10 Thoughts On Open Heart Recovery

#01 Energy Evaporation:

First and foremost. You need to be prepared for a distinct lack of energy. It’s those old D-Size batteries that have been laying around for 2 decades. They may have power, but that bunny, is just a bunny, not the Energizer bunny. Energy becomes the most fleeting resource post-surgery. You are going to take 10 steps, hopefully forward, when you get home. Not only will you be winded and tired, you find yourself in some Black Mirror or Twilight Zone episode, where you have to sit down and take 5 minutes to recover from that 10 second walk. This will be a struggle throughout recovery. The best thing that you can do when you get home is to walk around, even if it's your own house. Just walk to the end of the driveway, come back in, go to the end of the block, come back, extend that, walk as much as you can. Don't do it alone. It'll occur to you pretty darn quick that you can't do anything by yourself. You need your significant other. In my case, my bride the Love Goddess. She made sure that I got around and kept me moving. The energy, or fleeting energy is by far the hardest thing to manage. In the first 4 weeks, friends and family will want to visit you. Tell them they will have roughly a 20-minute window until you start to fade out. Energy just fades like the last episode of the Sopranos, just fade to black in the middle of a conversation. Only without the hitmen. It's the craziest thing. You will not be able to predict when energy decides to leave you. It may decide to run away after an hour. It may decide to evaporate within 5 minutes of having breakfast. This was the biggest adjustment to manage post-surgery. The unpredictability makes managing a day very challenging. 

#02 Sleep: 

The next thing that you need to deal with is sleep. Sounds obvious, except that you just had your chest ripped open like the scene in Aliens, then the doctor pulled your heart out, just like Mola Ram in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, took body parts from the Isle of Dr. Moreau, and then you were

stitched back together with stainless steel thread. Sure you can't sleep like you normally do. First, you need to be propped up. If you have an articulating bed, one that is well-spoken and of good breeding, like the Stryker hospital bed, wait, that’s an articulate bed, you can prop it up. Another approach is the reclining Lazy-boy chair, or the ever favorite adjustable Barco lounger. Regardless of the sleeping apparatus, adjusting is still going to take time. You are going to need sleep! Of course it won't come when you want it. You may even want to resist napping, fearing you may upset your Circadian Sleep Cycle so you can get more sleep. Take the damn nap whenever you can. Your body is in ultra heal mode, the nap lets the body do its thing. This is how your body tells you, “hey, you need to sleep. Like right now.” Just go with the flow. Don't question it, don't fight it. Just get the rest period. You've just had your chest ripped open, your guts played with, and your entire body paralyzed by anesthesia. It needs time to get better. 

#03 Alertness: 

Your alertness levels are extremely low. I couldn't understand why they didn't want me to drive a car. Then the Love Goddess took me for a ride just because I had to get out. Suddenly I realized that the road went by real, real, fast. Everything was a blur. Again, driving is a new sensation for you. It is going to take at least six weeks before you can drive. You have lost basic situational awareness skills.

Your body still is figuring out what the hell you just did to it. The key is two-fold; 1) Make sure that you’ve got somebody with you. 2) Start slow, Drive around the block a couple times. I drove to my office, and I took the back roads. After that I took a longer drive. After about 5 weeks of recovery, I had two wakes and funerals that I wanted to attend. One funeral was in Champaign, IL. a 2 1/2-hour drive to the funeral and a 2 1/2 hour drive back. Could I have made the drive there and back? Candidly, it's questionable whether I could have made the drive there, no less come home. I did go to the other wake about a mile from home. I lasted for part it. Then I had to get home because I started getting tired. Didn't make it to the funeral for that one either. Emotions: A surprise to me is that emotions are something else you have to manage. You're going to go through a whole lot of different emotions. When I was released from the hospital, I cried. I’m man enough to admit to that. I was just so happy to be coming home alive and with the Love Goddess. Then I thought about my close friend Fr Stacey, who died of an unknown/undiagnosed heart issue. If he would have had the stress test was all I could think about. Then, somewhere in the recovery process, I got hurled a curve ball. It’s a blue funk, not a purple rain. More like a depression. You will be dealing with this frequently it’s not just the body that is healing, but so is your psyche, and brain. I should note, I have a boss, King Jeffrey, who looked out after me. If I still owned my own business, or King Jeffrey abandoned me, I would have stressed totally about what happens next, how do I find a job, how do I service my clients, how do I service my wife, etc.? That was removed. 

# 04 Routine: 

Trying to find a routine is difficult. Why? Because everything is new, right? You can't drive a car right away. You have to go to cardiac rehab to slowly build up your stamina. And even when your stamina is getting built back up, you're nowhere near 100%. Going through all these things, your brain is just all over the place. It’s hard to focus, my advice is to set simple goals and build. It will happen at your pace. It’s impossible to rush this, just like the Blackhawks rebuild.

#05 Chest Pain: 

One of the things that you're trying to deal with, is, that if you have a pain, or an ache, that is above your elbows and around your chest area, you have to figure out: A) is it a routine recovery pain, or B) is it the end of the world as I know it. When this occurs, I can tell you now, typically you've probably either stressed your chest a little bit or you lifted something too heavy and the muscles are pulling. Remember, they cracked your chest open, paralyzed all your internal organs with some kick-ass drugs
that killed Michael Jackson (that was not a Thriller), and pinned back your shoulders so far they could almost touch. Kalii Ma from Indiana Jones doing your surgery without the whiny kid who almost ruined the whole movie. 

#06 The body is amazing!

It repairs itself, but takes a long time. You have no control over that yet you're feeling this pain and they just worked on your chest and you're freaking about every little thing. Justifiably so! When you come home, the hospital gives you a pillow to put on your chest. You're like “ohh, that's kind of goofy”. Quickly you learn, that little pillow killed a lot of pain. If you laugh, or sneeze, the pain is pretty big. All these questions and things happening are new. You've never experienced these things before. Breathe, otherwise you're just going to get more depressed. Trying to get back to work, and do everything that you were doing before is only going to lead to exhaustion. I can flat out tell you that it took me a full 12 months to get back to normal. The nice thing is, I had some friends that went through the same thing, we compared notes, and believe me, that shared information was helpful. If you're reading this and you ever need to talk, find me and we'll talk. 

#07 Well Meaning Dipshit Thoughts: No, I don’t feel better 5 days after surgery 

Immediately after the surgery, people ask, “Hey, I heard after you have that surgery, you're supposed to feel better.” I can tell you that's true, 12 months later. I can also tell you that is absolutely not true two days after. You just feel like you got your ass kicked. It’s like the Mike Tyson Boxing game. The surgeons body blowed you to death, just like you have to do to beat Mike Tyson. Body blow, body blow, body blow. You're trying to recover, and you have all these questions, and somebody says, “Ohh, you're going to feel better.” Yeah, I'm going to feel better I'm sure, but not today. They just ripped my chest open and sewed it back with stainless steel. How do you think that feels? It's a laugh riot, that's how it feels. I want to tell everybody out there that meets somebody who has surgery; Do not ask them if they feel better right after the surgery, because they don't. Ask them how is their energy? The Cubs still suck, things that are easier to answer. 

