The Comeback Chronicles: Part III – Matters of the Heart
Cracked Open, But Not Broken
Please note - this post reflects my personal experience with recovery and fitness. It is illustrative, not prescriptive. Everyone's path is different - consult with your healthcare provider before making changes to your health routine and practices. (Full Disclosure)
5 weeks after the knee replacement I went in for what I thought was a routine CT scan—part of my annual checkup. Ten years ago, my doctor began tracking some lung nodules, likely remnants from years of smoking and hard living. The nodules never changed, never caused alarm. But back in 2020, something new showed up: an aortic root aneurysm.
At 4.7 cm, it wasn’t large enough to operate on, so we watched it annually. And I lived my life. Hard training, long Peloton sessions with my heart rate above 160 BPM, hours in Zone 2, and grueling climbs at 11,000 feet. I felt strong. Capable. Fully alive. The aneurysm faded into the shadows of my awareness.
But in late 2024, the scan revealed that the aneurysm had grown suddenly to 5.5 cm. At my checkup the next day, my doctor looked at me and said, “We’re referring you to a cardiothoracic surgeon. Your aneurysm has reached an operable level. You’ve got an appointment next week.”
Just like that, I wasn’t planning a training cycle—I was planning for open-heart surgery.
It hit hard. Maybe harder than anything yet. I feared I’d entered what Peter Attia calls the “slow spiral of decline.” Surgery. Recovery. Repeat. My vision of vibrant elderhood seemed to be slipping away. For a couple of days, I sank. I told myself I’d done enough. Maybe it was time to run out the clock in a recliner with edibles, ice cream, and Netflix.
But despair quickly turned to anger. I’d worked hard for my health. I was still recovering from knee surgery, getting stronger every day. I had races on the calendar. Projects. Adventures. I wasn’t ready to quit.
Within days, I was on the phone with Dr. Gregory Muehlebach, Chair of Cardiothoracic Surgery at KU Medical Center and a nationally respected expert. He reviewed my scans and scheduled me for surgery on January 27, 2025.
The plan: crack my sternum, stop my heart, replace four inches of my aorta with a synthetic graft, then restart the engine. The upside? My valve looked strong. If spared, I’d avoid long-term medications. Recovery would be tough, but he believed I could be training, and living, without restrictions in 12 weeks and racing again by late July. That was all I needed.
So I continued to train. Cleaned and organized the house for post op conditions (again). Got my affairs in order. Packed like a man heading into battle. My daughter was briefed. My will was updated. Marcus Aurelius would’ve nodded in Stoic approval - my affairs were in order.
Then came January 27th.
Arriving at the hospital at 5:30 am, I was checked in, ushered to pre-op, and gowned - IV at the ready. Machines beeped softly in the background. Then a nurse entered the room and said, “We need to pause.”
Another patient—same diagnosis—was on a helicopter, bleeding out. She needed my surgeon. She needed my slot.
Dr. Muehlebach came in, deeply apologetic. We rescheduled for February 14—Valentine’s Day. Fitting, in a strange way.
So I went home—and trained harder. My knee was improving rapidly so I rode the Peloton hard. I lifted, light weights and high reps, focusing on chest and shoulder muscles that would be sidelined for a while. I also stretched, full body, knowing that I'd grow tight in those first few weeks of recovery.
On February 14, I returned to KU. This time, no emergencies. No delays. I was ready, and so was the world-class team that cared for me.
The surgery was a success. My valve was spared. My heart restarted. But I had grossly underestimated the impact. Naively, I believed that the heart would be easier than the knee. The sternum isn't weight bearing - this'll be a breeze. I could not have been any more fucking wrong.
The first night was brutal. I was disoriented, exhausted, in pain. AFib episodes surged through me like electric storms, my heart rate surging to 190. At one point in that first night, surrounded by hospital staff scrambling to calm my unruly heart, I became convinced I had five minutes left to live. I felt at peace. I had prepared for this, especially with the work I'd done with plant medicines. But I wasn’t eager to go. I was absolutely not done.
The staff ameliorated the pain and moved me out of ICU. Friends and family braved the snow and record low temperatures to visit. Their presence grounded and reassured me. Still, the post-operative AFib persisted. I didn’t get out in three days like I’d hoped. I was there for six.
The drive home was agony. I’d sworn off painkillers—pride and my history with opiates both weighing in. That resolve lasted until I hit the bed. The pain was searing. I took a double dose, slept, and then used the pain meds as prescribed, along with a cocktail of others meant to keep me out of AFib and prevent blood clots that could result a stroke.
