This is getting to be a habit

I'm going again.

Cabaret Summer School starts next Monday.  This will be my fourth time.

This is getting to be a habit, and for good reasons.  Every time I attend, I take a big step forward with my cabaret skills.  I reckon this intensive week is probably equivalent to a semester at music school, so I'm on my way to earning a degree.  It allows me to carve out time to be creative and focus on my musical activities.  For the whole week I think of nothing but cabaret.

And at this time of year there is no work for me to do, so I may as well immerse myself in cabaret.

It's New Year's Day, and I'm taking it easy after a night out at La Boheme, where we were treated to a wonderful cabaret show and colourful cocktails.  I've spent some time setting goals for the coming year.

I should do some singing practice, but for the past week I've had a "bug" - a croak in the throat and a rattly cough.  I'm hoping this will be gone by the weekend, but I've heard that this bug is going around and it tends to linger for a while.  I think I can sing above it, but the risk is that a deep breath will irritate something and make me splutter.  This is not what I need when I'm performing a brand new piece.

Or at all.  Bug, be gone!

So today, I'm resting up and taking it easy.  I'm going to need lots of energy next week.

Our first challenge is to fill the theatre.  We need to sell tickets.  Over the last week I've been telling friends about the show, and some of them have told me they've booked to attend.  The theatre takes 120 people, so with ten of us, that's only a dozen guests each.  But you do need to work at ticket sales; you cannot assume that the theatre will fill itself.

If you'd like to come to the show, here's the link for bookings

A Musician on the Rise

My "virtual" friend Eneias, from Jaragua, Santa Catarina, Brazil, is coming to Australia to perform with me in April.

We've never met, but I can get a sense of what he is like, from his Facebook posts.

My impression is that he's a hard-working musician and songwriter, who is keen to elevate his career.

He regularly posts information about where and when he will next be performing.

He has recorded some songs (including some of his own compositions) using his own equipment, and he is producing a CD.

I admire this sort of initiative.  It's good to see someone making his own "luck".  I can imagine that the music industry in Brazil would be very competitive.  I'm hoping that his visit to Australia will be as valuable for him as I'm hoping it will be for me.

And suddenly he posts a video clip, to accompany a song he's released, "Sou de Santa Catarina" ("I am from Santa Catarina").  I'm very impressed!

Click to watch the video and listen to the song

Back in the Saddle

Since recovering from heart surgery I've found several opportunities to rebuild my confidence on stage. In mid-December I sang at the Toastmasters Christmas meeting, and later on the same evening I sang the same song ("Christmas Time is Here") at the singing school concert.

As a result of these low-pressure performances, I feel ready for the next big opportunity: I've been invited to be a "headline performer" at The New Cabaret Live.  This show is just a few days before Christmas.  I am asked to present 10-12 minutes of material; stories and songs.

In the past, it's taken me a whole week at Cabaret Summer School to create a segment like this, but now the piece seems to write itself.  I start with a song I desperately want to sing - "Lost in Wonderland" (music by Jobim; lyrics by Marshall Barer).  It's based on Alice in Wonderland, but with psychedelic overtones.  It's a really weird song, and doesn't fit easily with anything else.  But I work backwards.  What on earth was Lewis Carroll taking?  I combine this concept with the idea that I might have needed  medication that would prevent me from drinking alcohol.   Two other songs present themselves: "You Go to my Head" and "Come Fly with Me".  I link them with some simple patter.

I call the piece "Under the Influence", and set a time to rehearse with pianist Matthew.  He likes the concept, and suggests some developments - varying the rhythms of the first song; adding some patter in the middle of the second one.  Within an hour we are finished.  I feel pretty confident about it and I still have one singing lesson left before the show.

On the night I arrive early as requested.  Each of us takes to the stage for a sound-check and short practice.  This helps a lot - by the time I've finished I feel very comfortable on the stage.  In the days when Cabaret Live! was an open-mic night, we never had this opportunity.  The adrenaline would surge when I stepped on stage.  By the end of my song I would start to feel more relaxed, but that was the end of my performance for the month.

Now audience members start to arrive, and I go upstairs with the other performers to wait for show time.  This is a lot better than sitting amongst the audience, where there is pressure to chat and be sociable, introduce people to each other, and speak loudly to be heard above the noise in the room.  Upstairs the mood is calm and we can speak quietly to each other.

I'm the first headliner.  I come downstairs and listen to Sidonie's opening song.  Then I'm on.

The story flows smoothly.  The rehearsals pay off as Matthew and I cue each other as we've agreed.  I only fluff one line of one song, but quickly pick up the next line.  I put it into perspective - it's a very small error.

I'm pretty happy with this performance, and I feel that event this marks my return to the music world.  Now I can make plans for the coming year.

You can view my performance here:

"Under the Influence" Part 1

"Under the Influence" Part 2

"Under the Influence" Part 3

A breakthrough idea

I've decided to invite the Brazilian guitarist Eneias to come to Adelaide, Australia, to rehearse and perform with me.

If we enjoy working together, we can then plan for a concert in Rio.

This idea makes it easy to advance my plans.  It makes everything easier.  It's more economical for one person to travel than for two.  In Adelaide I'm operating in a familiar environment. I can feel confident in booking accommodation that is good value and of a good standard.  I know which restaurants are good. We can rehearse in my lounge room and I can cook him meals and provide snacks.  I know how to produce and promote a show in Adelaide, because I've done it before.

My husband says he'll take the week off, so we can show Eneias around the city and surrounding area.  Being at home instead of overseas means that he can carry on with his own activities, such as playing golf, while we're rehearsing.

I go on Facebook and send Eneias a message - would he like to come here to rehearse and perform with me?  He says yes, and that I should send him my song list.

The next step is to set out my offer in a detailed letter.  I need a professional translator to translate my letter into Portuguese.  While I'm having lunch with my Italian-speaking friend Lia, she advises me to use the NAATI website (National Accreditation Authority for Translators and Interpreters).  After a couple of false starts, I make contact with Paola, who quotes me a very reasonable fee.  I transfer the money to her and send her my letter in English.  Within a few days Paola sends me the letter in Portuguese.  She also advises me to sign and mail the letter in English, because it will help Eneias to obtain his visa.

I message him again through Facebook, attaching the letter in Portuguese.  He quickly replies, saying that he agrees to my proposal.

Next is to book the theatres where I want us to perform.  No point having him visit if my favourite venues are not available.  Both theatres are available on the dates I am seeking.  They send booking forms and ask for a deposit.