#08 Lifestyle Changes: 

No frickin’ way do you want to do this again. You may have had a top notch team like me, but you never want to see them again. Change your diet! Make sure you go to a low sodium diet. Cut down on your caffeine, like two cups daily. Focus on eating better. I still can’t believe my dad had Kentucky Fried chicken after they put his stents in. Mom was like “Chicken is good for you!” Get active. You need a workout right? You can't work out like you did before. That adjustment is touch but cardiac rehab is such a big help. Walking or biking is easy. The bottom line is you gotta do something. Not doing anything is a recipe for going back. No Cigar Smoking! This hurt the most, by the way. I had to stop cigar smoking Now the doctor did tell me that I could have like a cigar once a quarter. I see that as a total 4 times a year. Which is cool, but the bottom line is is that I enjoy the social aspects of cigar smoking just as much as I enjoy a cigar. Probably more. For me, it meant giving up a social part of my life that I really enjoy, the people at the cigar bar where I would hang out on occasion. I don't get to see them anymore. I can’t hang out there, the second hand smoke is just as bad as if I'm smoking. I want to live, that's been a big change. I can’t even just go in the backyard and light up. 

#09 Communicate With Your Partner: Making sure that you communicate with your significant other, and family. One of the things that happens after the surgery is that you get a sense of urgency to everything. The doctors and nurses were quick to say that they've added 25 years to my life. That's awesome and I am thankful. Then I realize that that 25 years is starting today. In fact, I'm down to 24 years now. There's things that I want to do that if I don't do, in the next 5 to 10 years, I'll never get to do them. So. I'm figuring out how to do these things and planning out what I wanna do. Now the problem is your spouse, or significant other is not at the same place. Which means you're given a choice. Either you slow down and wait for her or him. Come to an understanding of what the pace needs to be. The alternative is that you leave. In the first blog that my mom used to talk about how men would leave their spouses after they had open heart surgery. I totally get it now, if I didn't love my wife and if I didn't wanna be with her. Even if there was a question. Then. I can see how easily it would be. To walk. I'm not justifying the men that do that. Everybody has their own decisions to make. I can tell you that the sense of urgency and knowing your mortality is right in front of you changes your perspective on everything.

#10 Centering Your Life: 

Hence, centering your life is really important. More prayer, more meditation, more both. It's getting a handle on everything that is going on around you. In managing it in a way that you can figure out. When I was working at United Airlines, I worked with a woman named Barb. And Barb would say. If we don't get this done today, planes will not fall out of the sky. I gotta say, that's one of those things that stayed with me for a very long time. If you're feeling rushed, or different, or whatever. Manage it, because a plane is not gonna fall out of the sky. (Unless you are pilot). You can wait and things will work out. I'm still navigating new waters and trying to figure everything out. All these new sensations, clarity and morality sword of Damocles hanging over my head all combine for a next chapter, make sure you write it!

The Jimmy Open Heart Experience

Sorry you haven’t heard from me lately, but I flunked a “routine test”. In 1984, this was routine. Once I figured out how my teachers graded, like Herr Kroedel’s Life & Thought Of Martin Luther’s “Multiple Guess Final” which was just a single essay question, I was golden. Plus, I’ve flunked a test before. I crammed 18 credit hours into 2.5 weeks in college. I received a C+ average AFTER the mandatory letter grade reductions. BAM!

Real life at 61 doesn’t work like that. This was a stress test. Now if you’re my friend, you already know that you’re stressed just to know me, and I get that. However, what I didn’t know, is that I can really stress myself out. No looking back. There is no second semester to the stress test that I can suddenly pass. It’s one and done. Thoughts went from not passing the test, to being admitted to the emergency room, to getting quadruple bypass surgery. This is the story of that or at least trying, to sort it out.

WTF, Are You Serious, Okay, let’s Beat This

After the stress test, the nurse, ‘Echo Diane’ (that’s how she answered her phone) said the cardiologist wanted to talk. I am a genial guy, I like to talk about virtually anything, like bunny repellant, great, let’s talk, it’s routine. Dr. Das, the cardiologist, came to talk to me. Immediately things became more real. He walked in and said, “Jimmy we need to check out if this is a false positive, if it is and there's nothing more to do.” Translation, “Jimmy we are going to do an angiogram.” Then, Dr Das said, “if we have to do something, we'll add some stents.” I said “OK”. No big surprise here, I’m not known for being a bastion of great health, cool. Then Dr. Das said if it's worse, he has to go back to his toolbox and see what we need to do. That's when he said typically it would be open heart surgery. I didn't think much of the open-heart surgery because my mom, dad, uncle all have stents or had stents. I know it was routine, I'd be fine. Let’s do the angiogram move forward.

I did a mini-interview with Dr. Das. He had a sense of urgency, but I don’t have an official cardiologist yet. I need to vet him. It turns out we are both alumni of Thomas Jefferson Middle /Junior High School and Valparaiso High School. We are separated by 22 years, but that is good. I then asked where he went to undergraduate school. He answered Indiana University. I asked him if he colored between the lines on the hearts in the coloring book, he laughed, I laughed, then I asked him if he left deep gashes in the table and he responded no. I knew I had a great cardiologist: younger than me, educated in the US, American born, laughs at my jokes…he’s in!

I get the angiogram. I am trying to get my neck turned so I can watch. I figured it to be like Miss Pacman, going after all that plaque and stuff. Dr. Das is young enough to excel at Ms. Pacman and Call of Duty, I’m feeling good. Alas, I couldn’t watch. Afterwards Dr. Das tells me that everything is all clogged up and we are scheduled for Thursday open heart surgery. I said the “widow maker too?” Dr. Das that was an outdated term, but yes, it was 100% clogged. I’m outdated to it all made sense to me.

“Put your head down, suck it up, and get through it.” Coach John Cook on life and beating brain cancer.

And that's when my brain really started to race, actually, my whole body started to race. Suddenly, my life was Miami in a New York Minute. The first thought was WTF. I came in for a routine stress test and next thing you know I'm being admitted to the hospital. I thought, “are you serious?” I asked the doctor; can I go home and kind of sort this out? Dr. Das said no, that's not what I would tell you to do. I said, “Well, what would you tell your parents?” He said I would tell them to get the surgery as soon as possible.

Such candor is really appreciated. I want to know what my doctor would tell his parents to do. Maybe I should ask first if he likes his parents. Maybe he does want his parents gone, and he'd have them take the surgery because he knew he'd take them out. We could watch it on Lifetime, or Netflix, over the holidays. However, I'm going to go with the fact that he still gets along with his folks pretty well. He’s a good kid, we established that earlier.

The next thought, WTF, are you serious? After thinking about that for 17 seconds, my mind went to, “alright, what's our plan of attack?” I needed to block out interference, focus on what needs to be done. I settle in on, “OK, let's go right after this.” There is no feeling sorry for myself. I could tell you 1000 things I could have done different from 1980 to 2024 but doesn't matter. That’s what got me here, it won’t move me forward. My focus became: 1) how do I come home to my wife, 2) how do I see my family and friends, 3) how do I continue to work? Those are the things that are spinning in my mind, sometimes not in that order and at the same time. I listened, and read, every piece of information that the hospital had on open-heart surgery. Notice that I did not go search the Internet. In fact, I called Alexis, then I called work, then I notified immediate family, and then sent a group text out to close friends. Then I ditched my phone and got ready.

Life Happens On Its Own Schedule

My brain was, “I want to go home” Me, “I can’t. Your heart is clogged up…like totally.” Brain, How is your blood flowing now?” Me, “It added some capillaries for blood flow. It’s not like the time you thought your brains were going to come flowing through your nose.” In 2004 I had a cyst on my optic nerve. The doctor explained to me that the cyst was rubbing away at my skull. Evidently my eyes must have opened up as wide as the Mississippi river. The doctor said, don't worry your brain isn't going to come flowing through your nose, which is exactly what I was thinking at the time. Evidently, you've got a ring of something that keeps your brain all in one place. I figured OK this won't be that bad.

