Eulogy

A Eulogy for B.B. King, September 16, 1925 – May 14, 2015


    All it took was one note. In that one note you felt it all. On that one note you immediately knew who it was playing. On that one note you were hooked and the song had to play out. There was no fast forward with B.B. King. The song demanded to be played to the end. If you played guitar you listened to each note brought forth by Lucille and marveled at its complexity, tremolo and that famous string bend. How could so little produce so much? That one note influenced and inspired countless folks of all manner of strata and stripe to pick up a guitar and try it for themselves. Today, there is not a single musician that has ever laid his hands on string that cannot say that B.B. didn't play a part in his performance. We all aspired to play like him, but many of us felt it was just too sacred a thing to master. Many words have been written on what notes to play and how to formulate his "style." However, deep down inside you just knew that it was impossible to duplicate. So much came from so little. Yes, it was that one note.
     He was at home with any sized audience whether it was someone's living room or a packed arena. His performance never slackened. He was always consistent. He gave everything he had as a personal gift to the audience, you, the listener. He sang with a vulnerability that told of enduring hardship, heartache and just plain feelin' bad. He would draw you in with his sincerity and punctuate his pain with a hard growling and dark wail that you could feel as though it were yours alone. His songs told of the misery of betrayal, the sadness of loss and the joy of friendship shared, angels and the romance that once gained was bliss, but so easy to lose. Yes, there is sadness in the blues, but there is also a joy to be had. B.B. and Lucille delivered it every time they came together.
    When we first heard the news he was in trouble we all knew the end would be soon. Thankfully, he was able to go home to see the end of his days and to be with the woman he loved, Lucille. Today, she has lost her muse never to return. But her legacy will stand forever. Her muse was the kind of a man whose voice crossed all lines and playing her did more for the blues than anyone could possibly measure. Her sound was the boilerplate and standard for the blues. We knew from the first note. That first note that would touch our hearts and say more than a million in the time it took to pluck the string until the moment it stopped. There are many that I miss, today. However, I doubt there will another I will miss more. Thank you, B.B. You made my heart sing and dance, you lifted me up when I was down. You loved us all and we are better for it. 
    Today, the testimonials are pouring forth and there will be many tributes to come. The one common message is the same. B.B. King was a friend of mine. How many of us never knew him personally enough to call him friend? It really doesn't matter. His smile and broad grin made us his friend in an instant. With weighted sadness in our hearts we say good-bye to our friend on this day. But with his passing I hope there will be a resurgence of interest into one of the most influential musicians of our lives. Share his legacy with your children and persuade them of his importance. Persuade them that his music is the real thing and not something that has been computer generated or polished up by studio magic. There wasn't a lot to his rig. It was guitar, an amp and his almighty voice. It was that simple and it never failed to knock us over.

The jam session in heaven will be long, tonight.


Dave Tongay
May 14, 2015

Ending and Beginning

June 5

   He stood at the edge of the forest looking through the verdant greens, the dark and honey browns of the trees and bushes, his mission clear in his mind.  At first alive with birds, insects and small animals then quieted at his approach seeking anonymity or refuge despite the attempt at a quiet and furtive walk. He knew these woods well and often felt a comfort within them.  His family was not there.  That was the important thing.  They were the ones that hurt him and made him feel even more useless in the light of his real debilitation.  The plastic amber bottles rattled in his pocket half-filled with medicines that dulled the pain of the debilitating injuries from so long ago.  They provided an added benefit in that they also took the edge off the emotional pains as well. He figured it should be enough for the job.  His plan was formulated long ago in a deep depression where answers were few and reality was grim.  If the right set of circumstances availed themselves he believed he could make that final grandstand play that would justify the taking of his own life.  There would be crying and supreme disappointment.  Somehow, he knew the devastating effect of his departure would free the many years of frustration, internal injustice and strife from his soul.  He felt he had suffered enough.  The accident so many years ago had robbed him of his ability to work and provide for his family.  It affected his life in every way imaginable.  Years of occupational and physical therapy chipped away at his dignity and self-respect.  So, it would all end in a simple act of closing his eyes and the final drawing of breath.  He wouldn't even know it was happening.  And, of course, they wouldn't know.  His selfishness kept any consideration since she was the one who made up her mind to leave him.  He decided then that she would have to pay.  Thirty years of marriage...over.  She said it the night before.  She said she had had enough of his temper, his whining, his constant complaining about everything around him and his failure to see anything good in anybody.  Yes, she would have to pay for the treachery of her abandonment.

