Really, you need to see this movie.
This past weekend, Ed received a much-needed break from medical appointments, consultations and phone calls, and we drove to the farm, near Weatherford. Rebecca lives there and runs Little Feather Equestrian Center, her hunter/jumper operation. She has a tiny house and an amazing business that is growing like Topsy, and she loves it. When we visit, we live in an old double-wide that is referred to as the Bunkhouse. Rebecca thinks that sounds better than “old double-wide.” It is really perfectly adequate. The carpet in it is new, it has four window unit air conditioners, a stove that works reasonably well (as Cameron Ferguson can attest after preparing a scrumptious standing rib roast Easter weekend), and well water that has a distinctive sulphur smell but still gets the dirt off after a day working and playing outside. Eleanor Innerarity, our 14-month-old granddaughter, believes the Bunkhouse beats the Broadmoor in every respect. There is nothing in there that she can destroy, nothing in there that can hurt her. She can run around in the Bunkhouse until the cows come home and no one will tell her no. It is heaven for a toddler.
The farm is beautiful. It has been a labor of love for Ed for the past two years. He has built beautiful fences and horse paddocks by welding oilfield pipe that covers a couple of miles. He has designed and supervised the building of a beautiful tank that he stocked with fish last weekend now that the farm has been blessed with abundant rain. He has met with the county agent and learned how to grow hay. Through those efforts, the farm is self-sufficient in feeding all of Rebecca’s horses on the coastal Bermuda we grow or trade for alfalfa. He has learned how to operate a HUGE tractor and spends hours doing farm chores with it.
Seeing the hay growing in beautifully, the creek running big, the tanks full of water for the first time in two years was the best medicine in the world. We drove around the hay field in the mule, marveled at the lushness of the grass Ed planted last year around Rebecca’s arena, watched Rebecca work horses, laughed when I dumped minnows (accidentally, of course) in the bed of the mule and had to race to get them in the tank, enjoyed the steaks Rebecca cooked for our supper together Friday night, and dreamed of the future.
Making plans, thinking of the future, watching the light in our daughter’s eyes as she spoke of new friends, wonderful neighbors, and her growing opportunities with Little Feather Equestrian Center and Tiger Lily Farms made for a pretty nice time. [Tiger Lily Farms is the name of our farm and Little Feather Equestrian Center is Rebecca’s horse training and lessons business located on the property.]
By the time we drove home Sunday, Ed and I were exhausted. We talked all the way home about the fun we had. We were so grateful to have a 48-hour pass to play outside and see the changes since Easter and all the rain we have been blessed to receive. Again, we looked to the future and to plans Ed has for more improvements, more projects. Is it any wonder that I agree with Roy Hobbs?
There’s nothing like a farm.
Love and Grace,
Paige
From: Joe Gifford
Sent: Thursday, April 30, 2015 11:42 AM
Subject: Thinking of you
Ed—We were really shocked to get news of your heart problem yesterday. You are certainly deep in Emily’s and my prayers. But knowing you, especially from your great tennis playing days, you will rise up and win the match.
I have had heart experience there in Austin at St. David’s hospital. A Dr. [ Jason] Zagrodzky did an ablation to heal my rather serious atrial fibrillation. That was several years ago, and I am good as new now—and you will be too. I talked to Zach Graham (landman at Devon yesterday) and he said there were no immediate plans to drill on our block, but they were pleased with the way some of the wells were holding up. They are still drilling in other areas nearby.
I’ll be at your side to help you win this match.
Best regards,
Joe
“I don’t need other people, I don’t need help,
I can take care of myself.”
—JIMMY STEWART (AS JEFF WEBSTER IN THE FAR COUNTRY)
From: Ed Innerarity
Sent: Sunday, May 3, 2015 10:45 PM
Subject: Are we there yet?