Now I visit my travel agent and ask her to work out some flights to get Eneias to Adelaide.  She produces a flight plan via Dubai, flying straight into Adelaide.  I send him the proposed schedule and he's happy with it.  I book and pay for the flight.

So we have a plan.

This way, we will get to know each other and rehearse in a relaxed way, not in a state of urgency.  It is important for musical partners to be "in tune" personally as well as musically.

It's an adventure for both of us.

Someone to accompany me

The heart surgery episode has underlined for me the fact that we are not here forever.  I'm determined to live life to the full.

I will not procrastinate.  I'm going to do the things I want to do.  In particular, more music.

I'm going to make my show in Rio happen.

An essential ingredient will be someone to accompany me.  I don't play an instrument, so I'm not self- sufficient.  I will need to depend on someone to play for me.

One option would be to take a musician with me from Adelaide.  But no one has emerged as a regular musical partner for me.  The musicians who have accompanied me have plenty of other commitments, and I can imagine trying to juggle their availability and constantly postponing the venture.

Also, I'm keen on the idea of a cross-cultural experience.  Could I find someone (or a band) in Rio?  It might be good to work with someone local; someone who speaks the language and has a bit of a following, and who can perhaps bring in other musicians.

The logistics of my plan seem a bit complicated.  For example, how will we rehearse?  What if I go to Brazil and meet them a week before the show, and find that we don't get along, or the music doesn't "gel"?  Or if the musicians don't show up at all?  That sounds stressful.

A second alternative would be to make two trips, one to rehearse and one to perform.  That sounds expensive.  How long would I need to stay?  What would my husband do while I'm rehearsing?  I don't think he'd like the idea of my going on my own.

Meanwhile, I've been communicating online with Eneias, the Brazilian guitarist I met on Facebook.  For the first few months, we corresponded ineffectually, struggling with the language barrier, trying to establish a connection that might take us forward.

We started with very simple communications.  Once in a while Eneias would send me a short message - "Hi!", or "Let's do our presentation in Brasil".

Then I discovered the free online translation services.   It's magic.  You type in a passage in English and click on "Translate", then the Portuguese version appears.  It makes a few mistakes, but they are not too bad if you keep your grammatical constructions very simple.  And as I begin to learn a bit of Portuguese I can see if there is a gross error, and then adapt what I am saying.

I have also "followed" him on Facebook, looking at what he has written, his photos and videos of his performances.  I'm starting to get to know him a little.

He has performed in a show to mark the 100th anniversary of the birth of Vinicius Moraes (1960's composer and lyricist for Jobim).  He is interviewed about this on an online TV show.  I watch the interview and, although he's speaking Portuguese, his passion for the music is evident to me.

And now, he writes on his Facebook page that he is recording a CD.  I click "Like", and he sends me one of his original songs.  I like the song.  I like his playing.  I like his voice.  

I am going to need to do something to move this project along.

A third option occurs to me.  It's quite a creative solution. 

The idea swims around in my mind, takes hold, and begins to grow there.

A solution in my own backyard

October 2013.

I'm waiting to board the plane to Boston for the conference.  While I wait, I read the local newspaper.

An article catches my eye.  A primary school is introducing Brazilian Portuguese classes for the children, as the World Cup and Olympic Games will lift Brazil's profile in the next few years.

They are also holding classes for adults.

Ooh! (sharp intake of breath).

This school is five minutes from my home.  I tear out the article and keep it in a safe place to await my return.

When I get  home, I phone the school.  They give me a mobile phone number, but when I call it there is no answer.  I also send a text message, but receive no response.

It's a dead end.

But some weeks later, Facebook serves up a post by "The Brazilian Ethic School of South Australia".  They are holding classes at the primary school.  I message them on Facebook, and they send me the details.

The Beginner class is on Wednesday night.  I can't attend - that's when I have my singing lesson.

There is an Intermediate class on Saturday morning.  I ask if I can try it, and explain that I have already taught myself some Brazilian Portuguese.

"Yes, you can try it", is the response.

On Saturday morning I arrive at the school.  It's a big school, and I circumnavigate it looking for the room. Finally I find the class, and introduce myself to the teacher, Andrea, and a fellow student, Andrew.  There are only two of us in the class on this day.

Andrea starts speaking in Portuguese, and I cannot understand a word.  I feel tension developing inside me, and remind myself not to "block" the language.  I start to breathe again and try to relax; focus on the instruction.  I try hard to pronounce the words properly, and participate actively in the class.  I tell myself I only have to be good enough to not get kicked out of the class.

Andrea hands out a work book, and I don't recognize any of the words on the page.  I've been learning the language by ear, purely from songs and CD training programs.  But when I hear the words I start to connect them with the written words.

The language is a bit like Spanish, and has similarities to French.

Because I've learned other languages previously, I know how to learn a language; I am not really starting from scratch.  We learn vocabulary, verb conjugations, sentence construction.

By the end of the lesson I've learned quite a lot.  I feel confident that I can learn this language.

It's amazing what can turn up in your own backyard.

Learning the "Lingo"

If I'm going to Brazil, I'll need a way to communicate.

If I'm going to sing Brazilian songs, I'll want to be able to sing some of them in Brazilian Portuguese.  And I'll want to understand what I'm singing about.

I need to learn Brazilian Portuguese.

But how?  It is not widely offered here.  And I don't have a lot of availability to attend classes.

So I go for the next best thing - a self-teaching program on audio CD.  I purchase a 12-lesson program and listen to it while I'm cleaning up the kitchen.

At the end of the twelve lessons, I am able to order a glass of water and argue about who is going to pay for dinner.  This really isn't very useful.  The program progresses quite slowly, and it's disappointing that the content is not more practical.

And then I get Earworms.  It's not a disease.  It's the best CD language trainer ever; it utilizes music, rhythm and repetition to drill the phrases into your brain, so they stick.  I put Earworms (Volumes 1 & 2) in my car and drive around listening to the conversations.  The presenters break up the phrases and repeat each part in time to music.  It's soothing and fun.  As I drive, I join in with enthusiasm; no one can hear me.

At the same time I try to learn the Portuguese lyrics of some of my Brazilian songs.  I understand some of the words, but don't always get the full sense of the songs.  It doesn't matter - I enjoy getting my mouth around the words and imitating the singer.  I type out the lyrics and underline the syllables that are emphasized in the song.  The singers tend to run the vowels together; sometimes several words seem to merge into one.  I listen and repeat, over and over.  After a while I can sing some of the songs all the way through, only stumbling over the words once or twice.

