disease and ways you can prevent or slow it down. Here are two ideas to get started:

• Know your family medical history. According to the American Heart Association, 50% of heart disease is caused by genetics. If you know that you could potentially be in trouble, making lifestyle changes can make a big difference.
• Lifestyle choices like smoking, eating a high-fat diet, not managing stress, and not exercising accounts for the other 50%. Take a look at Life’s Essential 8 habits to protect your heart by clicking here to help you make good heart health choices. Start today!

As for me, I’m celebrating the kickoff to National Heart Month in a big way. I started the day with a bowl of oatmeal, walnuts, blueberries, a hard-boiled egg, and the first of three liters of water I drink daily. I read a little bit (another one of my passions) while sipping a cup of coffee. As I walked down the driveway for a four mile hike, I saw the garbage bins I had taken out the night before on the curb. I smiled, chuckled in amazement, thanked God, and kept chugging along.

Oh yeah . . . I made the bed and brought in the empty garbage bins.

It was a great way to celebrate.

***

My book, Summer in the in the Waiting Room, recounts my battle with and triumph over heart disease. Buy it by clicking here.

People say all the time, I’d die for my children. Okay, but would you live for them? Actually live. Make better choices. Try practicing sobriety. Take care of yourself physically and mentally. Your kids don’t need you to die for them. They need you to LIVE. ~ Unknown

***

The phone rang at about 4:30 in the morning. I was sound asleep under warm covers. Sandra sat up and quickly answered the telephone in the dark of our bedroom. After saying hello, she turned and said, “It’s your mom,” and handed the phone to me. “Something is wrong with your dad,” mom desperately declared. “The ambulance is on the way.” I shot up immediately, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on a pair of jeans, hoodie, and baseball cap.

When I got to Alexian Brothers Hospital in east San Jose, Mom was sitting alone in a tiny cold emergency department waiting room. She looked frail and scared. Dad had had a massive stroke. After a long embrace, we went into another small room where nurses cared for Dad. Mom held his hand and lovingly brushed back the few wispy hairs on his bald head when he began to convulse violently. Nurses rushed us out of the room as doctors started working on him.

It seemed like forever sitting in that little waiting room anticipating the doctor to come out any minute to give us a report. Mom quietly prayed while rubbing rosary beads through her fingers. I called my siblings one by one to let them know what was going on. I then sat and worriedly watched mom pray. Finally, a doctor walked into the room and informed us that Dad had died. It was September 6, 1995. Probably around 7:30 am. I was 31 years old.

I was devastated. He was my hero. He taught me what it meant to be a man. A year earlier, I had completed a comeback from the college failure that caused so much chaos in my life and started a professional career armed with a San Jose State University degree. I had goals, big dreams. I was ambitious and focused. I couldn’t wait to achieve my goals and make Dad proud. The dreams were sure to happen. Just without Dad.

After a series of strokes left his motor skills severely restricted, Dad was angry and resentful. He withered away rather than accept God’s will and fight for his life. It seemed like the man who taught me how to be a fierce competitor decided to give up when it mattered most. I was confused and sometimes angry at him for that. But it didn’t matter anymore. He was gone.

In the years that followed, I didn’t think much of it. Every now and then, I thought of how Dad threw in the towel after the first couple of strokes. It didn’t make me upset or resentful. I just wondered what would have caused such a proud man who struggled his entire life to call it quits. Maybe growing up during the Depression without a father, fighting in World War II, and raising a large family living check to check finally took their toll on him.

Or maybe, just maybe, his decline and death were the final lessons he taught. Fifteen years after Dad passed away, I was in a physical rehab center learning how to walk again after becoming paralyzed from a summer in a medically induced coma. I laid awake at night questioning God about my situation. Moments of hopelessness ventured in and out of my thoughts. Many times I considered giving up. I thought about Dad.

His story gave me the strength to surrender to God. As I wrote in my book, Summer in the Waiting Room (Available on Amazon. Click here), “I surrendered to the reality that a massive heart attack and its destructive side effects changed my life. I was determined not to dwell on what could have been. As the hours and days passed, my (rehab) workouts intensified. I made progress on a daily basis.” Two weeks later, I walked out of the hospital.

This brings me to the quote I used to start this post. Who knows who actually said it. I saw it while surfing on Facebook. It was just one of the million or so memes on Facebook that are mostly meaningless. The phrase, “I’d die for my children” is such a cliche. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t rush in front of a speeding car to save their kid’s life. That’s a no brainer. That’s easy to do.

It’s the second part of that quote, “Your kids don’t need you to die for them. They need you to LIVE,” that caught my attention. My life as a man and a father was just beginning when Dad died. I could only imagine what it would be like to go to a Giants game. Just father and son. We never did that. Sitting at Dad’s kitchen counter debating politics with his sharp intellect while sipping whiskey would have been wonderful. Sharing my professional accomplishments with him would have been a dream come true.

As Marisa and Erica continue to blossom as young women, I get to share those moments I missed with Dad. We have conversations about art, politics, music, and careers building. When they reach out to me for career or life advice, my heart sings. When they’re home for the holidays, we play board games and sit together rooting for the Forty Niners and Warriors.

That’s why I fight to live. It’s not easy. I’ve had to give up lots of things I love. “No muthafucka, you can’t have a hotdog” is my rallying cry, but many other favorite foods are on my “No Eat” list too. Listening to a good Mexican heartbreak song now has to be done without beer or tequila to soothe the pain. Until this Covid thing gets under control for immunosuppressed people like me, going to Chase Center to watch the Warriors with 18,000 other people is out of the question.

Eating right, taking medicine as directed by my heart transplant team, exercising regularly, and staying away from drama are going to give me a fighting chance to live longer. Will doing those things guarantee a longer life? Of course not. God is in charge of that department. For Marisa and Erica’s sake, I’m going to do my part. 

