In 2019, I found myself at the Mayo Clinic Hospital in Rochester, Minnesota. I had been experiencing shortness of breath, dizziness, and extreme fatigue—symptoms that began creeping in a few years after I retired in 2014. I had gained a significant amount of weight and figured that was the root of it all. I was disgusted by how heavy I’d become when I saw a photo of myself. I even nicknamed myself “Fat Bastard,” after the character played by Mike Myers in the Austin Powers movies.

On top of that—stupid, I know—I was a smoker—a fancy smoker, loyal only to Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Lights. You’d think, with a name like that, they might even be good for you. After I retired, my breathing issues became impossible to ignore. I decided to quit, and I did—with the help of Nicorette gum. For the record, I never smoked in our house or anyone else’s that I can remember, and I was always considerate of others. I hated that disgusting, stale cigarette smell that permeated the homes of smokers. Still, looking back, I was paving the road to Rochester one cigarette at a time.

The real wake-up call came one night after dinner with my brother and sister-in-law at Kiku Steakhouse. What I’m about to tell you is humiliating, but whatever—I’ll tell it anyway. After we got home, I started having hot flashes and feeling woozy. Then came the worst part: I rushed to the bathroom, thinking I was getting sick from the food. Sitting there, waiting for relief that never came, I felt the lightheadedness intensify. The room started spinning. I could feel myself on the verge of passing out. Panic set in. Somehow, I managed to yell for my wife before everything went dark.

She immediately called 911, and I was told after the fact that we had all kinds of flashing lights out front from the firetruck and ambulance. The small crowd of firemen and EMTs rushed through the front door to attend to me in the bathroom, still on the pot! I never had so many people with me while sitting on the pot. I still can’t believe it. From what I understand, this kind of fainting episode is called vasovagal syncope. Maybe that’s what it was. In my mind, though, it felt more cardiovascular—like the end was near.

That was finally enough to push me to see a doctor. My cardiologist, Dr. Chow, looked like he’d just graduated high school. He was young but had a reputation for being one of the best heart specialists. After a battery of tests, he diagnosed me with an inherited heart abnormality: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM). My heart was pumping too hard, causing the muscle to thicken and eventually choke off the heart chambers—a condition that could become life-threatening if left untreated.

A well-known cardiovascular surgeon at Stormont Vail Hospital suggested I go to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. He explained that a surgeon at Mayo specialized in this kind of procedure. But before I left, he ordered one last thing: a heart catheter to examine the rest of my heart. It was a good thing he did because it revealed a partially blocked artery—the widow maker, to be exact. So, the plan of attack was to kill two birds with one stone: fix the HCM and the blocked artery with one surgery.

In layman’s terms, they would detach the aorta from the heart, insert a scalpel through the severed portion into the left ventricle, and cut away the thickened muscle—allowing room in the chamber to hold more blood and helping the heart to function correctly. On top of that, I needed a bypass for the blockage in my left anterior descending artery—yep, the “widow maker.”

We stayed at a BNB in Rochester, near the Mayo Clinic’s main campus. It was an older home but well-kept. Other guests stayed upstairs, and we occasionally heard them walking above us. Mayo’s lobby was massive, with glass sculptures hanging from the ceiling, bronze statues on the walls, and even live music from a grand piano. I was amazed by Mayo Clinic’s efficiency—it was a well-oiled machine. I underwent numerous tests across different clinics, and despite the crowds, there were no long waits.

When the day of my surgery finally arrived, it felt surreal. I couldn’t believe I was about to let people cut open my chest, saw through my sternum, pry open my rib cage, and start slicing into my heart. After the nurse called my name, I was taken back to be prepped for surgery. Lying there, dark thoughts raced through my head. Will I survive this? Is this my last day on Earth? Will I know if I die on the operating table, or will I just be gone? Counting backward was the last thing I remembered before my siesta.

When I began to regain consciousness, I found myself in a pitch-black hole, lying on my back and unable to get words out of my mouth. Looking up, I heard Andrea—my wife—talking with Jeanne, my sister-in-law, as I reached out with my arms, trying to grab hold of them for help. It was an unearthly place, one I didn’t want to be. I know it wasn’t a near-death experience because I wasn’t dead, but it’s something I remember vividly.