   He lifted the bottle to his open mouth and let them fall in.  Damn, it was difficult to move them around in his mouth without a swig of water or something.  He even considered taking a shot of whiskey if one had been available.  But he had quit some time ago, so that was out of the question.    His tongue moved them clumsily into position to swallow with a dry difficulty.  The capsules tasted of plastic and the few pills mixed in with the overdose started to prematurely break apart in his mouth from his saliva.  It just wasn't happening fast enough.  There was this little twinge of guilt starting to formulate as an intelligent outlier.  It told him he had just stepped over a line might not be able to backtrack from.  It also carried the message that a gunshot into the roof of the mouth might have been better, but a lot messier.  Certainly faster.  Odd how the mind works when it faces this kind of defeatist resolve.  He panicked a bit as he tripped over a rock and stumbled almost falling.  His drug-induced amble through the woods was becoming dangerous.  Off in the distance he saw the glow of lights from a neighbor's house.  John and Betty might be home, but what difference would it make?  He still wanted to go through with this and walked on.  15 minutes in the first effects of the painkillers started to make their presence known.  Thinking began to get fuzzy and the awareness that something was not right with his nervous system began to set in.  His sense of survival started to kick in suggesting it might be best to head over to John's house.  They must be home.  Look, there's his new car.  Nice.  He stood on their back porch banging on the door.  He thought he would be cool, but it was the slurred speech and a set of glassy eyes that gave him away.  They instantly knew something was horribly wrong and took him in. 

    Back at the house someone noticed he wasn't in his room.  A cursory walk out to the opening of the woods found the empty bottles.  His sister interpreted this clue that something very bad had just transpired.  Calls were made to local authorities about a missing man, her brother, in a deep depression was lost in the woods.  Oh, and by the way, he ate all of his medication.  She had had enough of his moodiness and anger.  He would lash out without warning cursing and swearing.  Warning that she and the rest of the family would be sorry seeing him lying in his coffin after treating him the way they did.  She knew his wife had made up her mind and gave him her decision the night before.  Something snapped and a circuit was engaged.  The program that he wrote so long ago opened the file and the program began to run. 

His family notified the authorities to look for a lost man who apparently consumed a number of pain pills and other medications in an attempt to end his life.  However, no body was found within a 30 to 45 minutes staggering distance,  It was long known that he carried a lot of pain with his disability, so, logically, he should be close by.  How far this man could go in an overdosed stupor was not really known, but it couldn't be far. 

The family was sick with worry.  No one had heard from him.  Yet, he was to be found in a neighbor's bed resting within the walls of sleep...a very deep sleep dreamless and dark.  The call was made and relief swept through the family.  He would be held for psychiatric evaluation.  He had fallen into a hole of depression, but somehow to his eventual frustration managed to defeat his attempt.  His body, apparently inured by the constant load of medicine and protocol proved to be heartier than he suspected managed to shrug off the increased as if it did not matter.  He would survive this suicide attempt. 

   God built in His wisdom in this man knowing ahead of time when and where his time would come.  That day just wasn't his day to die.  God knows of that day, that hour and that minute yet to come while we live in ignorance.  The unheard message is there is more for this man to experience and understand.  He will begin the process of rebuilding for now, but rebuilding to what?  Eventually he might find the answer in that.  His journey is far from over and God still has His plan in place.  But now it's time to find out if this man is just a disillusioned prankster hoping to gain some last minute of life attention or a man on a mission determined to end it on his own watch no matter what God thinks.  Somewhere the Devil must be applauding.

   It is often said that God has a plan for us all.  Individual plans notwithstanding we should also consider what kind of plan it might be.  We make plans and they fall apart.  Or, just when we thought all is well we are set on a new course.  There are times when these course changes are subtle and indirect often escaping detection.  Long and short range events with nameless people in seemingly random situations are created in our lives making them a moment to moment experience of trying to stay afloat and alive.  Yet, events and situations occur for a reason that will always baffle us.  Reality can be cold and harsh rooted in mystery and doubt, yet, at times miraculous in their outcome.  What the reason's interpretation and meaning is never evident for immediate interpretation.  There is always the bigger picture, or the grand plan.  We will never know until it all plays out.  Where we are suddenly no longer here, but moved on where all the answers will be given.

   Does God play us one against the other in an ever unfolding drama that culminates when He says so?  Is He involving too many nameless and faceless people to consider that may have may not affect our lives and the way that we lead them?  The man attempting suicide certainly is a case since he has in his failed endeavor managed to affect so many people in various constructive and destructive ways.  As a result of his action everyone has grown up just a little more.  Some more than others.  The sharing of this experience has brought them closer together and more reluctant to let time pass without at least checking in with each other.  Eventually, though, now that the crisis has been averted things will go back to being casual and the relationship bonds now so tightly wrapped will loosen with neglect.  Though he is now safely in the hands of those that "know better," the psychiatrists and shrinks, he is undoubtedly waiting for the next opportunity.  Meanwhile, he is being pumped with various drugs to level out his mania in an attempt to get him to talk.  However, at this stage of the game he ain't talkin' and the Devil is awaiting his due. 

