Man, I can’t catch a break. Hard living. First, my knee replacements. Both knees. Then, my recent brush with life-changing trauma, a stroke. It reminded me of my last body-slamming event: a blocked heart and the pacemaker implanted in my body.

“The heart is an organ about the size of your fist that pumps blood through your body. It is made up of multiple layers of tissue….Your heart’s electrical system controls the rate and rhythm of your heartbeat.” National Institute of Health

I have a reputation. Goes back to my teen years.

     Work hard. Live hard.

My father taught us that.

Well, the work-hard part, anyway.

I learned to live the hard part by living it. Hell, if it worked for me at twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five, why not at seventy-seven?

I could keep going forever, no matter the age.

Sometimes, I thought I was invulnerable—a regular Superman.

Why would I stop just because I had a stroke or that my Heart, that organ in my chest that ensures that I live to work and live hard, had a problem?

Well, surprise, surprise, my Heart taught me a valuable lesson on January 25, 2024.

Please don’t mess with the life force that keeps me alive, or else.

I admit it. The only time I thought about My Heart up until then was when it ached from the love gained or from its loss.

We sing songs about it—poems about the heartfelt emotions that overwhelm you.

I’m a sucker for them, for the aching feeling that comes in a moment and can leave just as quickly.

It’s in your chest, beating 60 to 100 times per minute. Until it doesn’t.

Something in your Heart alerts your iPhone: “Your heart rate fell below 40 beats per minute for 10 minutes at…”

I go to see my primary Doctor; we do the usual ECG tests, and he seems concerned but makes sure not to scare me, so I’m not scared.

“Let me check with our cardiologist.”

Probably nothing, I think to myself.

“Hey, we think you might have something called “Heart Block.”

What the hell are you talking about? I used to run 10K races, half marathons, and full marathons.

They used to tell me I had the Heart of an athlete.

Okay, that was a million years and seventy pounds ago, but the Heart’s the same.

See a specialist, they say. I see a specialist. We can’t find the problem, they say.

I’ll go about my business, I say. I got other issues to deal with, I say.

Something ain’t right, my body says.

The alerts keep coming. More frequently, my watch alerts me.

What the hell are you doing?

Thirty beats per minute, it tells me.

I don’t think that’s a good thing, I tell myself.

Thursday, January 25, will be forever etched in my Heart and memory.

There were no flashing red lights. I didn’t faint or clutch my chest in some dramatic gesture. One minute, I’m sitting on an examination table, hooked up to a machine, with my Doctor and a nurse bent over it, whispering. 

Why are they whispering?

“Let’s call 9-1-1.”

Wait, what? I was still stammering as sirens were heard in the distance.

Getting closer and closer.

Hold on, I’m Superman. I’m invulnerable.

Hell, I was once called the hardest-working man in show business.

No rush, but rushing. Into an ambulance. Red, lights flashing.

Is this all for me?

One minute, I’m in the Doctor’s office; the next, I’m in the Emergency Room.

I’m just trying to settle down and regain control of my life, but my body is telling me otherwise.

Tests, multiple needles in arms, cables wrapping around the chest.

The Doctor is serious.

“Tomorrow, we’ll implant a pacemaker and…”

What the hell are you talking about?

And then it hits me.

I’m in the storm’s center and cannot control the size of the waves or how the ship rolls around in it.

The only thing I can do is ride it out.

Trust someone, others, to come to rescue you.

I hope they arrive on time.

On Friday, January 26, the Medtronic MRI Surescan Pacemaker was implanted just below my left shoulder, with internal wires connecting from the device to my Heart.

When I later asked my surgeon why this happened, he first asked how old I was, and when I told him seventy-five, he simply replied, “Sometimes, it’s just a long life.”

Sounds a lot like Shit Happens.

But (there’s always a but), none of that helped me on February 25, 2026.

When a sliver of plaque broke off from my carotid artery on the left side of my neck and decided to hip-hop into my brain, scorching a trail that left me, well, I’m not paralyzed, and I can speak, even if I have problems with short-term memory, I sometimes walk in a zigzag fashion, finding the right words takes longer than it used to, I have problems using chopsticks and a pen, and I forgot how to sleep, but hey, I am living the life.

I’m a real bionic man.

I now have two titanium knees, allowing me to walk upright, and a medical device in my body that keeps my heart rate consistent.

My titanium knees work. My pacemaker is connected via Bluetooth and the Internet to the cardiology clinic. I also have appointments with doctors and therapists (speech, physical, and occupational) who are helping bring my brain and body back to some semblance of normal.

Mindfully. Deliberately. Creatively. With gusto. And most importantly, with humility, honesty, and as chill as I can be.

Oh, I forgot, I’ve been diagnosed with Atrial Fibrillation (AFIB).

(Look it up. It ain’t good.)

Taking a moment to remember all the while that I ain’t no Superman.

May I live long and prosper.