However, no matter how hard your body tries to compensate in “protect you” mode, it can only do so much when it comes to your heart. While this may work on both an emotional and physical level, my focus is on the physical level. I need this heart to work so I can do other things, like live. I can't go home and buy some WD40 and Lube myself up. (I know lubing myself up sounds strange but it kind of works here). I must get my heart working. That was my key. Fortunately for me, the hospital had a video, on channel 97, that seemed to play every hour about open heart surgery. Interesting thing was, I think the video was shot in 1978. The video itself is super grainy, and the people featured were at least 15 years my senior (for those of you that went to IU, that means older than me). The video wasn't all that good in terms of quality, but it did walk me through every step of what to expect. The hospital also had a little packet, stabled on the top left corner, that walked through what to expect. That preparation made me feel confident. It got me in the exact right mindset. It also helped calm me down for what to tell my beautiful bride, who put up with me, and is still putting up with me through recovery.

Me & God

This whole experience puts a lot of things in perspective. If you go through major surgery like this, you can't help but think about the existence of God. Now I know that some people will think about the existence of God and reject it. In fact, my mom used to think that every man that got bypass surgery suddenly would leave their wives. She did have proof. In a strange way, I totally understand that. Because your mortality is right in front of you, staring at you in the face. You can’t run. It forces you to evaluate, reevaluate every existential question about life. And in the end, you are either going to reaffirm your belief or reject your belief. In my case it was easy to reaffirm my belief in God. I didn’t blame Him. It just is.

My local parish priest, Fr. Anthony had offered to come and give me communion/confession. Candidly, in trying to stoke, or build up my mental capacity, and prepare for the operation, I told him to stay home. For whatever reason, at that moment, I thought it was the last rites. Fr. Anthony is a great guy, I was still processing. I slept on it and prayed. I realized that if I'm praying, I need to integrate God into this situation more. My good friend, Fr. John came and visited me. He’s my elder by 3 months. He made me laugh, gave me confession and communion. It was pretty funny because my surgeon walked in and saw us laughing and praying. He was taken aback at how hard we were laughing. Father John was a godsend literally. He put my head in the right place that had me focused and ready spiritually.

Getting in the right state of mind for me was imperative. It had to include a boatload of prayers. When contemplating your mortality, I thought of what I would leave behind. I couldn't totally visualize my funeral, but I could visualize Alexis alone. That was heartbreaking. We have much more life to live together. Then I thought about Anna Banana, Tri-Tri and Big Baby Dean. How I desperately want to travel with them, and they would barely know me if I just went now. It was almost suffocating.

One of the interesting things in the prayer that Fr. John said on my behalf was, he thanked God for revealing the technology for bypass surgery. He then prayed that He guides the surgeon's hands to take full advantage of that technology God had revealed to us. This doesn't mean that God invented bypass surgery. He revealed it, and the surgeon could do it. (I mean, let's face it, if we can choose miracles from God that I could use every day, it'd be the water to wine thing. In fact, to be more specific I would say water to Sangiovese wine.) I thought a lot about God revealing and guiding hands dichotomy. Fr. John and I talked about how this is a synergy between me and God. That I will pray, and do the best that I can, and know that God's grace will be with me. I can only do so much. I need a team that can help save me. That was and is my blessing.

The actual surgery part

The surgery went off without a hitch, I guess, because I was out of it the whole time. My research without the internet paid off. I woke up intubated, moved my fingers, and went back to sleep. They vacuumed my insides, then decided to let me wait, and vacuum me again. I guess I should have had Doctor Hoover because it sucked so much (that was a reach). Finally, Brian the nurse removes the tube. They asked me to say my name, and I responded like Froggy from the Little Rascals and say “Jimmy”.  

Evidently, Morphine is my friend. When I finally woke up, the medical team asked me how I would rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10. I answered 4. Which was true. It felt like I was pinned against the wall by my 2017 black jeep Cherokee named Mavrodaphne. It didn’t really hurt. Thanks Morphine! Then, when I was talking to Lexie and Billiam, I closed my eyes for like a milli-second, suddenly I saw a bright, white, glossy golf card, with the outline of the holes 10 across with different colors. Then, to my surprise, they started spiraling into a whirlpool in the middle of the card. Thanks Morphine! That evening, I could feel the bed sway left and right, while a little electric pulse was zapping me, to get the blood flowing. Nurse Karen would reset the bed into twisty mode every now and then. When that finished, the black laser cutter, straight out of Star Trek: the Next Generation, borrowed from the Borg, was on my left side. I asked Karen, the singing Filipina nurse, when I could move my head. She giggled and I woke up, Thanks Morphine!

However, Day 3 was the worst. Tubes are attached to your chest. They sort of dangle, and every movement is torture. The only time I swore was when I asked Tom, part of my Cabbage Team, when the tubes were coming out. “They hurt like a Mofo”, I said. They would come out within 24 hours. No more morphine. Thanks for nothing morphine.

I am Farticuss. The Great Fartipotimus!

The next thing that I wanted to get accomplished was to have bowel movement. It is important because your colon is paralyzed during surgery. Bowel movement meant go home sooner. Unfortunately, my body wasn’t ready to give up a bowel movement on my schedule. I wound up becoming the great Farticus, leader of all the men who needed to have bowel movement. Here it is I would think, and yet, all I could do is just let out a small fart, every trip to the toilet. It felt like I was prairie dogging for 48 hours. It was crazy. Then, out of nowhere, the shape of a glacier in Scotland exited my hairy anus. I can’t remember when I’ve ever been so happy to release such a gelatinous glob of happiness.

 If you have any vanity, it’s gone the second you get into the hospital. I was amazed at how quickly I was humbled. If you had told me in 1982 that I would have had 30 women handle me, I would’ve told you that’s just a good start. Instead, reality means that I have no bladder control. The Lasix they gave me basically triggered a bladder response every time I sneezed, or coughed, or thought about Isabella Rosellini, I had to pee. The bigger issue, the hospital has tools to aid a man, but, as a man, imagine being poolside, naked in Siberia. My male parts have withdrawn so far backwards I now have a tail. Essentially, I am stuck with an open gate. It was horrible, embarrassing and the staff was awesome. No one complained. The second night, night nurse Karen, the precocious singing Filipina, must have had my call button burned into her head. Every 28 minutes, I was buzzing her so I could go potty. Then, I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, even at close range. That means I needed people to help clean up. The nurses told me that this goes on all the time, that’s part of what a nurse does. And that’s awesome. It was just embarrassing. And the staff never let me feel bad about it. So goodbye vanity, hello humility.

 

My Kickass Team

 

Dr. Chris Konstantelos

I start here first with Dr. Chris because he’s a dynamic doctor. He does seriously care about me. I’ve been spending the last year Reframing different parts of my life. For instance, last year I stopped drinking for about 60 days, and pretty much continued the moderation habit of having a drink or two on an occasion, but certainly not at rates of earlier years. The next part is trying to get food back in order. I’ve been struggling but doing slightly better. Third was working out. This is where I had a routine doctor appointment with Dr. Chris. He was unhappy with everything that I was telling him about wanting to work out. I was getting some chest pain but I didn’t think much of it. I pointed out that I was old. He said, “Jimmy, I need you to get a stress test. I don’t want what happened to your friend, that Priest (Fr Stacey Richter) who died, happen to you. I need you to be healthy and we need to follow up on these things. So that’s what I did. I scheduled all these tests that need to get done, and by the way are covered by my fine insurance company. Dr. Chris, and Fr. Stacey, saved my life. I’m eternally grateful.