On long trips, I am the guy that scribbles how many miles I drove in the past hour, each hour of the drive, so I have a running total of average MPH during the trip. I am the guy that can start the gas pump in Roswell at the Circle K and dash to the men’s room and back just as the gas pump clicks off. Not a wasted minute. Back when I played golf and back when I went to Colorado, I would often make the drive after playing 18 holes with the guys on a summer Saturday morning. I made sure I was in the first of our two groups, and I would order a hamburger and fries to be ready and waiting when I walked off the 18th hole, ready to jump in the car and head north. No wasted time.
To me, driving time in the car on longer trips was really time to catch up on calls, think about deals and generally do something productive. Maybe just do something, anything. No reason to waste any time. I have the restaurants between Midland and Creede on speed dial so that my dinner at Gabriel’s north of Santa Fe will be ready when I drive up. Ditto for Bar-B-Q places between Midland and Weatherford. No points earned for waiting. Call ahead seating: go for it, no reason to wait. Need 15 gallons of paint for the farm; call and have them mix and shake it and have it ready. No stars for having to wait. Need to get the tires rotated and balanced; call ahead and reserve a time and have lunch while they are working. Need to service the car at the dealership; email for a time so there is no waiting.
And there is nothing wrong with calling Tractor Supply to see if they have the Red Lion water pumps so that they might hold one at customer service. Save some time, less waiting. Ditto Home Depot for 14-inch cut-off blades; ditto Vogel’s orchards to see if they have peaches. They don’t give corner offices to people who spend their lives waiting.
I am the guy that schedules my dentist and dermatologist appointments for first thing after lunch to avoid waiting. And there is nothing wrong with calling ahead of time to make sure “we are running on time.” You don’t get bonus points in life for just waiting in line.
But I am waiting now. Waiting for the call that they have a new heart. Waiting and waiting. My cell phone is always with me. My speed dial numbers and most frequent contact numbers are the heart clinic and transplant nurse. I am waiting for a heart. Not the same as waiting for tortilla soup or industrial paint but waiting nevertheless.
Unfortunately, waiting for the call entails much more. I am connected to a plastic tube that runs from a small pump and bag with half a liter of important heart juice into another plastic tube that goes into a vein on the inside of my left arm to my heart. I eat, sleep, work out, shower, drive, pack the car, unpack the car, cook, clean, shave, get a snack out of the fridge, walk across the room, or walk into a restaurant with my bag of juice and pump. It doesn’t matter that I put the bag inside a small backpack so I don’t look so much like a “dead man walking.” Pride. Sometimes pride is capitalized, sometimes it’s underlined. Either way, I am waiting for the day that I don’t have to have this bag over my shoulder.
ed
From: Mark Petry
Sent: Wednesday, May 6, 2015 6:55 PM
Subject: Fishing some day?
Ed,
I was thinking of the Mother’s Day caddis hatch earlier this week when my daughter, Kelby, shared with me that you have recently been diagnosed with a serious health matter. I was sorry to hear this news and what you must go through for a full recovery. I only wish the best for you and your family. Please know that my thoughts and prayers are with you. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help. Take care.
Regards,
Mark R. Petry
From: Mark Leaverton
Sent: Monday, May 11, 2015 6:48 AM
Subject: Checking on You
Ed, I cannot tell you how many times the Lord has put you on my heart. This morning at five when He awoke me was one of those times. Vicki and I cont
inue to pray for you and trust God’s perfect timing for you. It was more than a blessing to talk to you in mid-April, just hours after you were put on “the list.” I trust that you are not climbing the walls too much on 38th Street! When you get a moment, drop me an email so I can know how you are doing.
Give our love to Paige (we are praying for her too).
Mark K. Leaverton
From: Paige Innerarity
Sent: Tuesday, May 12, 2015 8:30 PM
Subject: NO NEWS IS . . .
Time passes and I realize that not only are the natives getting restless in Austin (insert Paige and Ed for “natives”), but also the rest of our tribe—our friends and family. I have emails and texts asking if we have any news. Well, I wish we did, but we don’t, and the fact is, we won’t.