Lani Hall (lead singer of Brasil 66) came from Chicago, and didn't speak Brazilian Portuguese.  She learned all the songs phonetically and sang them from memory.  I should be able to do this too.

But I don't feel confident enough yet to perform these songs.  When you are on stage there is a lot to think about.  It's hard enough to remember lyrics in your own language.  And I'm sure Lani had a bit of help with learning and pronouncing her lyrics.  I don't imagine she taught herself in her own lounge room.

As a next step, I decide to try a song in French.  French is my strongest foreign language, and because I understand the lyrics, it's not purely memory work.   I work on a French Christmas carol, and manage to hold it together in performance.  But I still don't feel very confident to attempt the Brazilian songs in their true language.

Video of The Christmas Song (French lyrics)

No limits

On a Sunday afternoon I arrive at an inner-city cafe/restaurant.  My friend Lauren (from the inaugural Cabaret Summer School) is singing there, accompanied by a guitarist.  I sit in the corner and order a coffee and a light snack.  Sunshine streams through the open door as the music wafts in my direction.  Lauren sings strongly and improvises creatively.

During a break, Lauren recognises me.  She comes over and embraces me warmly.  She mentions that she is graduating from her University music degree and her final recital is next week.  I tell her I'll be there - I've already seen her event publicised on Facebook.  She indicates a guy sitting at a table outside.  "Luke will be one of my adjudicators", she says.

Luke is the other reason I've come out to this event today.  He is one of the jazz singers I often hear about, but I've never heard him sing.  His public performances seem always to be on week nights at locations I can't get to.  He is a cousin of Chris, the gifted pianist who often accompanied me in the early days.

Lauren finishes her set and departs.  Luke and his guitarist set up.  It is now late in the day.  Bill arrives and we order some wine and a seafood entree platter.  We chat and enjoy the music.  As the musicians announce that they are taking a break, they invite requests.  Our platter arrives, and we munch on the delicious snacks.

When the next break comes, they plead for requests.  I go up and ask if they play any songs by Jobim: "I'm sure you would have quite a few", I say.  They reel off several titles.  I make approving noises and suggest some others.  Then Luke says "How come you know these songs?  Are you a singer?  Would you like to sing one of these songs with us?"

No, I would not.  I have not come prepared to sing.  I have had two glasses of wine.  I am very happy listening to you both, thank you, anyway.

Luke says "Well, come back and sing next week."  Guitarist Paul cuts in, "No, I think she should sing today."  He is not going to let me off the hook.

I go to the bathroom to think about it, and I do a few warm-up exercises.  I come back and tell them that I'll sing "Dreamer".  You've got to take the chances that are offered to you.  My heart rate immediately escalates, and I hope my newly-repaired valve doesn't burst.

During the final set they call me to come up.  Luke produces a small saxophone.  I perch on a bar stool and listen carefully to the introductory bars.  Then I launch in to the song.  It goes very smoothly.  They are very good musicians, and I have had enough experience to turn an unexpected jam into a performance.   It feels fantastic.  Luke invites me to come back again.  Normally I would dismiss this as pure politeness, but he repeats the invitation several times.  Perhaps I will.

A few days later I visit my cardiologist for my three-month check-up.  This time I get a friendlier nurse.  As she applies the gloopy fluid to my chest, she says "Let's see if this valve is functioning the way it should".  I close my eyes.  I don't want to see anything that might scare me.  I breathe deeply and  try to remain calm.  I cannot do anything about the result.  It is what it is.

The cardiologist calls me in.  He measures my blood pressure.  It is normal.  He declares "Everything is working properly.  You are well."

I plant my elbows on his desk.  I let out a sigh and my head drops into my hands.  It has been an eventful four months.

I quiz him - can I go back to lifting weights in the gym?  Is there anything I can't do?

"There is nothing you cannot do", he says.  "I'll see you in twelve months."

I'm inclined to take him literally - that there is nothing I cannot do.

I will triumph over my limbic brain

Now recovered from my heart surgery, I look for a way to get back into performing.

I'm a member of the public speaking group Toastmasters, and they are organizing a "variety night".  I sang in this show last year, and see it as a good chance to get back in front of an audience.

I decide to perform a song called "Lost in Wonderland".  The music is by Jobim - an instrumental piece he named "Antigua".  I've listened to this music many times, and wished I could sing it - but there were no lyrics. Then last year, listening to a new Barbra Streisand album, I discovered that the song does have words.  A lyricist called Marshall Barer wrote the words for her, she recorded the song in 1968 and only released it last year.  It's called "Lost in Wonderland" and is a dark, grown-up Alice in Wonderland song.  It is very challenging, as there are lots of words and the melody line jumps around, up and down.

I'm keen to give this difficult song a first outing.

At the Toastmasters night, I'm the opening act.  It's my first performance in four months, and as I commence my piece the adrenaline surges.  My voice does not betray my nerves.  I've learned to control that, but the tension gets channeled into my hands. The microphone is doing a dance of its own.  And towards the end of the song my mouth is getting dry.  Mentally I tell myself "Keep going - breathe!".  My lungs obey, my voice comes out well, I remember all my words, and with a boost of determination I finish the song strongly.

This is a big development - the ability to "watch" myself and take my own advice as I perform.

In the past I've felt frustrated with carefully preparing a song, only to have it hijacked by my "limbic brain" - the primitive part of the brain that controls the fight-or flight-instinct.  I've felt it tugging and warning "danger, danger".  It has made me forget my lyrics. It has inhibited me from throwing my voice forward, causing it to fall back into my throat.  It has held me back from singing in full voice, and instead I have flicked over into my thin, small head voice. I've felt myself resiling from a higher note even though I know I can sing it.  I've failed to modify my vowels in the way I've planned to, and forgotten to drop my jaw open in the way I know I should.

And after a performance, I've said to myself "Will my brain please work?"  All my energy, it seems, has been going towards remembering words and conquering nerves.  You always think you'll be fine, but it feels very different when you get up there on stage.

At the Toastmasters show, I notice a big improvement in my ability to perform as I've planned, and to sing as I know I can.

But nerves are still hindering my performance, and I'm determined to conquer my limbic brain, that is holding me back from my best performance.

My lawyer in Brazil

Two months after my heart surgery, I fly to Boston for the annual conference of the International Bar Association.

It proves to be the easiest IBA conference I've ever been to.  My hotel is connected to the conference centre by a covered walkway.  I can get there from my room in ten minutes.  Lunches are at another hotel, adjacent to the conference centre.  I could stay under cover all week, if I wanted to.