   He was released from the psych ward with nothing to be said and nothing to be learned.  He is home, now, in the custody of his sister.  His wife stops by on occasion to check up on him and inform him of her plans to eventually leave the state and take up residence closer to her sister.  Nothing further has been discussed, learned or settled.

July 3

   The news came in a tearful phone call that he was successful in his bid to end his life.  His sister had gone to the store to get some groceries for the coming holiday leaving him alone for an hour.  So, there was opportunity with motive already in play.  He again walked into the same woods with another bottle of prescription medicine he had convinced his doctor he needed.  Only this time he brought along insurance.  He was not about to be found again wandering the neighborhood in state of absolute confusion and stupor.  This time would be different.  This time he brought his gun along to make sure his mission would be a success.  The investigators following up on his self-imposed murder saw that a number of the pills were missing from the bottle presumably swallowed by the victim.  What left no doubt in their minds was the hole in the roof of his mouth and the exit wound on the top of his head.  That's what they called the cause of death.  The Devil would not be denied in his abatement.  He had won in this battle over this man's depression.  But, the question remains who has come in second?  It does not make sense that it would be God.  This single selfish act devoid of any logic other than what existed a moment before a bullet destroyed his brain and life turned out to be the single most impactful act he had ever created.  Along with it came profound sadness for all involved that will affect and remain a point of sadness for all that knew him.  His chapter has ended.  The new chapter for the survivors has just begun.

The Logic of the Deposit (but with fear)

Another Home Depot Tale                                                                             April 19, 2015

   Her call this afternoon started off slow and then built up speed as a specter of fear began to creep into her voice, encroaching, if you will on the other side of a frightened line. I could hear it in her voice and somehow I had to make those fears go away. Her fear seemed warranted, though; I didn't really know the reason for it. Still, I felt it enough to make me want to recount this story...

   Earlier in the day there was an initial state of confusion as her son approached and asked for a way to make 8" holes for 4" X 4" wooden posts to act as footings for a new deck he was building as a present for his parents. Accepted industry specifications call out for a 10" hole drilled to a depth of 42" for adequate anchoring. My presentation was logical and I apparently spoke with a wisdom that won him over since he accepted my advice. I reasoned that his plan would run the risk of seeing these same posts rise up out of the ground from winter's water and extreme temperature change. It's something I personally have never seen or experienced, but I do listen to those who have. My job then becomes speaking not so much as an expert, but rather as an advisor. Besides, the idea of being an "expert" in anything makes me shudder and does nothing in its appeal to me. I have been derailed by too many experts in my own travels to ever aspire to be one. There is simply too much risk for my palate in trying to be one. I take Mark Twain's description of an "expert" as "anyone who can spit over a boxcar" to heart. I drew up the contract, took a deposit and helped him load up.

   Later, I received a call about an hour after his departure from Mom saying there was some difficulty with tool he brought home. I listened and heard the posts were too close to the side of the house for the tool's clearance and immediately offered a second plan of attack. I assured her that I would work with her son to the best of my ability and that we could make this happen. In actuality on my end this was fairly easy solution. A tool swap is a simple procedure in the contract system and a void process with the register will do the trick. However, I wasn't about to reveal just how easy it was to her. It's the super hero in me I hold close to my heart that makes me do it this way. I mumbled something about having to bend a few rules, but hey I'm here for you. The son showed up and I handed over the voided contract paperwork to him and gave him his new tool to make Mom happy. Shorty thereafter a fresh contract was written with a new deposit that had to be taken.

   Rent is never charged up front. It sits in the form of a deposit waiting in the register for the tool's return and the contract's end. At the close of the contract, the rental fee is charged off to the deposit. The balance is either returned to the credit card in the form of a credit. Or, there is an option to refund the entire deposit and have the rent paid by cash or another credit card. The options are convenient, not too restricting and hopefully spelled out so that everyone can understand the subtleties of this kind of transaction. The initial deposit must come in the form of a credit card due to the amount of theft tool rental centers across the nation have been facing. It's really our only defense against those that would line their pockets at our expense. The arithmetic is really not that hard, but there are times when it causes once intelligent people to turn in their high quality I.Q. for a much lower model without any of the frills such as logic or reasoning. Then, it becomes a hard and fast, black or white, live or die kind of affair where the conversations can become heated and fraught with a kind of sad lunacy. I had just returned from lunch when I was handed a note from the associate that took the call. He said she was in terrible straits and had no idea what was going on with her money, the tool or her son's activity. It was time for me to travel down this road in the hope that I could restore Mom's faith in our system. I pulled up a copy of the contract before I made the call. Please note that I waited a bit before making the call. I knew there would be confusion in the offing and that an adequate explanation was needed. I learned a long time ago that when it came to almost any form of negotiation or discussions of importance that it is always best to be the one making the call rather than receiving it. This gives you at the advantage by striking first; an obvious advantage. However, it is important to maintain that advantage by making statements and letting the opponent ask all the questions. It allows you better control of the situation by being on higher ground.