My Coronary Artery Bypass Grafting CABG team.

Pronounced "cabbage", this team rocked and worked like a well-oiled machine. They told me what to expect. Walked me through everything and were always optimistic. They answered every question with patience, and sometimes twice. Quick note, morphine can make you forget. Part of being on Team Jimmy is a sense of humor. They all had a sense of humor, or at least they laughed at my jokes publicly. From Dr. C, the surgeon, to Tom G (a Sox fan to boot) and close to my age, Daniel, and Dr. Nicole (part Greek and great disposition) I always knew I was in good hands. I had the best cabbage patch kids anyone could ask for. I am in no hurry to see them in a formal capacity again lol.

 

The symphony of ICU nurses

To me, and this is personal, the ICU is the toughest place to be in the hospital. Especially if you're the patient or visiting a patient. I vividly remember being in the ICU for my dad. I remember the gunshot wounds of the people they were bringing in and how we had to kind of avoid the warring parties. Probably one of the most priceless things I've ever heard, or overheard, was a family that said, and I quote, “I am pretty sure that it is premeditated when you drove over the body the second time. Throwing the car in reverse into reverse was premeditated murder.” While I was in the ICU I didn't have to hear anything that bad. But I did hear a family fight. I do know that the nurses we're trying to calm down a person who pulled their intubating tube, then subsequently punched the nurse, and I do know of a horrible construction accident that was tended to in a room near mine. Unfortunately, the nurses also had to tend to my needs for going to the bathroom. In this was a frequent occurrence. If Karen couldn't help, someone else stepped up and came to help me. When one nurse was working with somebody, or two nurses were working with somebody, another nurse stepped up and took that person's place. It was like a ballet where everybody weaved in and out, and it was seamless to the audience. I use the word ballet purposely because there were technical things going on, and not once did you notice anybody that stood out because they all stood out. I remember thinking this every night that I was in the ICU.

Billiam Mullin

Billiam Mullin and I have been friends for 30 years. He is 10 years and two months older than me. He has been like a big brother. We have gone through births, deaths, weddings, graduations, job changes, and the like together. At the beginning of the year, we had a disagreement to the point I wasn’t sure where our friendship was headed. I was in KC, where he lives, and I picked up the phone. I felt we should talk. I am glad that I did. It was choosing love over being pissed. 30 years is a long time, and why waste all that emotional investment. Upon hearing I was in the hospital, Billiam felt the need to come visit. It was great for a few reasons. First, he was my big brother, he would be a great comfort to Lexie and me, and finally something else. Billiam and I had a chance to talk. I told him to get a stress test. It’s just a good idea. Billiam would have his open heart, double bypass surgery two weeks later. That trip to see me likely saved his life.

Saint Alexis

My awesome bride Alexis, captain of Team Jimmy, biggest cheerleader, and coordinator. She has been great at being a nice Nurse Ratchet. She needs a spa day! I also know she needs to have a good cry because this has been so hard on her. I’m pretty helpless at the moment and she is taking charge and moving us forward. I thank God every day for her. I’ll just leave this here for right now.

 My 1^st Pro Soccer Game – 9 thoughts

Saturday, I went to a Sporting KC Soccer game, my first pro soccer game, and it was fun. I grew up watching Dick Butkus, who killed ducks with an elbow shiver when he was retired. He played football. Soccer, European Football, I thought could be violent. It was different. I had to adjust though because of the following 9 things.

1. It’s always family day. Maybe it’s the venue, the vibe, but KC has a fun and safe space. Tons of families and everyone was polite. I grew up watching the Blackhawks on Maddison, and the Bears at Soldier Field. Fights could break out on the ice, on the field or in the stands. We had to stuff my little brother, Johnny the only child, under the seats during a spectator brawl in a 1976 Blackhawks game. You would weave a blanket of cuss words about the referees' grandchildren progeny. Dad would be disappointed if we didn’t yell for our team like that, just don’t tell mm. Heck, mothers are at these soccer games. I wanted to yell at Gareth Bale, a Welsh soccer player for the loathed LA, not galaxy, opponents like “Even the sheep in Cardiff aren’t scared of you.” Or “A man Bun does not make you a man.” Best I could do without offending anyone was “Your mother wears combat boots.” Which, in 1978, was pretty meaningful, not a smart fashion choice like today.
   
   
2. Flopping Players. Soccer players flop more than a school of drunken porpoises in a kiddie pool. Guys go down at the potential of a touch. They make LeBron look like Barishnikov. Not only is it annoying, but it obfuscates when guys are actually hurt. There was a head on collision that knocked both men out. That was no flop, it was real contact.
   
   
3. Refs don’t wear stripes. They wear dayglow orange. They were allowed work release from the
   KC Hank Stram Correctional Facility and had to keep their work clothes on.
   
   
4. Consistent Calls. This could be 3A, but the refereeing was not consistent. Famous Baseball umpire, Nestor Chylak, may have had a strange inside left strike zone, but it was always consistent. As a newbie, I figured I’d struggle, but when fans would notice, I felt comforted when fans were just as confused.
   
   
5. Perpetual Clock. These kids are athletes. They are constantly moving. The clock never stops, no time outs for anything. Just play until the work release team in Dayglow Orange tells you to stop. My first player I became a fan of was Logan Nbende, I called him “Cool Breeze” he was getting the ball, perpetually running, showing little emotion, just seemed to be in all the right places. Then there was #7 Johnny Russel, definitely a hockey player in soccer player clothes. He essentially beat the crap out the guy trying to take the ball from him in the offensive side corner. I need a pint with that boy, it would be fun. Finally, “Zito Hellas!” to my Greek Brother #27 Tzonis.
   
   
   
6. We lost our goalie because of a cheap shot. A lot of hockey references here, like shouldn’t that area by the goal be like the crease, and shouldn’t we have had a benches clearing brawl with blood in the soil, and it’s soccer. Everyone was way too polite. Then, like hockey, the put the new goalie and isolate him, poor guy never had a chance.
   
   
7. Yellow Card System. Not sure what constitutes a yellow card, but I like it! It’s “You’ve been a bad, bad, boy card, and we are going to call your mother right now!” Then they get a card for being a total dork too often and get thrown out. YES! I think a 5-minute time-out for the player…in a penalty box without a replacement could amp scoring too. Also, Substitutes wear ugly tank tops to remind everyone they are not good enough to start. That seemed kind of mean spirited to me.
   
   
8. Offsides. Finally, thank you Matt, somebody explained offsides. I actually watched the side ump in relation to the ball. I understood offsides, like icing, it helped. Still would have liked a blue line but I get it now.
   
   
   
9. The People! Everyone I came across was super, super nice. The young ladies that sold me my t-shirt, scarf and soccer ball were great. I now am building KC Sporting nook in my basement. I just need autographs on the ball to go with my Bears, Blackhawks and yes, Hank Stram era signed memorabilia.
   