The IBA conference is massive.  It has a dozen concurrent sessions morning and afternoon for a week.  This year there are 6000 delegates.

On the Tuesday morning I attend a panel discussion for which I've agreed to write a report for the Committee newsletter.  During this session I notice a beautiful pair of high heeled shoes alongside me.  They are attached by ankle straps to the long, slender legs of a woman of about my own age, with blonde curls.  She is from Sao Paolo in Brazil.  During question time she asks "What is the point of a meaningless exchange of business cards?  I want to have proper conversations with the people I meet here."  Everyone agrees that a meaningless exchange of business cards is...meaningless.  But I know what she means.  Lots of people at this conference deal out their cards as if in a casino.  Her question is honest and direct.  It promotes discussion in the room.

At the end of the session I see Alessandra in discussion with a small group.  Ironically, they are all exchanging business cards.  I march up and say "Can I be part of this meaningless exchange of cards?" They all laugh.  And now I've got her card.

From there I go to the Latin American Forum lunch.  By the time I arrive, the only free table is the one at the back near the door, and I grab a seat there.  One of our panel members sits two places to my left. Alessandra arrives and takes up the last empty seat next to him.   We all have a pleasant conversation.

As the lunch ends, I angle for a chat with Alessandra.  To break the ice, I say "I have a secret first name that is very similar to yours - it's Allissande".  Then I say "Shall we have a meaningful discussion?"  We sit down and I tell her of my plans to have a concert in Rio.  We chat about this for a while.

I've been wondering how I'm going to set up a show in Rio.  I'll need to hire a theatre.  How do I make a booking and enter into a contract with them?  How will I engage musicians?  How will I deal with the language barrier?  Now I ask Alessandra "Could I hire you to help me?"

She suggests that one option would be to hold a free open-air concert, and that if it was promoted properly, lots of people would probably come to hear the crazy Australian with a passion for Brazilian music.  She says "I have a friend in the entertainment business.  We will make it happen."

That evening, I attend a cocktail party at the Massachusetts State House.  It is a large and grand building with a gold dome, on Beacon Hill.  It is just as grand inside.  I introduce myself to people and hand out lots of business cards.

Then I hear the music.  I trace it to another room, to a guy with an acoustic guitar, seated near the buffet table.  I stand nearby and listen for a while.  Finally, I approach him and ask "Do you know any Brazilian songs?"  I'm halfway through singing "The Girl From Ipanema" when Alessandra appears and says "Ah, you are already practising!"

There are 6000 people at this conference, and numerous concurrent events, yet I've seen her three times today.

It is meant to be.  We will make it happen.

Cabaret Live! 2.0

I haven't missed very much while I've been off sick.

I wasn't able to attend the August Cabaret Live! because I was in hospital awaiting my heart-valve operation.  But that night it was announced that the event would be "taking a break".  Amongst my cabaret friends on Facebook, I have sensed a great deal of of angst and anguish - we've been used to seeing each other every month and building our performance skills on a regular basis.  Now there is no Cabaret Live! - what will we do?  Where will we perform?  How will we improve?  Will we see each other again?  Has the dream ended?

I haven't missed any other opportunities to perform.

Since my heart surgery, I've been to a conference in Boston and one in Sydney, where I also attended my sister's 50th birthday party.  And while I'm in Sydney, I see a Facebook message about the new incarnation of Cabaret Live! - a new format, with different challenges.

The event has remained in its original format for four years - an "open-mic" night where anyone can turn up and sing on stage.  It's impromptu; no rehearsal.  I have sometimes actually felt like a cheat for arranging a practice session with the pianist in the lead-up to the event.

Now, the rules have changed.  It's no longer open-mic; it's by application and invitation.  There will be "headline acts" - for those with a 10-minute piece ready for a commercial audience, and "spotlight acts" - for those with a song that has been prepared to a "high performance standard".   It's not for newbies; instead, for them, there will be educational workshops.

We are no longer guaranteed a place in the program - instead, there will be a competitive process.

I completely understand why the organizers have moved in this direction - it will make the event more professional and lift its profile.

But my first reaction is "Am I good enough?"

And I quickly slap my own hand and tell myself to get over it.  You can't worry about this.  If you want to sing, you must put yourself forward and submit yourself to critical appraisal.  All you can do is your best.

At the same time, I'm really glad that I took the opportunity to perform there almost every month, for three and a half years.  It's been an "in the deep end", adrenaline-pumping, steep learning curve that has pushed me to a point I never imagined I'd reach - presenting my own full-length solo show.

I click on "Apply" and fill out the online form.

I'm determined to be good enough.

Cabaret Live: A New Direction

Can't sing

Recuperating from open-heart surgery is a long process.  

Initially I must not lift anything heavier than one kilo.  This is very limiting.  A one-litre bottle of milk is about right.  Opening a ring-pull can of tuna requires too much force.  Even clicking the lid on the toothpaste tube strains the chest muscles.  

Gravity is not my friend - if I tilt my body, I feel my sternum pulling apart.  I have to sleep lying on my back.  I can't change position at all, so I wake frequently feeling uncomfortable.  

And as I feared, I can't sing.

Three weeks after the operation, my chest is still giving a lot of pain.  I can take a big breath, but it's an effort, and I can't sustain it.  I can produce a sound but it is thin and lacks tone.

Normally, singing is very enjoyable physically.  Now it's not.  It feels uncomfortable.

More disturbingly, I'm not interested in music.  I'd thought that music would be my companion during my convalescence.  I'd imagined myself on the couch listening to my CDs, but I don't feel like doing that.

I back up a lot of my CDs to i-Tunes, in case any of them break or get lost.  It's insurance for my valued collection.  But I'm not that interested in listening to them.

My house is strangely silent.

I'm not getting any joy from music.  The emotional response I would normally feel is missing.

Just as food is not tasty; chocolate tastes like cardboard, and coffee lacks its usual rich aroma - music seems like background noise.  I feel nothing.  My musical libido is gone.

Is it the pain?  Is it the anaesthetic?  Lack of sleep?  Or my inability to sing along?

Could it be the medication I'm taking?

I'm taking various pills, including beta-blockers.  These slow the heart rate and prevent it from slipping into an irregular pattern.  Some people take them for stage fright, as they relieve anxiety and make the user feel calm on stage.  But other people say that they are not good for performance, because these pills drain all the passion out of it.

At the four-week mark I decide to try some singing practice.  But it doesn't feel good.  I can't sustain the air pressure inside me.  It's like running with a sprained ankle.