Only days later, the nurses urged me to get out of bed and walk. They gave me a red pillow shaped like a heart to clutch to my chest whenever I needed to cough. The coughing, I think, was caused by irritation from the breathing tube down my throat. And let me tell you—the coughing hurt like hell. It felt like my incision was going to rip open.

While I was at the Mayo Clinic recovering from heart surgery, my father-in-law was at Stormont Vail Hospital undergoing critical aneurysm repair surgery. Before we went our separate ways, Andrea’s dad, John, and I shook hands and wished each other good luck.

I was only in the hospital in Rochester for about a week and a half. Andrea kept in touch with family back home and got word that there were major complications with John’s surgery. The aneurysm had burst, and he was put on a ventilator. Andrea needed to get back to be with her dad.

They discharged me from Mayo with strict instructions: no strenuous activity and no driving. I was told to check into rehab as soon as we got back to Topeka. The drive was 465 miles—about seven hours. Andrea was exhausted from lack of sleep and worry. She feared she might fall asleep at the wheel, so I decided I could handle the drive as long as I didn’t have to make any sudden moves.

We arrived in Topeka late that afternoon, and I checked into rehab, where I’d stay for several weeks. Andrea went immediately to the hospital across the street to see her dad. He was still on the ventilator, and the doctor delivered the bad news: John wasn’t going to make it. The family made the heartbreaking decision to take him off life support.

John was a good man and a great father-in-law, always smiling and never met a stranger. He is greatly missed. I couldn’t attend his funeral because I was still in rehab, but from what I understand, there was quite a crowd.

It seems to me I’ve had two-second chances at life: once in a car accident in 1977, where I was the only survivor, and again with this major heart surgery. Maybe there’s something still in store for me—or maybe, more likely, it’s just divine intervention.

I spent a couple of weeks in the Kansas Rehabilitation Hospital in Topeka after my heart surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. It was about as much fun as getting a cocklebur shoved up your nose. Anyone who’s gone through open-heart surgery knows the challenges involved afterward. Even walking was painful at first—but the coughing episodes? Absolute torture. Sometimes, it felt like my incision was about to burst open, spilling my guts. The Mayo Clinic gave me a red, heart-shaped pillow to press against my chest during these coughing fits. I think they should’ve just prescribed cough drops and a tranquilizer dart.

I was only home from rehab for about a week when my lower back started acting up. It quickly escalated; I couldn't walk, and I became bedridden. The pain was like being electrocuted when I attempted to stand. I had the same kind of pain when I had a herniated disc, but it was not nearly as painful as this. I couldn’t believe it—first my heart, now my back? Have I been jinxed or what? Something was seriously wrong, and I needed to get to the ER—stat. But instead of calling 911, we decided to wing it—bad move. My 18-year-old son Nicolas helped me out of bed and down to the floor, where I discovered I could scoot on my back using my legs to push me along. It's sort of like an inchworm, except I was inching on my back.

Then came the stairs. I needed a rocket scientist—enter Nicolas. He came up with the idea of rigging a yellow towing strap that he wrapped around my chest and lowering me down slowly. I know it sounds crazy, but it worked.

Next challenge? Getting to the car in the garage. After exhausting our zero remaining good ideas, we came to one grim conclusion: I had to walk. This was going to be the walk from hell. With Nicolas’s help, I somehow made it. Every inch of was pure agony.

When we got to the ER, I had to suck it up again to get into a wheelchair. Could my day get any better? I’d just gotten out of a hospital, and here I was again. After x-rays and a slew of tests, the doctor finally came in with fabulous news: you have a severe spinal infection. MRSA. That’s Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, in case you don't like abbreviations. I probably picked it up during heart surgery at the Mayo Clinic. The gift that keeps on giving. No hard feelings, though. They did fix the old ticker.

If memory serves, I was in the hospital for another week and a half, hooked up to IV antibiotics around the clock. Then, it was off to yet another rehab facility, where the IV party continued. Through physical therapy, I eventually learned to walk again, along with break dancing.