6 Will Smith Oscar Fight Thoughts

 

6 Will Smith Oscar Fight Thoughts

1. Jada Pinkett Smith can stand up for herself.
   I like her. I think she’s an intelligent, beautiful actress and, yes, I have watched her show the Red Table. She is strong. Arguably, she could have landed a better punch. Bottom line, it was her fight, not her husband’s. She was obviously upset, but she doesn’t need Will Smith fighting her fights.
   
   
2. Will Smith sucker slapped/punched Chris Rock.
   Please don’t justify a cheap shot. It still failed. The fact it happened on an international stage, on what should be the happiest night of Will Smith’s life, makes it even worse. Additionally, Chris Rock is the smaller man, didn’t take up boxing to support an acting role and wasn’t protected. The fact that Chris Rock has an iron jaw came in handy as he didn’t go down.
   
   
3. Chris Rock is a comedian.
   He is paid to take those shots. Regina Hall felt up men on stage, alluded to Jada Pinkett Smith’s entanglements, and people kind of laughed and no action. Imagine if Chris Rock had done that joke. He is an edgy comedian.  Whether he knew about her alopecia, understood the brewing anger after taking shots at Smiths’ in the past, or he simply misread the audience, he gets paid to say that type of stuff. He can certainly be more caustic and funnier. The Oscars was a swing and a whiff.
   
   
4. Will Smith just reinforced a horrible stereotype.
   I turned to my bride Alexis and good friend Trudi and said as much right when the incident happened. My friend Cullen is right about the reinforcement of the angry black men stereotype. Broadcaster Stephen A Smith said it best “..he just stained the greatest moment of his career. You cannot do that S$&@!!Especially as a BLACK MAN, in that position, to ANOTHER BLACK MAN(@chrisrock) on THAT STAGE.”
   Toxic Masculinity, standing up for your wife, or immaturity, regardless there is no justification. It is a stain on Will Smith. Chris Rock will be membered for telling a bad joke then getting sucker punched. It will be part of his monologue by the end of the week.
   
   
5. Spin Machine:
   The commentators all talked about how Denzel Washington and Tyler Perry comforted, or settled down, Will Smith. What we didn’t see was Will Smith’s publicist talking to him at the commercial break. Damage control, spin the image, recovery, and comfort, were the topics of that short conversation. My point is that the Smiths’ have a very crafted image. From open marriage, to entanglements, to TMI from the Red Table they have put themselves in full public view. They are insulated and privileged people. Equating a debatable bad joke as an excuse to protect your family is entitlement. I’m sorry, kick the ass of the guy in the entanglement with your wife, not the comedian. Smith apologized to the Academy, but not Rock. The apology is as hollow as the pipeline in North Dakota.
   
   
6. WWJD – What would Jimmy do?
   My friend Sally made me think, “What would I have done in the same situation?” Great question. Someone makes a joke at my wife’s expense. The joke is public, not funny, and insulting. If I were in my 20s, maybe I launch at Defcon 1. Otherwise, I wait. My first thought was; I would pull the person aside and say “WTF, let’s go outside or go right now. Either way we settle this now.” Then I started to think, if the joke was at Alexis, she is a strong woman who doesn’t take shit. I would have let her say something from the chair and stopped her from rushing the stage. In the end, it is her fight, I am support

6 Reasons Putin Doesn't Care

 Jimmy Dee Greek Is Upset!!

Zero, wrong, godless, ignorant and we shouldn’t be surprised. The naked aggression of Vladimir Putin into the Ukraine is horrific and expected. Here are 6 reasons why:

1) Putin is soulless:  He said he found God a while back. Well, it’s safe to say, Vlad lost him. What God fearing person, or person of any faith, acts like Vlad, a ruthless killer. The head of the Russian Church, Patriarch Kyril, is just his lacky. (A tough pill for me to swallow as I am an Orthodox Christian.) The church is a tool for Vlad to control the faithful, and Kyril is simply an enabler. Vlad’s soul is darker than my coffee, and that’s saying something.

2) Putin was head of the KGB. Putin was a member of the KGB (now the FSB which I think stands for Friendlier Soviet Beatings), the soulless secret police for 80 years in Russia. We think he cares about feelings, trigger warnings, or humanity? He craves absolute power over whatever he thinks belongs to him. That means Ukraine!

3) The war is too slow: Speed is not an issue. It’s westerners projecting how they think Putin should feel. Back to rule 1, he’s soulless, doesn’t care how many people will die, whether they are Russian or Ukraine. 

4) Vlad is scared of no country: The West has ceded everything to him since the year 2000. Chechnya, Georgia, Crimea and now Ukraine. NATO did nothing. The world said, “You’re mean, stop that!” and Putin moved forward. He was the head of the freaking KGB. No one has stood up to him. He's routinely tried to poison heads of state who don’t agree with him. The west’s response?  Crickets. Official memos of censure and condemnation do not count. At least not to Vlad. The world is outraged, and we will impose economic sanctions. The US sanctions won’t start till June of 2022. Ouch, but he won’t care. People are expendable in Putin’s war. Russia will, at whatever cost, destroy. Sanctions will hurt the Oligarchs, but they have no leverage over Vlad. His biggest disappointment is that he can no longer get a McDonald’s McBorscht Half Kilo-Burger with Tvorog. He will improvise.

5) The BOMB is in play. If Vlad drops the bomb tomorrow, what will be the Western response. Will we invade Russia? No. Will the West nuke Russia back? No. Will we impose sanctions? Yes, and Vlad will still not be able to get a contraband McBorscht Half Kilo-Burger with Tvorog. He knows there are no repercussions to his actions.

6) Who will stand against Vlad? Rhetoric, sanctions and clever memes are good for morale, but they do not beat boots on the ground. Poland is justifiably freaking out because they border Ukraine. What’s to stop Vlad from going south. Until NATO and the European Union put troops on the border, enforce a no-fly zone and put up a buffer, then Vlad marches on. I don’t like using Hitler comparisons, but here, it is apropos. The West appeased Hitler until half of Europe was gone. We are doing that now. Ask Poland what they think.

Mom, in her words

PREFACE:
This will be the first Mother's Day without mom. Very strange, but her memory, and impact, will always be with me and my brother Johnny. As we cleaned out my parents house, I came across the memoirs she had written on her computer. She thought they would be lost. Mom was all in on motherhood, and in the process, became Super Mom, always putting family first. I came across this anecdote. Johnny and I both remember the day pretty well. Please enjoy and think of a different time and the sacrifices our Moms made for us.

My Political Run

Maria J Bratsakis

It was a rather dark, gloomy and rainy day as I was cleaning up my kitchen washing the breakfast dishes looking forward to finishing up quickly, so I could sit have a cup of coffee and read the paper. The house was quiet when the telephone rang and interrupted my thoughts on how I was going to approach my full day of activities after my morning coffee.

Hello, the voice at the other end said, is this Maria Bratsakis?  I answered yes, he continued with a question that surprised me.  The caller first identified himself as being our precinct committee man Danny (Name changed) and that he had just finished with a meeting where my name was proposed to run as councilman representing our district.

Total silence ensued from my end. I was flabbergasted to say the least and quite honored but puzzled why my name would come up out of the blue as I had never had any political aspirations. To make a long story short, Danny offered his explanation as to why; he then continued reviewing their reasons such as my leadership in the various community endeavors my work at the University, and the fact that I had name

recognition and waited for a response.

I told him I would have to talk to my husband and children and think seriously on this offer and let him know in the morning.