   I dialed the number, waiting for my opponent to pick up. I ran through my mind the same points of discussion I have given so many others in an effort to explain the delicate economics of a deposit and applying of charges. Mom answered the phone and I identified myself as the man who had been working with her son. The attack wasn't fierce at first, but could hear the potential was there. I heard the usual edge of anger and suspicion in her voice as I let her tell her side of the story. I am always amazed at this given the fact that I work for one of the largest home improvement stores in the world with a budget that supersedes many modern day countries. It would not serve us to lie, cheat or steal our way to the top. But, back to the call...once all the facts had been presented, I followed up with an explanation of how the crediting and debiting of funds work plus a simple explanation of the process of refunding the balance to her account. However, in her mind something was amiss and I hadn't got to it, yet. She accused me of purposely withholding the receipt. This is where the entire sanctity of the transaction lies. The truth was the son, when he returned with the rented tool had rushed off before getting his receipt. In fact, he had rushed off to the point where the closing transaction was still sitting in my register waiting to be closed.

Then, she asked a little more forcefully than I expected, "Why don't I have a receipt? Why are you withholding it?" Instead of blaming her child for leaving without it I took the high road and stated it was an oversight on our part and that I would be glad to mail the hard copy receipt to her. She agreed that would be satisfactory, but then she hit her next gear.
    "Where is my deposit of $100? I have to have an explanation for that before my husband gets home. I don't want to have to explain it to him why I don't have it." I thought, that's where her fear lives I bet, but why? Obviously, Dad as alpha of his pack is a serial ogre suspect. 

"The rental was $62.30 and the remaining balance of $37.70 has been credited to your account."

"But where is my $100? You took $100 from my card and I don't know how to explain this to my husband once he gets home." She was barking a little louder, now and had moved past the growling and bearing of teeth stage.

  "The deposit was used against your rental. It's standard operating procedure at rental centers." Thinking I had explained it well enough I rested my case.

   "But don't you see, you've taken $100 from me and I don't know to explain it to my husband. He's going to mad and call you to demand an explanation why you are stealing $100 of our money." 

   "Ma'am," I said, "No one is stealing any money from you. I took a deposit of $100. Your rent was $62.30. I used your $100 to pay for that $62.30 and sent the remaining $37.70 back to your card as a credit. Do you see it, now?"

   "Well, yes, but don't be surprised to get a call from my husband. He's coming home, soon and will demand an explanation of all of this and I don't know if I can do it. Your name's Dave? I'll have him call you, then." Ah, we are waiting for the alpha to return from his trip. My level of concern should be higher, I supposed, but this warning was not strong enough to move me to fear or defensive posturing.

    "Okay, that will be fine." I hung up the phone, took her receipt, addressed an envelope, put a stamp on it and walked it down to the mailbox where she will hopefully receive it by Tuesday. On the way back to Customer Service's mailbox I started wondering what kind of man could instill such concern and mild terror? Now, I am not so deluded to think there is an absence of monsters walking the streets. On the surface they can come across as nice, understanding, sensitive folk that are sometimes downright logical. After all, we're men and logic reigns supreme in our world, right? I started imagining this guy as a portly with some hypertension. He's the kind of guy that likes to wear brown slacks with white short sleeve shirts with a (you guessed it) wife beater t-shirt underneath. I don't know why, but the image of slightly deranged Norm in "Cheers" came to mind only not as glib and affable. I imagined the conversation at the kitchen table where the tale would be told and the ensuing interrogation would begin. Hope fly, she would be able to relay the logic and arithmetic of the transaction in a clear and precise manner. Otherwise, who knows what would happen. Many new possibilities started hitting my brain and some of them were not pretty. Could I have sentenced this poor woman to a night of abuse over the small matter of the debit/credit process? Mentally, I stopped in my tracks and realized that I was guilty of indulging my imagination without borders or limits, again. I was giving myself untold reasons to fear his line of query. Had I doubted being fair to this unknown man with his brown wingtips and rayon tie even though he is a supposed threat to me, now? Well, I have done my job I reasoned. The receipt was on its way (eventually, since today is Sunday) and it was time to return to the rest of the matters at hand.

