Laid-Off Dad: September 2013

Today, I'm 48 years old. 48 might not seem all that special on its surface, until you convert it to a nice, round 110,000 in binary. (For the record, I don't feel a day over 101,011.) Four dozens, three Sweet-16s, one-third of a gross. 48 is semiperfect and Narcissistic, and it is the smallest number with exactly ten divisors.

There are 48 hours in a weekend, and I've been alive for the equivalent of 8,766 of them.

You could say this is a great day because it's absolutely beautiful outside. 74 degrees, breezy and cloudless.

You could say it's because the Yankees have been eliminated from the playoffs, or that AMC is running a Breaking Bad marathon all day long.

You could say it's because I'm so grateful for all your helpful comments, Likes, DMs, RTs, +1's, thumbs-ups, Hey Nows, and So Glad You're OKs I've received over the past couple of weeks. This is the warmest and fuzziest I've felt about the Internet since I spilled my divorce beans 5+ years ago. Thank you all so much, again, for your support and encouragement.

You could say it's because we live in an age when you can save a human's life by threading a piece of metal macaroni from his groin to his heart using a micro-fiber with a camera at its tip.

You could say it's because the last vestiges of my marionetting at the ICU are almost gone. My inner elbows no longer look like those of a heroin addict. The adhesive residue has worn off my elbows. My bruises have healed. My groin feels groiny again. My chest hair is growing back, and I look less like a Man-O'-Lantern (or, more accurately in this case, a Man-tato).

But the main reason this is a great day is that, for the first time since I was myocardially infarcted, after 16 days of confinement and clamor, I am autonomously alone in my house.

Parents and former hospital denizens: You feel me?

Throughout much of my writing life, readers have noticed that I like burying the lede. I can't help it. I like the idea of a build-up and reveal. Wow 'em in the end, and you'll have a hit.

That's not going to happen this time around, though. This lede is coming at ya, right between the ribs:

Last week, this 47-year-old, non-obese, non-diabetic non-smoker had a heart attack.

Exactly as you might expect, it came about unexpectedly, while I was on the treadmill at the gym. Further unexpectedly, I didn't feel any chest pains or waves of numbness down my left arm. I just started feeling light-headed and nauseated, and since it was 96° and the gym's AC was out, I thought I was having a heat event instead of a heart event.

It turns out, a genetically predisposed hunk of arterial plaque had ruptured and formed a clot that ruined my whole day.

The good news is that there is a lot of good news. For one, I'm home and feeling fine. I spent a day in the ICU, a day in the not-ICU, and was released a day earlier than anticipated. And all of the doctors I've seen (including my GP, whose parents probably met when I was in college) predict that, after cardiac rehab and acclimation to the mini-pharmacy I'll ingest every day for the rest of my life, I'll be better off than before.

For two, my boys were blissfully unaware of the worst of it. They were with their mom in my house, and all they saw was me conjuring my Benigni-esque best while I was attached to all those machines and drips and doodads.

For three, my older son didn't buy any of it. I've decided that he is actually Benjamin Button, 11 going on 64. Because when I got home, he asked me, "Dad, did you have any conversations with yourself while you were alone in your hospital room?"

(I'll pause a second while you take that in.)

The truth is, of course I did. About my life, my mortality, whatever legacy I'll leave. And all things considered, it's all going pretty well. I love my job, I'm a big part of my boys' life, and my ex-wife and I have patched our friendship up enough for her to move in here (and sleep on TwoBert's lower bunk, of all places) until I'm cleared to drive a car. Which could very likely be today.

Yes, I know. For someone avoiding stress, having your ex move in doesn't appear high on the priority list. But I like to think of our situation a lot like how Georgia put it: "We will always be a family of four, although without a marriage at the center of it." For that, I will always feel weirdly blessed.

And for four, this 47-year-old heart-attack survivor is going to turn 48 next week. It will be the best birthday ever.