There is really no news in the heart transplant biz until the phone rings, we are informed that it looks like a match, and it is time to dash to the hospital. It gives me chills to even think about The Call. It is my last thought before I fall asleep and my first thought when I wake. The Call is on the edge of my thoughts all day, every day. It is my hope, my prayer, my deepest desire at any given time. In between my thoughts about The Call, we have our present life in Austin. We walk, we talk, Ed goes to cardiac rehab, I go on more walks. We shop, I cook, we laugh, we fuss, and we make up. We talk to our children, we write, and we read. We live and plan and dream about the future. So, I guess that, in this case, no news is no news.
I have to believe that all this waiting around is bringing us ever closer to The Call. I have to believe that this is time that is necessary for Ed to prepare, mentally, emotionally, and physically, to be the best recipient of this precious gift. Believe me, we get discouraged! The entire transplant team told us that waiting for a heart is incredibly stressful and nerve-racking. They were right. It is dreadful. My mama always said, “Hope springs eternal in the human heart.” I am clinging to hope, hanging on by a prayer, and thanking God for the saints, here and in heaven, who are holding Ed and me together.
So, once again, thanks for being there. Thank you for loving us. Thank you for hanging in there when you get no news. We will send you news when we have something to report.
Love and Grace,
Paige
From: Ed Innerarity
Sent: Wednesday, June 10, 2015 10:22 PM
Subject: Day 66—Cardio Rehab
People suffering from Stockholm syndrome come to identify with and even care for their captors in a desperate, usually unconscious act of self-preservation.
Friends,
I feel compelled to set the record straight. I may have mentioned that I was headed to “cardio rehab” or that I had just finished my “cardio rehab.” That is what they call it and that is what the sign on the door says. It is even what Blue Cross complains about on my EOB (Explanation of Benefits), but it should be called something else; for now I will refer to it as cardio pre-hab. It is equal parts Vacation Bible School, Gold’s Gym at 5:45 p.m. on a weekday, ICU at a nice metropolitan hospital, and the exercise yard at Shawshank Prison.
The ratio of instructor to instructed is about the same as VBS, something over 1 to 1. It resembles Gold’s Gym because of the huge assortment of treadmills, NuStep recumbent elliptical trainers, weight lifting stations, and various colored elastic bands and hand weights. The similarity to an intensive care unit comes from the sheer number of stethoscope-draped, scrubs-wearing, blood pressure-taking nurses with large three-ring binders with way-too-much medical information about their charges. Plus, the assortment of brightly colored and neatly labeled crash carts, oxygen tanks, and preponderance of emergency defibrillators is a nice touch. I assume you have all seen The Shawshank Redemption and the various scenes in the exercise yard. Despite their varied backgrounds, crimes, ages, and ethnicities, the inmates form a bond and develop a feeling of “us against them.”
Now you have a mental picture of the cardio pre-hab facility. It is located right next door to the “something wrong with my heart” clinic and the transplant office. So my day goes something like this: Wake up and get reminded immediately that I am tethered to a 22 oz. pump and 510 ml of “special heart juice” and 33¼ inches of very important tubing that transports the SHJ from the bag, through the pump along the 33.25 inches of tubing into a PICC line inserted under my left arm. The PICC line was fed into an important and otherwise unsuspecting vein that travels through my shoulder, under my collarbone and on to my soon-to-be pawned heart. Along the way, the PICC line shares the vein with one of the leads from my new pacemaker to ol’ shaky. [I looked up what PICC stands for, but I passed out partway through. I know that P stands for pain, the I for intense, and one of the Cs for can’t believe I let them do that to me. Maybe one of the docs on this email list can help out with the whole name. As I said, I passed out reading about it.] The PICC line is also used for blood draws every so often except when we are unable to get a blood return. This is often cause by a clotted line. When that happens, they do certain things that also contain the letters P and I.