Yet, I start to feel impatient to achieve something.  I go online and purchase some "teach yourself piano" books on the Internet.  I've had my piano tuned and it's sounding good.  The tuner tells me it's a nice piano, and it will stay in tune better if it's played.

Slowly, music begins to move me again.  It happens very gradually - a blue note; a cadence; a chord progression will stir something emotionally in me.  I just have to trust that my desire will return.

In Week 6,  I return to singing lessons.  There's much less pain now, and I can stop taking the beta-blockers.  My teacher guides me carefully - we joke that we wouldn't want to burst anything.  I'm only half-way to being fully-mended.  We pick up the threads from my last lesson.  

Finally, I'm on the road back to performing.

Time to go home

Apparently during my week in hospital, I've lost just a quarter of a kilogram.  How can this be?  I've had three days of fluids only, two days with little appetite and two days of not fancying hospital food.  And no alcohol for a week.  Sorry, the scales must be wrong.

As well as the big gash in my chest, my sternum is swollen and my torso is decorated with bruises and puncture marks.

Nurse Min is with me again, after her weekend off.  She describes driving through the Barossa Valley with her husband.  They had lunch at a pub and bought local jams and other produce.  I haven't been outside for a week.  I can't wait to take a breath of fresh air.

Min's husband used to be an oil driller and they lived in various places around the world.  Due to industrial accidents, he landed in hospital several times.  Visiting him in an overseas hospital, she decided to change his sheets.  This task became an archeological dig; removing the sheet revealed another one soaked in blood, and under that was one covered in mud.  The doctors would sit down with the patients and have a smoke.  And the patients would order their meals from MacDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken.

She also worked at another overseas hospital.  The patients would store their hand-guns and knives in the bedside table drawer.  And after welcoming a new patient, she had to ask for the cheque; the cost of the hospital stay had to be paid in advance.   If the patient had health insurance, reimbursement could be claimed later.  People would mortgage their homes, or borrow the money from loan sharks.

I feel very fortunate to have had such good care.

But my lunch is not very nice - even the dessert looks horrible.  The fact that I'm complaining suggests it really is time to go home.  Instead, I eat some of the chocolates brought by friends.

My husband and son stack the flowers onto a trolley.  Slowly we make our way down to the exit.

When we turn into our street I feel overjoyed.  I'm going home to my couch and my DVDs and my own bed.

My son makes a pot of coffee.  I sit down to eat a cupcake made by a friend.  It has cream cheese icing and crunchy almond slivers on top.  I watch two episodes of "Mad Men" on DVD, as rain pours down outside.

I have to sleep on my back, in the same position, all night; forever, perhaps.  Through habit, I wake at the hospital observation hours of 2 and 6 am.

At dawn, I slide back under the covers and into a dream in which I am riding a bicycle on a sunny day, along a riverside path.  The grass is tall and I am not wearing a helmet.

"Take a deep breath"

The week in hospital requires patience and resilience.

Some days I wake up feeling great, but it doesn't take long to slip back into fatigue and I just want to lie down.

I can't reach my phone.  Drugs are keeping the pain under control, but my chest is very uncomfortable, and my range of movement is limited.  The telephone cradle is very light, so that if I can manage to get a grip on the handset, the spiral cord doubles up on itself and the whole unit clatters to the ground.  This means that the first thing my caller hears from me is a swear word.

On the Friday I inquire if there is a hairdressing service.  My hair hasn't been washed for a week, and if I can only lift one kilogram, how am I going to hold a hairdryer above my head?   A lady can come in to dry it for me, but I have to wash it myself.  With effort, I manage to do this.  The hairdresser arrives, and as soon she starts on me I can tell that there is no particular expertise being applied.  It is the worst blow-dry ever, finished with sticky lacquer.   I suppose it's better than what I could do one week after open-heart surgery.  My daughter comes in with a straightener and fixes it for me.

Part of the therapy is to cough frequently - ten times per hour.  Hugging a folded towel lessens the pain. My cardiologist listens to my chest and observes that air is not reaching down fully into my right lung.  He asks the nurse to get me a "tri-flo".  It turns out to be a sort of toy that requires you to suck in deeply and make three balls levitate into the air.  It's great because it sets you a goal.  Instead of "breathe in deeply", it indicates how deeply you can breathe and still be safe.

Apparently they used to give everyone one of these, but research found that not everyone benefits from it.  I'm glad I told my doctor about the singing, because I think this why I've been given one.  I want to regain full lung capacity and he's offered me a way to do it.  It's hard at first, but I persevere, and within twenty minutes I've cracked it.

Home away from home

My room in the Cardiac Surgical Unit soon resembles a florist shop.  There are vases of flowers on every ledge and bench.

The first night, there is no point trying to sleep.  They check on me every hour, and between visits, a blood pressure cuff auto-inflates eerily, like something in a surrealist movie.

My achievements for the first day are to get out of bed and into an armchair, and to take myself to the bathroom.

There's a chair in the shower, and I'm happy to use it.

They remove the dressing from my wound and invite me to dab it with a damp face-washer.  Red lines appear on the white cloth.

My lips are dry and peeling.  I have a streaky spray-tan; I've been painted head-to-toe in Bettadine.  I feel a bit like the girl in the Bond movie "Goldfinger", though unlike her, I'm alive.

Gradually they take out the various tubes and needles.

The days go by, to a rhythm of pills and injections.

One morning, I wake at dawn and wonder where I am.  I don't like my hotel.  I want to get away, then realize that I can't.  Panic threatens to overwhelm me.

At night, I'm lying in bed and feel the sensation of being in a sleeper compartment of a moving train.   It feels as if the train is swaying side to side.  But I am motionless, and the bed is not moving, either.  This is a mystery I cannot solve.  The next morning the surgeon comes in and I tell him about it.  He says "Oh, that.  That is just your heart moving around.  That misery will settle down in time."

The surgeon is proud of his work.  He describes it as "a perfect repair".  

I am happy to applaud.

A one-week "holiday"

The evening before the operation, my husband and son come to visit me.  They bring flowers, and I hope they can be kept for me until after my 24-hour stay in the Intensive Care unit.

We watch the X-Factor on TV, and I recognize one of the contestants, Michael, who is a regular at Cabaret Live.   He sings extremely well and makes it through the audition process; on to "boot camp".  I cheer loudly for him.

They leave, taking the lap top with them, as I won't be able to lift it after the operation.

I've been given two sleeping pills and I hope they really do knock me out.  If I'm semi-comatose in the morning, that will be great.  I gulp down the pills.

