It was to be my final morning at the old brownstone at the corner of Sherman Avenue and Chapel Street.
The building I had driven to every Monday, Wednesday and Friday over a three-month period is where hearts are invigorated, pounds are shed, turnip recipes distributed, where people who’ve recently been petrified learn to laugh about life again.
This past Friday, the exercise space on third floor was filled to capacity — five of us heart patients working hard on our bodies, breathing heavily but happy to be breathing at all.
The location itself provides spiritual uplift. The tall ceilings, “cathedral” in the authentic sense, marked the upper limits of the Plymouth Congregational Church, built in 1831.
Much later the edifice was sold to a Jewish congregation, Keser Israel, and lately has been, literally, at the heart of Yale-New Haven’s cardiac post-op recovery program.
Of the patients going through the hour-long physical workout, I had been through the least invasive of the surgeries.
Fellow patients, having suffered full-on heart attacks, could tell more terrifying tales of their time under the knife.
One told us that when she awoke from the heavy anesthesia, she looked with astonishment at the recovery room wall and, in her first moment of consciousness and relief, could see right through the plaster to the world beyond. It’s that kind of experience.
I, on the other hand, had gone through a “minimally invasive procedure.”
In July, I had become one of the legions of men and women in Greater New Haven and far-flung places who have trusted the YNHH team with this 21st Century advancement, referred to by the acronym, TAVR (for Transcatheter aortic valve replacement).
In my case, surgeons drove the new valve, with cells from a cow, through my groin and up an artery all the way to my faulty aortic mechanism. In short, a life-saving adventure.
Now I was finishing the second half of that adventure. It had been both a difficult and enlightening one. Difficult because the bar and stakes were high.
The group that supervised us included a physical therapist, Skyler Ocetnik, who was part of a local team of athletes who won this fall’s Mid-Atlantic CrossFit Championship in Baltimore and will compete next month in Miami for a $25,000 first prize.
I feared he might have little sympathy for a fellow of modest physical capacities, as I had checked my resume and found no listing of CrossFit triumphs. Of course, it’s true that three decades ago I ran the 10-mile Guilford road race and was quite pleased with myself until, in the final stretch, a group of walkers passed me.
I know at this point you’re wondering what makes the Yale Rehabilitation/Occupational building different than a typical gym.
Well, for one, there is close attention from an expert team of registered nurses – including Jana, Sierra and Jenn – who measure each patient’s vital signs during the sessions.
The nutritionist, Nowen, asks patients to make lists of everything (even the secret 10 p.m. Cheetos) they eat over several days, and is gentle in her admonishments. She wouldn’t think of blurting out, “You blithering idiot. If you don’t stop gorging on saturated fat, sugar and sodium this very day, you’ll fall into a coma a week from next Tuesday!”
Instead, she makes quiet suggestions for a more balanced and yet satisfying way to consider what we put in our mouths, dishing out recipes that seem influenced by the Mediterranean diet. (Although missing the broiled turkey testicles I once tried in Jerusalem. How could I not? It would have been like passing on the pickle soup in New Britain’s “Little Poland.”)
As for Skyler and the team of nurses, they jack up the physical challenge over time, and constantly remark, “You can do it.” And you can do these aerobic machines and resistance training (mostly weights) while the sound system plays, by request from the patients, the Beatles, Carole King, the Stones, Dylan, Johnny Cash, and the Grateful Dead. We pedaled to the beat, grateful that we were not yet dead.
On that Friday, I was the only one set to “graduate” from the program, requiring in all 36 sessions. The others were still in their initial weeks.
It just so happened, too, that this was the final day for Skyler, too. This CrossFit champ had accepted a position in private industry, and would begin the following Monday, without so much as a day off between gigs.
In our final moments together, I told him of my own plan. I said, “I just rejoined the gym I belonged to before the pandemic, mActivity, in East Rock. But, Skyler, tell me, is it enough to just join, or do I actually have to go there?”
He thought about it for a minute, consulted with the nurses, and reported that it was the general consensus of the group that going to gym would be more helpful to the soul and the flesh than plunking down on the sofa and watching dismal cable news.
Every session, we received handout sheets of bullet points about heart health, including recipes and an anatomy chart. These pages didn’t read much like bodice-ripping novels, but are useful.
One of them was on stress reduction. Seizing on this one day as I was going nowhere fast on the treadmill, Jana and I had the idea the training could be expanded to feature the message, “Don’t Take the Bait,” counsel on how to keep your ticker working while putting up with relatives whose political opinions nauseate you.
Maybe that’s not possible. Though the advice given at the rehab center is wise, there are limits to practical solutions in our often heartbreaking society.
To end on a positive note: Though the old brownstone hosts a gym you don’t really want to belong to, it’s so valuable when and if you need it.
As I collected my stuff for the last time, the team gave me my final score: I was exiting the programs nearly 10 pounds lighter, but had gained power (my hand gripping strength had increased by nearly 50 percent), my body mass index measure improved, and my blood pressure levels finally fell into the normal range. The team also gave me a thank-you note. Me!
Leaving left a bittersweet feeling, as I headed to elevator and my renewed life.