I quickly called my husband John at work “You will never guess who I just heard from” I said in a rather excited voice. John asked who and I told him about the Precinct Committee man who asked if I was interested in running for public office. Total silence at the other end.

Hello, Hello, is anyone there? I thought the phone had died.  After several seconds a very somber low and loud voice (Johns) asked what did you tell him? I repeated my answer and John said I’ll see you when I get home. He didn’t offer any kind of congratulations, no “atta girl” comment, nothing. I knew clearly, he was not a happy camper about the prospect.

When our sons arrived from school, I was preparing dinner. I asked them about their day and then told them, with much trepidation, about my surprise phone call, anticipating a less than happy reply. Was I surprised! Both boys thought this was awesome. They would canvas the neighborhoods, and ask all of their friends to help. They would also marshal the forces, meaning my friends, to get the word out.

Next, I called my dear friend Bernie. “Super!” she replied, "I will be your campaign manager, when do we start?" Then I called my Dad in Chicago. “Hi Dad. You will never guess what kind of a phone call I got today,” I said, thinking I would get a quiet response. Instead I got a rousing, “That’s great! I’m proud of you”. I think the next thing he did after we hung up was run to the Hallmark store to buy the card I received the next day that said “Congratulations”. Dad loved politics and had long thought more women should be involved. Never thinking I would be asked to join the arena, I’m sure.

Now it was time after dinner to discuss the phone call, or so I thought. John seemed ready, as did our boys, but the they had different answers as I vividly recall. I repeated what I had said to the caller and John’s succinct reply was – “of course you will tell him NO!” The boys looked at me, their eyes pleading, say it isn’t so, you won’t say NO!

There you have it, need I say more? The next morning, I called the committee man and told him that I was not interested in running, thanking him for bringing this option to me. I made my decision on the fact that, yes, John would be unhappy, but just as importantly, I did not have the thick skin required to be in the political arena.

My sons thought I had “wimped out”, but I knew if I wanted to keep my happy marriage, my home life serene, and not embark on a venture I had never considered, I had made the right decision. I have never regretted my decision. 

I applaud the women who have the courage to leap into politics. As I look around me today and see women on both sides of the political spectrum, they pay a price for wanting to serve their constituents. All manner of privacy is gone, family comes second or even last right before them at the bottom of the ladder. The double standard still exists not at sharply defined as before but, it’s still there none the less. 

Who knows, maybe my granddaughter Anna or even my great granddaughter, will run for office. I will be cheering them on no matter what the decision because: They made the choice! when offered.

9 Thanks for Mom

Over the last 2 years, or 104 weekends, I have spent at least 85 weekends in an ER, Hospital Room, or Skilled Nursing Facility with my parents. That’s about 81% for you stat geeks. (Johnny has spent a boatload of time here, too) Dad’s journey ended a year ago March and Mom’s journey is slowly making a turn. Today, November 20^th, I checked her into VNA Hospice in Valpo. I know that many of you have been on similar journeys, and for more time. It’s arduous, taxing, draining and a host of other adjectives. It would be easy to dwell in the cellar of despair, but Mom will have no despair. While I have no idea when Mom begins her next journey, her journey here is on the horizon, going away. I know that I am thankful for a lifetime of her generosity. The blog is focused on what I am thankful for, from my Mom. I will read this to Mom sans any gallows humor I have inserted.

1. Giving Me A Little Brother: Mom has given me a lot of things, but my life would be less without Johnny. Mom made sure that we looked out for each other and for 53 years we have been side-by-side. Evidently at the age of two, I took the Sears wishbook and dialed the number, and tried to order a brother from the kid’s section. While I’m sure Dad contributed, I got the coolest brother. This doesn’t mean we don’t fight (we are boys, duh) but never step between us, just ask poor Andy who we ran over with my Purple Ranger and Johnny’s Orange Crate bikes after he tried to broker peace. That’s all Mom. I am so thankful for a priceless gift of a younger brother.
2. Love of Music : She exposed me to so much music and it is part of the tapestry that is Maria Bratsakis. Every colorful thread of that tapestry reflected into me. She put up with me playing tuba while I learned “Misty” for her and dad. She got Dizzy Gillespie, the Joffrey and a host of other great acts to our little hamlet of Valparaiso. She showed up to every concert and supported me through auditions, regardless of result. She also went to wrestling matches and football games, although I don’t think she looked while we were wrestling. I am so thankful for a song in my heart…or earworm…that I have everyday.
3. Love of Art: Mom had mad art skillz!. When were in Cooks Corners Elementary, mom would draw silhouettes of all the neighborhood kids and cut them out on black construction paper, then she would glue the silhouette to white paper. Very Victorian but way cool. She wasn’t just limited to silhouettes, she would do colored pencil drawings too. While she was part of a zillion art initiatives, she got focused on the new art museum at Valparaiso University. Eventually, she would develop the same sort of cynicism I had: VU leadership. Her team got the Dick Brauer Museum built and it still stands today. Mom would show me art books (the Andrew Wyeth one being the most impactful), introduce me to various types of art, along with Aunt Janet Sullivan (Jan’s Art Barn Janet) and all that just fell over me. My art tastes are more eclectic and Pop than mom’s, yet I am forever thankful for being submerged in such a colorful palate growing up.
4. Big Heart: No one has a bigger heart than my Mom. Regardless of the obstacle thrown in Mom’s way, she somehow finds a way to grow flowers in otherwise infertile ground. Only when her parents died did I see Mom break. In fact, though her propensity to love never faltered, she hasn’t been the same since.
5. Goofy Body: I was born with two feet, two ankles and an ass. When Mom and Dad assembled me, they forgot the legs. Not sure why I’m thankful for that because buying pants for a 26” inseam is really hard…let’s skip that 😊
6. Love of Cooking: Mom is an awesome cook. She would cook traditional Greek, Julia Childs or Irma Rombauer (Joy of Cooking) from the time we were little. Plus, a good old American steak with potatoes and salad was a big hit. It wasn’t just the cooking though, it was the tables. Mom would have the dining room table seasonably decorated and always welcoming. Everyone was invited to the table – especially around the holidays, and our friends who had nowhere to go, or liked Mom’s cooking better, were always invited. I am thankful that her empathy was magnified and communicated through food.
7. Hazel Eyes: Mom gave me hazel eyes, big deal, except that one doesn’t work. I’m thankful that I was brought up where it was never a disability and could never be used for an excuse. It was hard going through school with coke bottle bottom glasses but mom made sure I tried to see only good. Sure, I suck at basketball, I’m 5’10” and Greek, those aren’t genetics for basketball. Today, I am thankful because I only see the colors of life.
8. God and Family: Mom made sure we got to church, except on Pop Warner Football Sundays, and that the faith was a central part of our day. Every morning before school we would face an icon of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus say a prayer. I still use parts of the prayer in my daily life: “Let those who don’t care for me see in the light of those who love me.” And “Keep a still mind and a burning heart…” are still part of my lexicon. I am thankful for the God being at the center of our lives.
9. When I was 5, Mom slipped at the top of the stairs heading to the basement, basically hitting each of the 13 stairs with laundry in her hand as her head smacked the cold, grey cement basement floor which stopped her fall. I stood at the top of stairs, Mom motionless at the base. I grabbed our yellow wall hanging rotary phone, dialed the “O” for operator and told the operator what happened. I then protected the entrance, so Johnny wouldn’t see mom helpless. I waited till help arrived. I am thankful that it took 50 years before I have to stand at another staircase in life over Mom.