If people think it’s noble to say that they’ll die for their kids, so be it. I think that’s taking the easy way out. Try doing it the hard way for your family’s sake. Choose life. Start by trying to make a few lifestyle changes. Every little bit helps. Minimizing unhealthy and destructive behavior like smoking, drinking too much, and not sleeping enough is helpful too.

As Jesus said in Matthew 4:7, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” You just might live a little longer. Do it for your kids. They’re going to need you and your wisdom when it’s their turn to make choices for their families.

After the rain took a break yesterday, I put on a pair of black sweatpants, long sleeve t-shirt, faded Warriors hoodie, black waterproof windbreaker, and laced up my hiking boots to get ready for my daily 4-mile walk. Once I put sunscreen on my face and filled a Hydro Flask with cold water, I topped off the ensemble with a new brimmer hat and securely placed Airpods into my not so small ears. 

As always, I thought about what I wanted to hear coming from those technological wonders. Every Monday, I listen to the George Lopez OMG Hi Podcast. I highly recommend it. The show is thoughtful, informative about the craft and business of comedy, and funnier than a motherfucker (excuse my French). Tuesday is reserved for any number of other podcasts that catch my fancy. The rest of the week is dedicated to music. 

Yeah, yeah. I know it sounds like the boring life of an old man. That lifestyle caught up to me sooner than expected. Countless surgeries, including a couple of open heart operations and scores of post heart transplant procedures have a way of slowing life down. Even though I feel fantastic and younger than ever, taking care of a transplanted heart requires lots of discipline. Routine keeps me in the game. 

Making a decision about the music selection is no easy task because my taste in music is all over the place. Inspired by a recent OMG HI Podcast episode, I paid homage to East LA with Tierra and Los Lobos. The playlist of the past month or so includes Eddie Money, GQ, The Intruders, Frank Sinatra, Dua Lipa, Los Tigres del Norte, Lakeside, Muddy Waters, Sarah Vaughn, Harry Styles, and Boni Mauricio y Los Maximos. You get the picture. The list goes on and on. 

A few weeks ago, I settled on “This is Little Joe” on Spotify. For those who don’t know about Little Joe, he’s the leader and front man of arguably the best and most famous Tex-Mex band of all time. One of the things I loved to do as a kid was sit next to dad’s stereo listening to his albums with big headphones covering half my little head. When I hear Qué Culpa Tengo, my favorite Little Joe song, I fondly think about my sister’s 1976 wedding. One of dad’s treasured Little Joe albums remains safe in my collection.

I’m sure my daughters and nieces would argue that Selena and Los Dinos deserve the title of best Tex-Mex band of all time. Nice try, I say. But, that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that the King of the Brown Sound always takes me back to my boyhood and the secure confines of Viewmont Avenue in east San Jose.

I saw Little Joe for the first time in 1986. The dance was in the cavernous Expo Hall at the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds. I stood close to the stage to take it all in. The funky horn section, rhythmic guitar lines, thumping drumbeat, and Little Joe’s soulful voice and signature grito was food for my soul. Since then, Sandra and I have danced the night away at many Little Joe concerts.

I truly believe that heaven is the next stop after God taps my shoulder to bring suffering in this world to an end. The thing is that I’m not too sure that heaven looks like what the King James Bible tells us in Revelation 21:9-14. Maybe, just maybe, heaven might look like 48 Viewmont Avenue, circa late 1960s to mid 1970s.

Fifty years ago on Viewmont Avenue there was no college failure, no subsequent drunken carousing, no election defeats, no heart attack, no acute respiratory distress syndrome, no medically induced coma, no scary ICU delirium dreams, no heart failure, no LVAD, no post heart transplant depression and anxiety, no starting over at fifty-six. That sounds like heaven to me.

Revelation 21 also tells us that “there will be no more death or mourning or crying pain” in heaven. Ok, so maybe I’m overselling 48 Viewmont. My grandma died in 1974. Our dog Tequila followed a couple of years later. Yeah, I cried my eyes out both times. So I guess that doesn’t make Viewmont a strong candidate for a blissful afterlife in heaven.

But there’s something about being in the cocoon at 48 Viewmont, riding bikes with friends in the summer, playing basketball on the driveway and two-hand touch football on the street, and watching my parents dancing to Little Joe in the living room that brings peace and serenity to my soul. Don’t get me wrong, many beautiful things have also happened to me since those carefree days. Sandra, Marisa, and Erica to name three. 

Being with my three girls at 3211 Stimson Way listening to music, playing board games, and talking smack as the crazy world swirls around outside also brings peace and serenity to my soul. Maybe heaven includes all of life’s wonderful experiences with family and good friends mixed in a beautiful cocktail of faith, hope, and love. Shaken, not stirred, of course.

About six or seven years ago, Sandra and I were at History Park in San Jose watching the King of the Brown Sound live on stage. It was a warm and sunny day. We were having a blast with compadres and close friends.  I had a few Jack and Cokes dancing in my head when Little Joe’s band started playing Borrachera (no pun intended), his classic tune about drunken revelry. The music washed over my body as Sandra and I blissfully swayed together arm-in-arm. For those three minutes, I didn’t have a care in the world. It was almost like heaven.

None of us will really know what heaven looks like until we get there. Maybe it will look like the King James Bible description, “clear as crystal . . . with a wall great and high, and twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels, and their names written thereon.” Maybe it looks like 48 Viewmont Avenue in 1972. Maybe it’s Christmas 2022 at 3211 Stimson Way. 

Whatever it looks like, I’m pretty sure that Little Joe will be there belting out fun music. My family and dear friends will be there with me dancing and laughing. There’s no doubt in my mind that “there will be no more death or mourning or crying pain.”