   Still, I worried for her and I didn't know why. Now, the day is over and it's time for rest without worry or concern. I wish. I'm writing this, now, wondering if I've set the stage for a drama to occur far from my life. The lives that I encounter are brief in their meetings and are usually kept in a state of civilized control. We are nice and expect nice in return, but anyone who has ever worked retail knows this will never be the case in any kind of consistency. We know the base instincts of mankind and the incredible sense of entitlement that comes with the territory. People can attack with the viciousness and quickness of a pack of mad feral dogs where each is under the control of a dominant male. Where the dog pack the alpha has to address all situations with a finality that can make or break them. There is no room for error. The alpha is the only one in control leaving the pack as the others blindly obey and follow. He has to be decisive where the movement to act is instantaneous and possibly ruthless in its severity or his status with the pack will suffer a loss of command or possibly his life. His attack has to come suddenly without warning. The throat is the desired target since it carries so much vitality to its owner. It's the first place a dog will attack. The human tactic is to take away the voice of his opponent, to render him speechless. To take away the voice of the opponent is a primary tactic. In humans it is often executed with loudness, rudeness freely punctuated with obscenities and creative cursing. Most often it's like a dog fight with words. Metaphorically, words can create the same devastation as a physical attack by the alpha. The objective is to put the offender in his place by demanding submission. I don't wish this for this woman or the speculated man coming home to a well controlled house only to be surprised by something that supposedly doesn't make sense. I'm sure as second in command her life in comfortable in that her alpha protects and provides for his family or pack. From the looks of her children they are not worried about their next meal. The hackles have risen on my neck and he needs to call me. I'm pacing the floor. His threat is here. His wife made that threat.  But he won't call me. I've been the alpha of my department for many years and experience has given me the training and the patience to make it through this kind of attack. The phone sits in silence. When it does come to life it isn't him. Enough time has passed for him to call unless he's out late. My vanity begins to step up; I reason that he doesn't want to feel bested by another alpha with weaponized logic on his side. I am older, now, and gray hairs have populated the chin of my muzzle. I can lie down and sleep as well as anyone else, but I will not allow the intrusion of another alpha into my camp. The sanity of my pack depends on it.

Write or Die

I was thinking about why I have suddenly hit a wall with my writing. No, it's not the battery in my laptop, although I could use a new one I think. Nor, is the lack of time and zero interesting events other than being in a freezer landscape. So, I took keyboard in hand and came up with this:

Why do we wait for that first twitch of inspiration to finally kick us in the walls of complacency, which will drive us to type, find a pen and a clean piece of paper, a napkin? We must accept that we must always create. We cannot wait for long periods without writing. This would be like watching an in denial suitor waiting on a corner believing the next five minutes will end the apprehension and embarrassment of being stood up. This cannot and must not exist within us. Our minds must be restless and waiting to mine expression and ideas from every day life where there is always drama, conflict, humor, and irony. Even in their most primitive forms, once formulated the expression of an idea will eventually thrive in abundance if given the chance for growth since within the artistic mind non-action has no chance of taking root. There is always a description, a metaphor, or analogy waiting to be laid out like freshly pressed suit of clothes. We may fuss with the edges and smooth the creases, but we know the longer the details are withheld from the page the shorter the time we will have when all things end in death. Whether idea, opinion or complaint what we say drives our heart's message. Whether this message is significant or a load of doggerel is immaterial. Once a thought is expressed an impression begins its wait for reaction to take place. We have the power to cause a flinch with our abruptness or forge the heat of disagreement with our premises. We can even create the base of an ignition point to be used to create a great fire that will end only when its flames are cooled and its cinders rest in their coldness. Never fear the critic for they are the collector of souls. We write or die. There is no alternative.

Dave Tongay

Valentine's Day, 2015

To my wife, Bobette...Happy Valentine's Day, baby

For my dear cousin, January Elizabeth who inspired me to write this Valentine's Day Message

   To me there is nothing more pleasing than the woman I love snuggling up to me in our bed at that moment when I am most relaxed and slipping into the twilight stage of early sleep. I lay on my left side as she spoons her way into the recesses to take up all the spaces between us. She strokes my arm and lays her head on my back near the shoulder. When she first started this she would gently pat my thigh in time with my heart beat. If she knew I was awake and aware she would often say how slowly and strong it sounded within me. I would feel her count out the rhythm and figure the average beats per minute. Fifty five to sixty was usually the range. Like all things couples do to each with acts that comfort, they drive away any thoughts of the little dramas and issues that cloud our days. Sometimes, though, there is exists a fine line that can make even the most intimate gestures of affection into being an annoyance. There was a night when she came to me slowly and insinuated her hand over my arm and started keeping time as she had so many nights before. I wanted sleep more than anything else and tried my best to be diplomatic when I asked her to please stop though I did enjoy her touch. However, this night, something was different. The taps on my thigh were twice as fast as nights before. She asked me if I felt okay and did I feel any different with a heart rate that went from about sixty beats per minute to one hundred twenty. I told her I felt fine, but there was insistence to get up and take my blood pressure and pulse. Sure enough, the monitor showed a rapid heart rate with an elevated blood pressure. We both agreed it was time to see our doctor to discuss this occurrence and made an appointment for later in the week.