But at 6 a.m. I'm awake, bright and alert.  I shower, and as instructed, swab every inch of my body with an antibiotic sponge from a sealed packet.  Then I put on the hospital gown.  Min comes in and tells me I've got it on back to front.  This one opens at the back.  This seems strange, since they're going to operate on my chest.

She gives me another two sleeping pills, and I swallow them gratefully.

They wheel me into the operating theatre, and I say "Hi" to the team.

And that's it for a while.  No dreams; no white lights; no revelations.

Then I hear my surgeon speaking.  He says "We were able to repair the valve; we didn't have to replace it".

I feel overjoyed and start to cheer.  But when I open my mouth nothing happens, so I cheer with my hands.  The surgeon isn't speaking to me, though.  He's describing the operation to some other people, perhaps a group of students.

But now I know the news.  It's very good news.

I can't swallow, yet I need to, badly.  They wrench the tube out of my throat.  That feels better.  But now I can't breathe.  Now they get an oxygen mask onto me.  I still can't speak.  My husband is at my side, encouraging me.

The nurses haul me into a semi-sitting position, make me hug a folded towel and command me to cough, to re-inflate the lungs that have been flattened.

Then the deliveries begin.  First, a "Get Well" card.  Then, as if by magic, Julie from Cabaret Live appears at my bedside with a bouquet of flowers from the cabaret group. Then some flowers from some other friends.

Flat on my back, I constantly demand crunchy ice chips to slake my thirst.

I hear someone say "It's too soon to know if she'll have a stroke".

Note to self: Don't have a stroke.

Then they cart me back to the ward to begin my one-week "holiday".

The Magical Mystery Tour

On Sunday morning, I arrive at the hospital and am escorted to my room.  The window overlooks a light industrial area.  I wonder why there is a little desk in the corner.  I  don't think I'll be doing any work.

The nurse who greets me introduces herself as Min.  She provides a bit of an overview of what to expect.  They are going to cut through my sternum and it will be wired together; I'll need to treat it gently while it mends.  In the weeks after the operation I must not lift anything heavy.  A maximum of one kilo to begin with.  My laptop weighs nearly two kilos.  A kettle full of water will be too heavy.  If I want to chop vegetables, I should sit down at the table, not bend over the kitchen counter.  If I do too much lifting, I might feel my sternum move out of alignment, and I will have to come back to have it re-set.

Some people do end up back in hospital, apparently.  I want to avoid this fate.

During the morning I am visited by a procession of doctors and nurses with varied duties.  The surgeon bounces in, a vision of vibrant health and energy.  He is wonderfully reassuring.  It makes me wonder how one learns such a skill.

I'm first on his list for tomorrow.  When I wake up, I'll know my future.  Either my own valve will have been repaired, or I will have a metal replacement valve.  If I have the new valve, I'll start taking Warfarin on Wednesday night.

While I'm waiting for a chest x-ray, I meet a man who is also having heart surgery tomorrow morning.  He's having a valve replacement, as he has been told that his valve is beyond repair.  This is very unfortunate for him, but it gives me added encouragement.  We have the same surgeon.  Now I know that he doesn't tell all his patients that he will attempt a repair.  Hopefully, his assessment of my chances is realistic.

Lots of people are wishing me well, keeping fingers crossed for me, praying, sending healing thoughts, lighting candles and appealing to the angels.  I'm grateful for every thought and wish.

They give me a booklet about heart health - what to eat and what not to eat.  Dutifully I read it, and conclude that my diet is reasonably good.  I don't have blocked arteries.  I'm going to keep on doing what I've been doing.  Anyway, they bring me a huge plate of roast beef with gravy for lunch, and a package of sweet biscuits with my afternoon cup of coffee.  I don't think I need to be obsessed with my diet.

Abandoning the hospital snack, I go downstairs to Hudsons and get myself a proper coffee and a lemon curd muffin.  I eat the whole thing.  It's delicious.  There is no point dieting today.

I sit around all afternoon listening to Bossa Nova, reading Harvard Business Review, fiddling about with Facebook, and blogging.  I do things I know I won't feel like doing after the operation.  From time to time, staff come in and perform various tests.  They are caring and reassuring.

It begins to feel like a new adventure.  They assure me I won't remember anything about the operation, but the aftermath and the road to recovery will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  When I get up tomorrow morning I'll be embarking on a magical mystery tour.

Leave me with a scar

I'm tired of waiting for this operation.  I just want it to be done and to get on with the process of recuperating, so I can do all the things I want to do with the rest of my life.

But there is the issue of the scar.  Right now, I don't have one.  But in a week's time I will have a big red vertical gash in my chest.

Until now, I've felt quite philosophical about this.  For one thing, I'm grateful that there are people who are willing to do this work.  When I was a young Law student, I was offered an opportunity to witness an autopsy.  I took up this offer, because it was a unique life (or death) experience.  It was quite confronting.  So I've heard what it sounds like to cut through the sternum.  I'm glad I don't have to do this for a living, or be involved in the process.  All I have to do is lie there.  I'm glad that there are courageous people who can fix me.

Intellectually, I've accepted that this scar will be very visible, and will form a part of me for the rest of my life.

But I'm not sure how I'll feel when I see it and when the realization kicks in.

I try not to be vain and superficial.  But I recall that a few years ago I noticed a sun-spot on my chest and decided it was ruining the appearance of my decolletage.  I went and had it removed, and after that I felt much more attractive in my evening gowns.

But this scar will remain.

What do you do to conceal a huge cut in your chest?  I'm not very keen on high necklines.   I've got a wardrobe full of low-cut dresses and tops.  I'm not going to throw them out.  I've got lots of scarves, but it seems a bit coy to always have one strategically draped.  I'm thinking of getting some large, "bib-style" beaded necklaces to distract the eye from the wound, so it won't be quite so confronting for people to look at.

But ultimately, I'm not planning to cover it up.  I like wearing low necklines, and I intend to keep wearing them.

My surgeon tells me that the scar will fade, especially if I cover it with tape this summer when I'm out in the sun - while it's healing the scar can absorb pigment in the sunlight.  He is advising me not to "tan" my scar.

He tells me that he will keep it as small as possible, and that some film stars have had this operation and you can hardly see the evidence.

Which ones?  Are they aged under 80?

So here's hoping.  But it could present quite a challenge to my self-image.

Time Off

I've never had much time off.

When I finished school, the "Gap Year" did not exist.  You were encouraged to go straight into University in order to maintain momentum.  The thinking was that if you took time off, you would never feel like going back to study.  I finished school at 17, went straight to University and at the age of 22 was unleashed upon the public as a fully-fledged lawyer, albeit a terrified newbie.