King John Story 4: Roasting The Easter Dog

Nothing is as big and fat as Easter in a Greek home. It is the biggest holiday of the year and King John would never disappoint. We would have a small gathering of at least 50 every Easter. Preparation began Holy Week in two phases. Religious and Easter Day. The weekday religious preparations were organized and attended to by Mom. She made sure we got to Wednesday night, Friday afternoon and sometimes night services. Then Dad took over and took us to the 5am Saturday Liturgy and of course the midnight service.

Dad's real focus was Sunday. First, he built a lamb spit that could withstand World War III. He had the guys at the shop cut a 55 gallon barrel in half. Welded 1/4" angle iron supports to the front and back as feet. On the back side, he used the same 1/4" plate to build a platform for the small 2.5 horsepower Emerson motor that  could drive the screws on a Wolf Class nuclear submarine under the arctic circle. That would connect to a 1" solid, stainless rod with a point so sharp, this rod could pierce through one side of an Abrams tank and emerge through the other. Yep, dad was an engineer. It needed at least three, sober, adult men to position into place.

Next, dad would take his Italian side kick, Uncle Rich, and go to see Petros at Diana's Grocery, until it was shut down by the health department. Then it was Nick at the Parthenon Restaurant in Greek Town. The Lamb was all dressed with the requisite oregano, lemon, olive oil and other Greek spices that have been passed down to Greek men since the beginning of thyme. The biggest decision was to leave the head on or off. Yia Yia liked the head and would make soup, so dad would have the head cut off. If Yia Yia wasn't going to be there for some reason, dad kept the head. This was a head on year..... Yia Yia and Papou were in Tulsa.

Sunday morning rolls around and dad gets his posse; Uncle Ferg, a college chemistry prof, and Mr Aungst, a local attorney, neighbors and extended family, to strap the lamb, named Gus this particular year, into the spit that can withstand World War III. This was no easy task. The Posse was up to any task and this was no different. Whether it was gardening and they rototilled over one's thigh and someone had to be the ersatz ambulance driver, or finding a lost child in the woods and carrying him home, or when two kids got busted in a red neck town, you get the picture, this merry band of neighbors could tackle anything. Dad would make them 7% Greek for life and give them immunity to participate in all Greek affairs. Hence, it was a Greek affair. Gus may be a challenge, but the Posse was undeterred. The lamb, though dead, still was greasy from spices and the like. The 1" stainless steel rod was heavier than Gus and had to be rammed through him. I wanted to help, but I was chased off and, in retrospect, glad I was. Once in place, Mr. Aungst made sure the coals were lit, dad flipped the 'on' switch, and Gus was rotating. After that, The Posse would periodically check on the lamb.

This Easter was different. Our backyard had 3.3 neighbors that bordered it. One side was Gary's family. He was a state champion golfer. The Jamesons who left their heart in Sparrow's Point, Baltimore and Theo Ferg's house which took up about 60% of the one side of the backyard. The other 40% was the lot that belonged to my band director, the famous Robert G. Miller.  He and dad were always cordial but I had never seen them hang and talk. This day, Mr. Miller was on my back porch, having a glass of wine with dad. Was my music career over? Had it ever started? Mr. Miller went back home and I went out to check on damage control. Dad said Mr. Miller just came to say "Hi". Then dad and I just gazed at Gus. Johnny joined us.

Gus was spinning slowly, and when the body was perpendicular to the ground, the head, with vacant eyes seeming staring right at you, due to gravity, was parallel to the ground. The head would remain this way until the body would make a quarter turn more, parallel to the patio, and the head would just plop over, resisting gravity to the last moment. Plop.....here it comes.....plop.....repeat. It was slow, mesmerizing and just strange. It went on and on like this for hours. I also noticed something else........Mr. Miller's kids.

Mr. Miller had three kids. They were younger than me, around Jr. High age and younger. They would run up to the border between the Bratsakis/Miller properties and freeze. Just like they had an invisible dog collar on. They stared at Gus with eyes as big as saucers, a look of terror, as if they were facing down Jason and Freddie on Elm Street. They would retreat into the house, reappear, run to the property line, freeze, terror, retreat. This went on all afternoon.

Mr. Miller came back over for another drink and went back home. I asked dad what was going on. Evidently, the Miller's schnauzer had been missing since Friday. Mr Miller told his kids we caught it and were having it for Easter dinner. He had asked my dad not to say anything. Dad happily complied. They thought we were roasting the Easter Dog. It's amazing anyone born in the '60s is alive today.

Gus, the Easter Dog, with  head, lopping back and forth...was awesome. We feasted! We are Greek.

Choosing To Be Happy

 Me, at the helm of good ship "Happy", choosing to be happy and not hit a Cape Fear lighthouse.

Recently I posted a video of a woman dancing in the Charlotte Airport after her flight got messed up. She chose to be happy when it really sucked that she was stuck overnight in the airport. I think this is wise, if not really simple, advice: choose to be happy. In the hurlyburly of life, we forget to stop and smile. Bombarded by e-stimuli, focused on the next waypoint on our life journey, we look forward, squirrel, repeat. Where and why, don't we stop to cherish the moment? Why not take the energy to make the moment positive, and not take a selfie of that moment.

Choosing to be happy does have obstacles. There is a sad maxim right from the get go: "While most don't want to be the squeaky wheel, unfortunately, it seems that squeaky is the only audible level." Get stuck in a line at the airport, where the human condition is at its worst, see who gets attention. I was next to a person who was demanding luggage. She dropped the 4 letter word, "bomb", twice and they serviced her immediately . The polite people in line were overlooked and the woman got her luggage. Flip through the channels, see anyone happy? We see rich/famous, famous for being rich, or a newscaster comparing politicians to Hitler or Stalin with zero context, perpetual righteous indignation over a politicians infidelity when the other side does the exact same thing. Stop....choose to be happy. It's not easy, Shannon, you are right about that. Watch "Remember the Titans" or "Rocky" or "Star Wars" or "Used Cars". Skip Eckhard Tolle, choose George Carlin. Make happier choices. 

It's not easy, especially if you are a kindred, existential, quirky, beatnik spirit like me. Happy doesn't enter the lexicon (sex, debauchery, freedom of the human spirit, and jazz does). However, this year has been the fastest of my life. Although I've had some seismic changes take place, my bride, the Love Goddess, said she hadn't seen me laugh or smile like I have recently in several years. The only thing I can think of is that I have, maybe it's out of necessity, had to stop and make myself laugh. Laughter heals the soul. We choose to let our hearts get buried in the underbrush of the daily crap. We need to tend to the heart, part of that is choosing to be happy. Not a blissfully ignorant, Candide happy, but one where make room for a smile and maybe prayer, meditation or whatever your deity tells you to do. 

For my part, I'm only posting non-political Facebook stuff. I may write a few blogs, but the focus is humor and music. Two things that make me smile. Yeah, the outside world can suck, but I choose to be that bright red Anemone flower in the sidewalk...at least until someone thinks I'm a weed...wait, laugh.

King John Stories 2: The Road Trip...2 dads, 2 brothers

Golf is rich in history and a challenge to play. Dad loved golfing at Valparaiso Country Club. It wasn't so much the game, but rather admittance into the regional royalty that it provided. Dad was competitive, for sure, but it was the fraternity of captains of industry that would congregate at the club that led dad to golf. CEOs, bank presidents, steel company plant managers, and all the rest of the court jesters were at the Club. For dad, it meant arrival. The first kid to get a college degree in the family. His brother was the war hero, dad was the American dream.