   The next day I had an appointment with a testing clinic to have a Doppler ultra sound test on my legs and feet. For some unknown reason a peripheral neuropathy had manifested itself giving me points of deadness in some area. Having diabetic wife I have learned this is a sign of concern and to have my blood tested for signs of this disease. Not once has it shown me to be on the path to this life changing illness and curiosity lay in the amount of circulation of my lower extremities. An order to get the test had been arranged that put me into a testing room with a series of pads and wires placed on my legs and feet. As the technician went through his test procedures I could hear the activity of my heart beating through the speakers on the testing console. "Is your heart beat usually this irregular, sir?" was the question and all I could answer was no. "You better have that checked out." I told him I was seeing my doctor in a few days to discuss a rapid heartbeat. He urged me to have this conversation sooner rather than later. That afternoon I gave the results of the Doppler test to my wife and we were both relieved to hear that I had good circulation in my legs and feet and that the neuropathy remained a mystery. However, the irregular heartbeat took front and center when I told her about what both the technician and I heard. I called our doctor's office and we managed an appointment that same day.

   As I sat on the examination table noting mentally that the paper used as a clean surface had not really changed very much throughout the years. It was still as crinkly and uncomfortable as ever as my mind imagined a testing lab where some technician was standing in front of his boss wringing his hands in secret while the big man decided to keep or scrap this latest run. Was is worthy of the thousands of butts that it would serve? I asked my wife the hypothetical question regarding quality control of such a product and was immediately told to stop being so silly and pay attention to the issue at hand. "Yeah, I guess so."

   My doctor entered the examination room in her usual manner full of smiles, hugs and positive energy. In the years we have known her she has become almost a member of the family familiar with the many secrets we keep within ourselves. I was told by my mother, a registered nurse herself, that it's necessary to establish such a bond with your internal medicine care giver. Many times she has proven herself worthy and we accept her advice almost without question. She has taken the position of quarterback of our health care. My wife took the lead and started recounting the story of her snuggle and my suddenly increased heart rate. The blood pressure measuring cuff came out and she quickly inflated and slowly deflated it watching the mercury and listening with her stethoscope. Her face went from its usual happiness to something a little grayer as concern started to crept into her mind. "You have something going on in there and we've got to find out what it is." She called for the EKG machine and one of her internists brought in an A/V cart with a large machine placed on the top shelf. I was hooked up with simple electrodes and sat still as it ran through its test procedure. The graph showed the irregularity as well as the increased rate. She quickly scribbled out a referral prescription for me to see a cardiologist immediately or else face an extended stay in the hospital as tests were run. The hospital is the most expensive hotel in town and it was the last place I wanted to spend a week of medical confinement.

   The cardiologist's office responded with a quick appointment date and my sentence to serving time at the hospital was lifted. I nervously spoke with my wife making note that he, too, had the same kind of paper on his examination table as our doctor's. Sure that I would be once again admonished for not taking things seriously I was saved by the doctor's nurse arriving with another EKG device in tow. She officiously and expertly placed a number of sticky electrodes on my chest, back and legs. Once on-line the device quickly printed out about a yard of data on paper which was given to another nurse for delivery presumably to the cardiologist. The electrodes were pulled off and the nurse left the exam room as fast as she arrived. I looked at my wife and said, "Busy woman." She responded with, "I guess so." We returned to silence as I looked about the room always looking for the models of organs that drug companies give to medical professionals extolling the virtue of their wares. These are usually well made models with much detail and eye catching colors. I am certain there are a number of sand sculpture artists that are paid well for these reproductions of heart valves, sections of intestine and lung tissue. My interest was quickly diverted as the doctor entered the room.

   We made our introductions at which time I mentioned he shared the same name as one of my favorite jazz bassists. He acknowledged my reference with a smile and asked me to remove my John Deere hat. When asked why he said that his father was a McCormick Farmall dealer and that John Deere logos were banned from his office. I explained it was nothing more than a "gimme hat" from my place of work, Home Depot. That didn't matter. It had to go. Okay, I can deal with that.

   Pulling out the EKG data strip he went into his explanation of what my heart was doing, but had no clear cut answer as to why. He asked me if I snored and did I have sleep apnea. I answered yes and I don't know. He then wrote out a prescription referral to have a sleep study performed to determine if apnea was present in my nightly slumber. Then he pulled out a piece of blank paper and started to draw the human heart and explaining how it works highlighting both plumbing and electrical functions. He did this quite well as expected and I had a clearer cut idea what was happening in my chest. He asked me if I noticed my heart racing and again I said no and that I had no idea anything was wrong. Further discussion on the subject of apnea revealed a number of symptoms that I have noticed singularly, but not as a group totaling up to a real problem. Was I tired most of the time? Yes I was. Did I wake up refreshed or dying for that first cup of coffee? No, I can't say that I've woken up to refreshment and yes, coffee was important as life, itself in those early moments. The questions and answers started adding up to more than I ever thought about and I suddenly became very interested in this sleep study business. Apnea kills. It can cause strokes, weight gain, and heart issues such as heart failure, irregular heartbeat and heart attacks. It can also effect mood and actually give depression a stronger foothold. I had to press on and find out more. Apparently, my life depended on it.