I worked during most school and Uni holidays, although during one vacation I spent a wonderful three months travelling around Europe on my own.

When I had my children, I took 3 months' maternity leave with each of them, then returned to work part-time.  This time off was not exactly a holiday.  Sleep deprivation, feeding, changing of nappies, washing clothes, cleaning the floor; repeat as required.  Much as I loved my babies, my brain yearned for stimulation, yet even reading the newspaper was a challenge.  Going back to work felt like a holiday.

I'm going to be off work for at least two months.  For the first month I won't be able to drive, or do anything very much.  This is not exactly going to be a holiday, but at least I don't have to look after anyone.  I can do whatever I feel like doing, when I feel like doing it.

I'm very bad at doing nothing, but I want to get well and avoid any unnecessary setbacks.  I'll have to think of some sedentary things to do.  How can I fill in this time?

Things to do during two months' recuperation:

• Watch Series 4 & 5 of Mad Men (and is there also a 6 & a 7???)
• Paint my toenails
• Sort my jewellery and put it into the organizer box I bought two months ago
• Finally bring out all my winter clothing before Winter is over.
• Back up all of my music CD's onto I-Tunes
• Edit the video of my cabaret show "Adventures with a Brazilian"
• Pitch the show to the Butterfly Club in Melbourne
• Make a showreel to help me get some voiceover work
• Do the breathing exercises that my singing teacher gave me
• Read all back-issues of Harvard Business Review
• Write the e-book I've been fiddling about with
• Read "War and Peace"
• Listen to the 12 x 2-CD set of "Remembrance of Things Past" by Proust
• Learn Portuguese
• Learn the Portuguese lyrics for my Brazilian songs
• Get my piano tuned
• Teach myself to play piano and/or guitar.

Maybe this list looks ridiculously ambitious (or just ridiculous), but I believe in the value of lists.  I reckon that if you make a long list you are likely to get at least some of it done.  Writing a list makes you expand the range of possibilities.  And ticking each item off the list gives you a sense of satisfaction and progress.

Never Say Never Again

It's time to attend to practicalities.  It seems pessimistic, but I have to face up to reality.  I've been given my "odds".  

I already have a valid Will.

Now I decide to put in place Powers of Attorney and Enduring Guardianship, in case anything happens to me while I'm having the operation.  These will enable Bill to act on my behalf if I am unable to handle my own affairs.  

It's a good idea for everyone have these documents, and without such a catalyst we would probably never get around to it.  Both of us should have these documents, and they can remain in place for whenever they may be needed in the future.  I ask a local solicitor to prepare the documents in draft and I give these to my husband to look at.  

One of the documents provides an opportunity to give "special directions" as to how the power is to be exercised.  The example given is "I would like to live near my sister".  Playfully, I say "Can I specify that you won't instal a girlfriend here, while I am still around?"  He laughs, and says "OK, and to what extent do you want to be kept alive?"  This is too close to the bone.  We'd decided not to have a Medical Power of Attorney - that's the one that that allows the Attorney to decide when to switch off life support.  

Suddenly I feel wobbly.

And then I read an article in the newspaper about Warfarin, the blood-thinning medication which I'll have to take for life, if my heart valve needs to be replaced with a metal one.  The medication is required to prevent clotting; blood tends to stick to the metal.  This article mentions that people who take Warfarin cannot eat leafy vegetables such as spinach.

Or drink alcohol.

Really?  Never?

That would not be OK, although of course, it would have to be.  I suppose it would be better than the alternative.   Both my children say that they do not need alcohol to have a good time.  Nor do I, really.  But I like it.  And I regard it as a privilege of adulthood which I would not like to have taken away from me.

How would I feel if I could never again enjoy a lovely glass of wine while watching a cabaret show at La Boheme?  If I could never try their gorgeous cocktails again?

Of course, I should not believe everything I read in the papers.  Later I hear a different version - that if you're taking Warfarin you can drink alcohol, but you have to drink the same amount every day.

So alcohol-free days could be a thing of the past?

I'm sure it's more complicated than that.

I don't like complicated - I like freedom of choice.

That night I drink quite a lot.  After all, I might never be allowed to drink again.

The Golden Jubilee

Suddenly it is easy to communicate the severity of my condition.  "Open heart surgery" is a dramatic term that leaves no room for doubt.  "Heart valve replacement", on the other hand, suggests some sort of minor, key-hole procedure.  You might even think that maybe a big needle could do the job.

No, they need to open me right up.

I'm not taking the statistical risks too seriously, but occasionally in darker moments I reflect that the risks that I've been told about must be real, and these next two weeks could actually be my last.  It feels surreal.

Then it hits me.  Even if you're not having an operation, you never know if it's your last two weeks.  In fact, every day when you get up, it could be your last day.  You just don't know.  Of course, you can't dwell on this; all you can do is try to make the most of each day.

Mark Twain said "I have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened." 

I can either spend the next two weeks paralyzed by anxiety, or I can try to enjoy those days.  

When I turned 49, I realized that I was entering my 50th year.  I recalled the Queen of England having a "Golden Jubilee Year" celebration to mark her 50th year on the throne.  I decided that the coming year would be my own Golden Jubilee.

The idea of my Golden Jubilee Year was that I would strive to enjoy each day.  Every day I would wake up and resolve to enjoy it, taking the view that it's my day, and no one can spoil it.

Over the course of that year I established a habit of enjoying my day, and made the effort to carry that attitude with me into subsequent years.  I would seek out enjoyment; not wait for it to find me.  When you make the effort, you can find enjoyment in whatever you are doing, or choose to do something you enjoy.

Now I draw upon this philosophy to look for something nice in each day.  Even the medical appointments and tests have their good points.  Some of the staff are nice to talk to, and each time I complete a step, I can tick that one off the list, and it brings me closer to being healthy again.

I feel like a silly Pollyanna, but the alternative is to hate each day as it comes.

It feels weird to be so close to the edge, but not scared of falling.

It's my mitral valve that needs to be repaired or replaced

Ain't it awful!

During the two and a half weeks while I am waiting to have my operation I begin to spread the news about my surgery.

Reactions range from "You poor thing!" through "You'll be fine" to "Could be worse".

My revelation also draws forth a slew of competing claims of disaster and doom.  People tell me about past medical adventures, current ailments, and other bad things happening in their lives.  I'm not sure if the purpose of this is to express sympathy or to win attention.  I do my best to listen and express interest, because I do realize I'm not the only person ever to face a life-threatening condition.  I do understand that a conversation needs to be balanced between the parties.