My brother Johnny loves to play golf, no matter where, and is also very competitive. As a financial CEO, golf is part of his job. Golf provides Johnny with business access and new friends. He works hard at a single digit handicap and being a great father, husband and brother. His dream was to graduate college, get in a good training program, work his way up the food chain and become a CEO. Mission accomplished! He's as competitive at work as he is at golf.

Doc Nick was my Father-In-Law. He loved to play golf, to get some testosterone balance in his life. He liked golf just to be with 'the guys'. Doc also liked to stir the pot and have a cigarette or 6 in peace. Golf provided Doc that outlet. It's not that he didn't love his wife, but socially, things revolved around her. He gladly enjoyed supporting "Georgia". Even though she forbade his smoking, he loved her and enjoyed relaxing in the sun with her. It's just that he needed the adrenaline and nicotine rush of the fairway, rough or lost ball search.

Me, I love playing golf. I want to be better but, given a choice, I'd rather be on an urban adventure. Work travel dictates certain decisions, play a round of golf or do something with my bride, the Love Goddess. I, unapologetically, choose the Love Goddess. Call me a pussy, if you will, but that's me. I do love the fraternity that is golf. I love the game, the challenges and those moments when I have a good game. I've realized that the only time that I really enjoy golf is when I'm with good friends. I can't golf with strangers. I just want to hang, enjoy the moment and have fun. I want to not suck, too.

Dad, Johnny and Doc represent the most important men to me. I love them all and just want to have fun. In what almost was a tradition, the four of us would play golf on Father's Day. It was fun. The two dads got along great. Dad would tell stories and Doc was an eager audience. Johnny could guide us on the golf course and I could just have fun. The two dads would become kind of smart-assed and obnoxious. Johnny & I were the adults trying to keep the kids in line.

I had just started MCSI and dad wanted to buy my office furniture. He was excited and wanted to help. It was his way of saying he was proud, and after 30 some years of a tempestuous relationship, dad and I had settled into a growing one. I wanted to pay him back for the furniture when I earned the money, but he wouldn't accept. The alternative was to give him a Christmas gift of a golf trip to Hilton Head. It would be the three Bratsakis men and Doc who covered his airfare and was part of the group. Dad's first comment was, "I already belong to a club, why would I want to go play somewhere else?"

Hilton Head had no mystique for dad, it was a place to play golf that was far away, and expensive to boot. Johnny & I convinced dad it would be fun. Begrudgingly, Dad accepted.

We get to Hilton Head and stayed at a Hilton resort. Johnny knew the courses and had us set up to play. Harbor Point was great. It's where they play the RBC Heritage Invitational right after the Masters. The day was cloudy, balmy, and on the cold side, but we had fun. I'm still befuddled how I could duck hook a 3 wood, 150 yards, 130 degrees to the left into the side of a house, just missing a window. That being said, it was a rush to play a championship course. The small greens, the chutes the pros tee off through, the course management and of course, the bonding. It was just us. Boys in one cart, crazy dads in the other. Doc would spend 60 minutes looking for a ball, dad realizing he was on a championship course started feeling the power of the Heritage Plaid Jacket and history of the course. Johnny was blazing away with humongous drives, mostly on the fairway and certainly avoiding peoples' homes. In spite of my below average play, I just loved being with the guys. Hitting up to the 18th, seeing the towering trademark red and white striped lighthouse, shanking my approach into the front trap was great.

Day two was the Arthur Fazio Course. Everyone was psyched to play the luscious, undulating, curvy, green course...was I just thinking of Zoe Saldana?...I digress. The course was beautiful and on our approach, Doc asks me to stop. He is ashen white, as if he had just seen the ghost of his mother-in-law whom he never met. I ask Doc, "what's wrong?".

He replied, "That sign says that we can bit by snakes and eaten by crocodiles. I don't think it's safe."

I reply, "Doc, people golf here all the time and the Arthur Fazio course has had no casualties in, like, the last 100 years. We will be fine! The crocodiles will not eat you, not with a tasty Bratsakis or two, near."

Doc says, "Okay, but if something bad happens, you have to contact your mother-ion-law." Since I didn't wince or flinch externally, he assumed we must be safe and we soldiered on.

As usual, Johnny crushes drive after drive and we get to the third hole. Johnny blasts one on the left part of the fairway and I stripe one straight down the fairway. We play my shot and get to Johnny's lie, which may be in a separate zip code. Suddenly, I'm like where's dad & doc? Johnny replies, "I don't knooooow.........what the shit?"

At that moment we saw both Dad & Doc using there pitching wedges as epee's parrying with imaginary swashbuckling Musketeers Athos & Porthos. We turn around the golf cart to find out what was wrong. As we drew closer dad gleefully looks over his shoulder and says, "We found crocodiles" while continuing his spasmodic fencing of Athos. Doc, then looks over his shoulder, pressing Porthos, and announces, "They're just there, we're trying to get them to move."

 As they pressed the invisible musketeers back, the dads slowly were working their way down a grassy embankment to the water. There, in fact, were two large green/gray crocs, just hanging out. Now Doc had gained a slight lead on dad and imploring the crocs to "dance". The Crocs had no interest in dancing or an early meal. The crocs were just....crocodile rock, staying in place and not moving. John yells at dad to get back, we're playing slow, and they will likely get eaten, which at this point, would have gotten us back to fast paced golf. The dads just stared at us and finally got back to playing golf.

The long weekend was much better than expected and it was time to come home. We get to the airport and our flight is cancelled. The salamander shaped line was long at United check-in. People were yelling at the counter clerk. Dad & Doc got in line, both wearing blazers, nice dress pants and shirt. Johnny & I are in topsiders, Bermuda shorts and a golf shirt, unshaven with our big goatees. We looked like Izod dressed dock workers.

The dads were from the golden age of travel, where people were not a commodity, decorum was part of travel, and the airlines actually appreciated your business. They were not prepared for the modern feeding frenzy of piranha-like customers, hounding the poor counter clerk mercilessly, in line, that felt they were owed, not just a flight, but a million dollars for their inconvenience of standing in line.

Since people had become a commodity in the airline business, the poor ticket people were admirably fighting the fight. John and I knew better. Bratsakis Brothers in action! Johnny tackled the airfare issues, I tackled the car rental. Hertz is ALWAYS reliable. We told the dads we had this and they let us know they knew better, because Father Knows Best. I secured a black Ford Explorer, while John got us tickets out of Charlotte and a hotel room. It was a five hour drive, but it got us off the island, so we were cool.

We went to tell the dads but they were next in line and waived us off. The man in front of them was a Tommy Bahama, orange floral shirt, sandals with white socks and Maui Jim sunglasses wearing, raving lunatic. He yelled so loud, Johnny & I almost jumped in to break him in half, but the dads were there. After the mad diatribe, he got tickets for two days later. The dads were up. They were polite, kind of old man flirty, suave, finished, and left with a grin. Dad, "She had tickets for us to Charlotte with a hotel room. All we have to do is get a vehicle." The two dads were very proud that they had negotiated such a grand settlement. We didn't have the heart to tell them we know but that the Ford Explorer is loaded and ready to go.

The drive to Charlotte was great. Doc would often say, the trip back was one of the most memorable times he ever had. Dad, as per usual, was stoic. We ate strawberry Twizzlers for 5 hours straight.