   I've always had issues with falling asleep. I firmly believed it took me anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to fall asleep. So, to counteract this I was able to convince my caregivers into writing a prescription for Ambien, a drug along with others that were introduced to me during the initial stages of my recovery from alcoholism. I went the chemical route rather group therapy or support organizations. That story is arduous and better left for another time. With its ability to put me to sleep mid-sentence Ambien became a close personal friend and one whose company I enjoyed for many years. Typically, though, I assumed the grogginess I always felt in the morning came from a bit of hangover from the drug.  In actuality, Ambien's half-life is about 45 minutes to an hour, so, the hangover I felt was not exactly the result of it knocking me out quickly and soundly. Something else was leaving me groggy. Ambien eventually became a subject of more than a few discussions with my wife about what it would do to me once taken. There are many documented stories of people doing strange things under its influence. People have been known to act out with aggression, attempt to drive a car or other dangerous activities that require a sober approach. Mine was hunger and I paid dearly for it. I would take my dose and stay up way too long while it took effect. Sooner or later I would find myself in the kitchen making a sandwich or other dish using either the microwave, toaster oven or the gas range. It became a matter of safety since I would often leave the gas on slightly after cooking my snack. I loved the idea of sneaking around and hiding the food from my wife. Like most people who engage in addictions it's the adrenaline rush of the escape that matters then most. In reality I was hungry. Ambien made it so, but, it was the act of her not catching me that satisfied that little demon inside my head even more. I am a known quitter in my head. I have quit cigarettes and booze. I have walked from people and relationships without regard to the consequences. I made up my mind for the last time to give up Ambien for good and away it went onto the trash heap of expended addictions.

   I went into my interview with the sleep specialist with many questions. He corroborated many of the things I had learned about apnea prior to meeting him. My first sleep study was recommended after he listened to my heart and countered with several key questions of his own. My first sleep study was scheduled. I arrived anxious to learn about what goes on when I struggle to go to sleep. I was also interested in a recent phenomenon that I had developed known as Hypnic Myoclonia, a brief, involuntary twitching of a muscle or a group of muscles that would wake me up furthering my sleep frustrations. Again, I was missing the entire explanation focusing instead on individual symptoms to my sleep deprived experience.  He basically dismissed that subject with a wave of his hand as if it were just another complaint from a sleepy head. The date for my first sleep study was set and we left to go home, work and wait for the date when all would hopefully be revealed. Secretly, a little voice in my head was asking for a prescription for Ambien. It would be easy. Just open my mouth and let the words fall out as easily and successfully as all those other times. I knew I would never get away with it, though. My wife's expectant anger at such a request was more than I wanted to entertain. We left with my Ambien demon child screaming for attention.

   I arrived late into the evening at the sleep center determined to get some answers and some serious sleep. I was walked into a basic bedroom with little adornment other than a flat screen television and an ominous looking camera pointed directly at the bed. Yes, there were several sophomoric thoughts that went through my mind, but they were quickly dispelled and I got down to business. A multitude of sensors and lead wires were affixed in strategic locations on my body a sensor stuck to the base of my nostrils, a very ticklish spot for me. I can go crazy with frustration if an errant mustache hair decides to go north and I do suffer the malady of long black hairs growing inside my nostril. If you don't have them you will. Take my word for it. Wired up and ready to go I lay down and instantly felt the need to entertain my hosts with a few Hypnic jerks for effect. Computers and video were set to task measuring my temperature, my brain waves and all other manner of information given off by the body. This information was eventually written up into a report that told me I do not sleep, but I do fail asleep faster than I ever thought. There are four stages of sleep with the fourth being the deepest and the most beneficial. I managed to get as far as the second level, but would soon fall back to the first because I would actually stop breathing. My brain then said, "Hey, man. Wake up. You're not getting any oxygen. So, I would wake up enough to inhale and thereby sending life giving oxygen to my blood that was then pumped through my body. This happened as often as 59 times a minute, but sat more along the lines of 19. No wonder I was always tired. My weight and age had contributed to a small flap in my throat closing off an air entry that would make me snore in some positions and stop breathing in others. The answer was CPAP or Continuous Positive Airway Pressure, a machine that I would be tied to for a long time to come.