So after I make breakfast and take a shower (never straying more than 33.25 inches from my friend) I get dressed and wheel my new bike outside for the short ride to the hospital. For nine minutes I am free and pretend nothing is wrong with me, my pump and bag of juice tucked unobtrusively into a cool Osprey day pack, and no one who would see me knows. FYI, I do wear a bike helmet, because I do not want to take any unnecessary risks before they cut me in half and plop a new heart in there and wire me shut.
Before you know it, I am at pre-hab, which I must admit, is probably the highlight of my day. The staff there is not so happy about the bike ride. As soon as I walk in, one of the many nurses/physical therapists weighs me, takes my blood pressure, and hooks me up to a heart monitor. We all start off with the treadmill; it is part of the plan. Part of our rehabilitation/punishment is Kelly Ripa. She and Michael Strahan are always on the flat-screen TV right there in front of the treadmills. Has anyone else ever wanted to slap Kelly Ripa? Is she really perfect? At everything? Did you know 50 Cent’s real name is Curtis Jackson? But not to worry, that’s over at 10 a.m. so we get to watch The View with Whoopi Goldberg. And now Raven-Symoné is permanently one of the hosts. [Apparently, she wasn’t so permanent after all, as she’s no longer on The View.] Be still, my erratically beating heart.
At first they took my blood pressure at every workout station. Now, they just come by and show me a chart with “self-perceived effort levels” and ask how I feel. In the exercise yard, you learn quickly to say “about an 11, Boss” or “I’m at level 12, Boss.” If you report working harder than that, you are told to go get a cup of cold water and go sit by the blood sugar testing station. (I am not making this up.) If you report working below level 5, the incline is raised, the speed is increased, and you receive a mild electric shock. (OK, maybe I made that up about the shock, and we don’t refer to them as “Boss.”)
The goal of the hard-working staff in Room 512 is to prepare me for “major surgery.” The better shape I am in before the transplant, the better my chances. There are frequently 8 to 10 of us working out. Many have diabetes; many are trying to lose enough weight to make the transplant list; many recently had a heart attack or had a pacemaker installed or a stent inserted. A few are there with new hearts. Some can barely do any exercise, others quite a bit. I am the lucky one out of the group. I am in no pain. My pacemaker is doing a great job along with my special heart juice. My size and history of being active and trying to stay in shape will be a big help come transplant time. Plus, I am ready.
I come back from pre-hab pretty much spent. I try and catch the 10:23 a.m. or 11:08 a.m. Cap Metro bus to take me and my bike up the hill to the apartment. Only a couple of blocks, but after pre-hab a bit more than my old worn-out heart can handle. If I missed the bus, I would slowly trudge up the hill walking my bike like the pitiful person I must have looked like. If I did catch the bus, they would have to wait for me to load my bike onto the front of the bus. F
irst the front tire, then the back tire. Who could possibly lift all 18 pounds of a bicycle at once? After the second week, the driver would not let me pay my 75 cents, since I was only going 600 yards.
But I look forward to the next day like I am getting ready for something. I remember how difficult the first several weeks after my knee replacement were. I got through that thinking of what Baron had gone through with his knee the year before. [Baron Batch and his brother, Brian, are considered members of our family, though not formally so, as in adoption. Their mother died when Brian was a senior in high school. Some families in Midland opened up their homes for the boys to live in, and we were one. Baron was a standout running back in college at Texas Tech University and later played for the Pittsburgh Steelers. He got his knee torn up his first year there and had to have it rebuilt. A year later I had my knee replaced.] Now, I think about all that I have lost because of my heart problems: this summer in Colorado with the family, fly fishing (anywhere) with any number of friends, golf with my guys, not being a prisoner to this apartment, not being tied to this tubing and bag, working at the farm, and more. The pre-hab is perhaps the only daily way I have to prepare. I am doing what I can to prepare for this battle. No guarantees, but with each workout, I tell myself I am slowly tipping the scale in my favor. I can’t make the phone ring with a call that a match has been found, but if it does, I need to have done all I can to prepare and give that heart a fit body to live in.
I guess we are all preparing for something.
Live well, like today is the day.
Dispatches from the Heart Page 8