Everyone seems to be dealing with some sort of unwelcome event in their lives.

After the cathartic effect of the first few discussions, I start to find these conversations a bit draining, and try to change the subject as soon as reasonably possible.

I could keep quiet about it, but that doesn't feel right.

When someone asks "How are you?" you are not supposed to take the question literally.  But I feel the need to let people know what is happening.   I won't be around for a while, and I don't want anyone thinking that I have the unmentionable "something worse".  I don't want people to gossip about what might possibly be wrong with me. Also, I don't want anyone feeling excluded and thinking that I was secretive and withheld information from them.  It would be very insincere to say "Really well, thanks", when I'm not well at all.  I want to be open and honest about it.  But I am very much aware that there is a limit to this topic as an interesting subject of conversation.

Repair or replace?

I settle into my chair, prepared for a long wait to see my surgeon.

But he is right on time.  He bounds into the Reception area and greets me enthusiastically.  Instantly I warm to him.

He explains the problem with the mitral heart valve, using pictures to illustrate.  He hands me a sample of an artificial valve replacement - it's a metal ring about the size of a ten-cent piece.

I say that I am resigned to having the valve replaced.  I have been receiving very strong messages that the valve is a mess and probably beyond repair.

He jumps in:  "But I believe it can be repaired.  In fact, I'm 90% sure."

He goes on to say that if he gets in there and it can't be saved, he will have to replace it, but at my age it would be better not to have to take blood-thinning medication.

I had never thought much about this.  I'd heard about this medication and had regarded it as part of the deal (oh, well, I'll have to take tablets).  I knew that I'd have to test my blood regularly.  Again, I thought this would be OK.  Diabetics have to do it.  I would cope, too.

But now my surgeon explains that this medication would compromise my health.  If I get a paper-cut, it could be hard to stop the bleeding.

Really?

I will have to consent to a replacement in the event that the he can't repair the valve.  He assures me he won't do bad surgery; he will ensure that this operation will have good, long-term results.

He praises my arteries - "pristine", he calls them.  Apart from the valve problem, I'm healthy.

He tells me what to expect.  It will be a two-hour operation.  I'll spend at least a week in hospital, and for the next week at home I must not be left alone.  I won't be allowed to drive for a month.  However, by the time I leave hospital I will not be in a lot of pain.

He will cut through my sternum.  Surgeons sometimes go in through the side of the chest and between the ribs ("minimally invasive"), but in his experience this can cause greater ongoing pain and also lung problems.  I certainly don't want that.

So, I'm having open-heart surgery.  Right.

I mention that I'm concerned about the scar, though I'm aware that this is a pointless thing to say.

He says "Wear it with pride".

He looks me straight in the eye as he informs me of the risks; a 1-2% risk of death, stroke or heart-attack.  This scarcely seems relevant; I don't have any choice but to have this operation.

I sign the consent form, and my fate is sealed.

Testing, testing...

The evening before the hospital tests, I feel a bit apprehensive.  A vision of myself as a sick person looms in my imagination.  I don't want to think of myself as an invalid.  I decide to do some singing practice.  The swelling in my heart has tightened my breathing, and I've had a bit of a cough, which my doctor thinks is connected with my heart condition.  But it seems to have improved a bit with the medication.  I start on some vocal exercises and find that when I make a big effort I can breathe deeply and my voice comes out quite well.  It makes me feel powerful and in control, whereas in hospital you have no choices and are subject to the control of others.

Next morning, my daughter takes me to the hospital at the crack of dawn.  I'm not allowed to eat anything or even have a drink of water.  I am escorted to the day clinic.  A nurse, Anna, bounces over and inquires "Hello, are you a patient?"  She sets me up in a bed and she and her colleagues Adrian and Marty attend to all the preliminaries.

They call the first test a TOE (trans-oesophageal echocardiogram).   The doctor sprays an evil-tasting anaesthetic into the back of my throat.  Then they bundle me over onto my left side and help me to swallow a mobile-phone charger (at least, that's what it feels like).

The second test is a coronary angiogram.  A tube is inserted into the artery in my groin and snakes its way to my heart, where it releases its cargo of dye to illustrate the interesting bits.  An action-replay of the video reveals that my arteries are clean and healthy, with no narrowing.  There is a lot of "back-wash" of blood through the valve, but there is a chance that it might be repaired rather than replaced.  This would mean I would not need to take Warfarin (blood thinning medication) for the rest of my life.

I can see the surgeon tomorrow.  He will advise me of my likely fate.

Back in the recovery room, I eat a pumpkin scone with strawberry jam and a ham salad sandwich (in that order).  I phone my mother and let her know the good news from the tests.  I ask the doctor if it would be OK to sing in the meantime.  He says "If you can breathe, yes, go right ahead."  I text my singing teacher "Put me on the program for next week's concert, pls!"

My son collects me from hospital and for the rest of the afternoon I watch videos, including Diana Krall in Rio.  Bill phones to say he has spoken to the cardiologist.  He sounds much happier now that he has first-hand information.

One way or another I will be fixed.

Video from the concert

Time for some R & R

Still days to go before I have the hospital tests.  The palpitations are impossible to ignore.  Over the weekend, I rest quite a bit, and I'm surprised how good it feels simply to give in and relax.

I visit my mother and tell her the news about my heart operation.  I try to play down the issue and make it sound like a routine procedure.  The main point is that I will be out of action for a while and won't be able to do the things I normally do for her.  But she is not silly; she knows it's serious.  

On the way home, I notice a big CD sale and go in and buy a few discs.  I'll have plenty of time to listen to new music.

On the Saturday night we go to a party.  After standing up for two hours I've had enough.  I can feel my heart labouring.  I give my husband a shove and we make our excuses to leave.

I'm allowed to do my yoga, so I go to my regular Sunday class and take the easier options, avoiding any exercises that are likely to raise my heart rate.  I enjoy moving to the music, the stretching and flexibility exercises and the guided meditation at the end.

In the afternoon, I go to a musical event called "Floating Melodies" on an iconic little river boat called Popeye.  I invite my friend Deb.  In the past year she has had surgery to remove a brain tumour.  I watched Deb remain positive, brave and strong throughout her ordeal.  I tell her about my heart problem.  It's very helpful to talk with someone else who has faced a life-threatening condition.  We have a philosophical discussion about how good it is to be alive.  

This show is organized by pianist Emma, and some other friends are there, too.  It's relaxing and enjoyable to be serenaded while we cruise up and down the river, enjoying a glass of wine and a cheese platter.