   The CPAP machine came within days and I set about the task of making this thing work and getting better. I didn't realize that it can sometimes longer than a year to fully adjust to it. It blows a significant amount of air into your nose and opens up that little flap that causes so much damage over the long haul. Think about it. Those that you know that are overweight ask them if they snore or have issues with waking up many times at night. If they answer yes then you should get them to a sleep study right away. I have now gone through the usual frustration of having this mask on my face that I dream is suffocating me. I am doing my best to embrace this chapter of my life since I know it will be of great benefit in the long run. It took a while, but I did manage to get over the embarrassment of my appearance in bed in front of my wife. She loves me and wants me well a little more than handsome at this stage. There are many more things that can be said about my CPAP adventures, but they are also best left for another time.

   My last visit to the cardiologist lead to a discussion for a medical procedure that would help with my rapid heart rate and irregular heart beat. I was diagnosed with an atrial flutter. It's where the SA node on your heart beats twice as fast as the answering node that creates that ever familiar heart beat known as "lub dub." The procedure is known as ablation. A small incision is made in your groin near a large vein and a catheter is introduced all the way and into your heart. A dye guides the way for the surgeon who is more electrician than heart doctor at this point. My electrician was a young guy who looked more at home on a fast Japanese motorcycle rather than an operating facility. I read about his background and his reviews were rated number one. He was the first pick by my cardiologist to perform the procedure. The ablation occurs when he zaps the node on the heart and thereby cancels its ability to emit an electric signal. Simple, right? What's the worst that could happen if I'm told that angioplasty? They're pretty common, right? Are they?

   I checked into the Heart hospital ready for the trip to normalcy in happy heart land. I was ushered into a receiving room where I was given a southern exposure hospital gown with impossible tethers that are very frustrating to tie. I figured my apron tying expertise would come in handy, but I still managed to flash my butt at more people than I really wanted. I signed the papers and joked my way through the set up process. The doctor showed up, shook my hand and told me he was ready to rock this ablation. I was more than ready as I was fitted with an IV. I was wheeled through the halls into the operating room where there were many cool looking machines that did a variety of things like beep and flash lights. I was slid onto a table beneath the shadow of a very large flat screen monitor. This is where the ablation would play out with all of its technological and medical wonder. I looked over at one of the nurses as she broke out a hypodermic needle and injected it into a port on the IV stand. I woke up several hours later in my hospital room with my wife standing guard duty. Nurses were in and out introducing themselves and wrote my name and their contact numbers on a white board. And, my chest hurt. Not my heart, but rather a spot above my heart just below my shoulder.

   I was now the possessor of pace maker. Huh? I didn't sign up for this and I don't remember agreeing to it. My wife filled me in on what happened. I performed well during the ablation procedure and all was right. As always, I am baffled by the claim that anyone does well when that have an operation. Doing well equates to not dying I suppose. Apparently, while I was doing so well I went beyond doing well into doing too well. My heart rate had dropped to 40 beats per minute along with a much lower blood pressure. I would have lived with those numbers, but how well was the question. My heart rate did not rise. The doctor approached my wife and explained how well I did (again) and said that I would be best served with a pace maker in my chest that would feed life giving "normal" heart rate signals to my heart. I was told that I agreed with this in a conversation I had with the doctor in the operating theater. However, I have no knowledge of this happening since I was given an amnesia kind of drug where I would not remember the twilight sleep I was getting form the anesthesia. My wife took everything into consideration and signed the consent form to proceed. 

   After getting over the shock, and it was a shock, of seeing this thing in my chest I started to settle in by rationalizing my new status in life. From this point going forward I would be tied to this little computer in my chest for the rest of my life. It would always be there and I would have to advise many people both known and unknown of this fact. Traveling becomes interesting in that I will have to be inspected separately from the rest of the crowd in airports. I will have to advise all doctors both future and present of my status. I will have to avoid certain situations where magnetic fields could affect my device and throw it off kilter. I've had major concerns that my guitar pickups might interfere with it. Paranoid or just careful? I am researching to see if electric guitar pickups with their Alnico V magnets can affect the device. Jokes are running rampant about such inquiries, but it is a serious question to me since I still try to play every day.

   The bruising has been monumental and the pain is slowly ebbing. I know it's only a matter of time before I fully settle in with this and go about my life. So far, I have noticed that I am sleeping better because of it and my wife says I have never sounded as good. She was startled the first time we spoke and was very impressed with the clarity and presence of my voice. She said I haven't sounded this good in years. Time will tell me if I am to expect even more favorable results such as a lowered blood pressure, loss of weight and a possible end to my neuropathy. I am waiting to see what the combination of CPAP and the pace maker have to offer. I may be on the verge of a great healing recovery. I hope it is so.

   This all occurred as a result of my wife's love for me. Her gesture was heartfelt and genuine. When she noticed something was wrong she spoke up and put this process into motion. If she had not I may have had weeks, months or maybe just a few more years of life when either a heart attack or stroke would take me off the playing field. She has given me more than her love and support. She has given me the best Valentine's Day gift a man can receive.

Dave Tongay aka "Ironman"