Recovery at home was quiet, humbling, and well-supported. My house was ready. My daughter and granddaughter, living just two blocks away, showed up daily. Their love and the support of my neighbors and friends was the most healing element of all.
At first, I could barely walk to the kitchen and bathroom without taking a break for the dizziness to subside. But progress was swift. A week after coming home, I drove myself to the clinic to check the level of my meds. Every day I walked, even when I didn’t want to, even if only for 6 or 8 minutes. My body craved sugar and fat, and Uber Eats got more business than I’d like to admit.
Then addiction reared its butt-ugly head.
Six days after returning home, I panicked about running out of painkillers, especially over the upcoming weekend when I'd be unable to get a refill. I found myself scheming how to get more. I was slipping into old patterns. Drug-seeking, addict behavior.
I counted the remaining pills. Eleven. I called the nurse. She kindly told me to call back in two days and assured me that she wouldn't let me run out. Immediately afterwards I wished I'd lied and told her I only had 3 pills left. I was apparently losing my chops as an addict. And I was absolutely disgusted with myself.
I never called back for a refill. Instead, I quit the next day. Cold. (And yes, like any good addict, I can still tell you how many pills are in the bottle in my closet: eight and a half.)
But that was the moment I reclaimed agency. I was not going to sink into the familiar misery of addiction, and waste time, once again, covering the same ground of recovery that I'd trodden countless times in my life. Acetaminophen and ice once again took center stage, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
This battle's victory, inexplicably, was immediately followed by a mental slump. Why bother racing? Why not just stay home, garden, fish, help my daughter, and be done with ambition and my dreams of travel and robust senior vitality? Who was I to think that my story was useful to others? Doubt and shame and despair moved into my bedroom with me. Maybe it was depression that comes with withdrawal. Maybe just the emotional swings that come with major surgery. But I waited it out, rested the urge to "take just one more pill", and it passed. I slept and ate and rested and bided my time. I wish I could say I did so with equanimity and acceptance, but that would only be slightly true.
Regardless (or in spite) of the mental and emotional drama, on March 3—16 days post-op—I clipped into the Peloton again. Just 10 minutes. Low resistance. Easy cadence. But I was back on the bike. And everything changed.
Since then, I’ve rebuilt slowly. Light weights. Core work. Stretching. Setbacks, of course—sternum pain after overdoing it, sleep disruption, THC edibles dulling my mornings. Resistance in all its forms, whispering in my ear.
But I keep showing up. The two years of training since the hip revision carry a momentum stronger than the urges to relapse or simply quit.
The biggest shift? I’m no longer training just to race. I’m training for balanced, sustainable strength, mobility, and endurance. For my Centenarian Decathlon - the things I want to be able to do when I'm 100. I lost weight and muscle shockingly fast after surgery, and I now understand—viscerally—how urgent strength training is for seniors who are susceptible to muscle loss (sarcopenia) after the age of 50. As Dr. Attia says, "I now consider exercise to be the most potent longevity "drug" in our arsenal." He goes on to emphasize that strength training, whatever the intensity and regardless of age, is the most important element of a fitness regimen - and paramount in promoting a longer, healthier life. And that’s what I want for myself and for anyone reading this, for anyone who’s facing recovery, uncertainty, transformation, or reinvention - I want for all of us to live a longer, healthier life.
So here I am, rebuilding again. Stone by stone. No more heroic leaps across the chasm. Just steady steps toward a vision of usefulness, independence, and vitality. Yes, I’m still training for Nationals. But the real win isn’t the race—it’s balance. Function. Presence. Purpose.
Eldershine is where I’ll share this journey—not to boast, but to offer a roadmap and an invitation. If you’re 60+, 70+, 80+ and beyond and you're wondering what’s still possible, let me say this: A lot is. Much more than you think.
Eldershine is where I’ll share my experience and what I learn—setbacks, sparks of insight, and strategies—so others can take what works for them and their individual circumstances and leave what doesn’t. This isn’t just about me. It’s about all of us—a growing community of older adults who are done surrendering to decline. This is for the community of seniors who are ready to redefine aging on our own terms.
You don’t have to race bikes or do anything even remotely extreme (although you can if you want!). You just have to stay curious. Keep showing up. Make small but steady changes to your routines and beliefs. Apply a modicum of self-discipline - incrementally, compassionately, and patiently. Build your own bridge, span the chasm between your own dreams and their realization - one stone at a time.
If you're nodding your head, you're not alone. Let’s do this—together.
Welcome to Eldershine.