The Four Horsemen

The usual saying is that it comes in threes. Whatever is going on in your life, be it bad or good, comes in threes. So, when the third one arrives, you can expect the tide to turn. But I'm a Four Horsemen kind of guy.

Number one was Buddy dying. He made it 15 years. I miss his sweet, sad eyes, and Scottie Dog face, even though he was a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen. Sometimes I think I still hear him shake his collar. Stormy, our comfort cat, is okay as far as lap-cats go, but he doesn't have the feel of our Buddy Boy, not even close. Stormy is way too independent, and can draw blood if he spooks off our lap.

Number two was my brother Mike dying all alone in Ashland, Wisconsin. I wanted to leave immediately to be with him, but the nurse practitioner assured me that Mike was doing better, he was sitting up, and they might move him back to the nursing home. Plus, I didn't want to miss the AFC/NFC playoffs. Such selfish thoughts.

Mike died the Sunday morning of the playoffs, all alone. Now I have an urn of ashes, guilt, and estate gibberish to deal with. It makes me think that maybe Ginnie and I should do some end-of-life planning.

Number three was a high school buddy, Mark, dying. We played football together and got in all kinds of trouble together. Ginnie and I went to Alaska with Mark and his wife, Jane. He seemed to be in the prime of his life. Then there was a bowel blockage, a tumor. The tumor was malignant, but not to worry. The surgeons got it all. Mark never even made it to chemo, pancreatic cancer took him down fast.

The day after his funeral, Mark visited me in my dreams. He was the Mark of high school: young, happy, healthy. Was this a message? I think so. He was happy and young looking. That's message enough for me.

Number four? Number four is me, which in itself is divided into four subsets: cancer, colitis, bilateral pulmonary embolisms, and heart attack. I sit in my car outside the door of Cardiac Rehab, waiting for my time slot to start. I watch the people going in and out: old men barely shuffling along, pushing a walker with tennis balls for feet. A younger, healthier looking wife, I presume, rushes ahead to open the door. The wives, the caretakers, are always so much stronger and livelier. Yes, women tend to live longer. Do Ginnie and I look like them? I think so. Ginnie will out live me. A note to myself, “Make sure I have our ducks lined up.”

I can't even complete my cardiac rehab. My nose, without warning, gushes blood. It's the blood thinners I'm on. The docs say it would be more unusual if I wasn't having nose bleeds. Great. I need to remember, like Corrie 10 Boom, to be thankful for the fleas!

There's a new program starting up at the Southeast Iowa Regional Medical Center in West Burlington for cancer survivors — a self-help group dealing with “The New Normal.” Boy, can I identify with that! I have survived cancer, but the treatment gave me colitis. My “New Normal” is chronic shortness of breath, dizziness and nose bleeds. In addition to Nitro and aspirin, I now carry a nose bleed tampon in my pocket. Geesh!

But my mind is clear and alert (when it's not buffering). While in my recliner, reading or writing, I'm not short of breath. And for that I am thankful. I write about all this because I know there are people out there just like me. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Plague, Famine, War and Death, are yee-hawing overhead. But The Rapture conquers all.

I know not what tomorrow brings, nor do I need to know. Ginnie takes great care of me. I don't want to get to the end and find out I haven't prayed enough. If only I'd prayed a little more, look what the results could have been. I'm sober, and that's a miracle. It's always been my goal to die sober. More miracles are in the offing.

Have a good story? Call or text Curt Swarm in Mt. Pleasant at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com. Curt is available for public speaking.