Since that time, I will fully admit it — I love McDonald’s. This, despite working there for over three years (which is an ETERNITY in McDonald’s Land) and cooking tens of thousands of Big Mac and Quarter Pounders.

Honestly, I couldn’t possibly begin to estimate how many Mickey D’s burgers I’ve cooked, and consumed.

Now I have tried to be a good boy since keeling over with a heart attack just over a year ago, and I have cut my consumption of fast food significantly. As in almost completely. Occasionally though I’ll get a little craving. A hankering for some McD’s.

That happend just two nights ago. I wanted a Quarter Pounder, and by God, I was going to get one!

Problem is, I live in downtown Seattle. I don’t have a car. So I have to walk everywhere. That makes it difficult when you walk to a McDonald’s, only to find it closed at 8:00pm (welcome to Downtown Seattle. Nothing stays open very late). Trying to avoid the McD’s on 3rd avenue, with its crowd of crack dealers and homeless people didn’t work. So off I went to 3rd and Pine in my continuing quest.

Here’s a transcript of my interaction with the server:

“I’d like a Quarter Pounder please, hold the cheese.”

“I’m sorry, we’re out of Quarter Pounders.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope! We ran out of meat a couple of hours ago.”

“How is that possible?”

I swear to God, the kid looks around, leans over and says, “Shitty management. It happens all the time.”

OK, so that was a little bit funny. But it was also WAY annoying. Honestly, how is it possible for a McDonald’s to run out of meat, shitty management or not? Frozen meat. I used to work there. I used to unload the boxes of meat from the distributer. You just stack them up in the walk-in freezer. You can’t run out of meat at a McDonald’s, regardless of your incompetence level.

Or so I thought.

“Big Mac?” was my next attempt.

“Uh, yeah, of course!” says Honest Counter Boy, like asking if they have any Big Macs is a stupid question. 30 seconds prior I would have thought it was a pretty stupid question too. Now, not-so-much.

So I get my Big Mac, sit down amongst several of Seattle’s finest citizens and I crack open my Big Mac box.

Back in the day, I would have snarfed that thing down in about six bites.

I took one bite and thought to myself, “Damn, this sucks. It’s like eating cardboard with a LOT of salt on it.”

I choked down a few more bites and thought to myself, “This doesn’t just suck. It tastes like shit.”

That was it. I couldn’t eat any more. What you see pictured above was all I could manage to choke down. Me, the guy that used to knock down a double-quarter pounder, large fries and three large sodas — for a snack.

I told this story on Facebook, here’s a small snip of that conversation:

Why, indeed. (Though for a moment there, it looked like the homeless guy was going to cry when I handed him half a burger. It really was quite sad.)

But give it away I did. And at that moment in time, standing there on the corner of Third & Pine, I realized that I may very well never step foot in a McDonald’s again.

For some of you, that won’t seem like a big deal. For a guy that’s loved his Mickey D’s all his life, that is a very very different feeling.

But, it DOES taste like shit. More importantly, it is just horrible “food”.

So adios McDonald’s. I thank you for teaching me work ethics when I was young, for being there late at night in my youth and for providing a ton of memories. But it’s time for you to get out of my life for good. I thought that would be hard. Turns out, it is remarkably easy after all. I can’t even imagine missing it.

Thanks to the power of social media, lots of great friends, and a very helpful Public Information Officer with the Mesa Fire Department, huge progress has been made!

I now have all the names of the firemen and EMTs that responded to my 911 call that day.

Unfortunately, in the year since the heart attack that crew has dispersed across various stations and shifts, maybe even out of town. But that’s OK. I’m persistent when there is something I want, and I want to meet these guys.

(Please note, I use the terms “guys” for any small group of friendly people. It’s not a male / female thing, though in this case all of the crew happened to be male. So don’t go all PC on me, m’kay?)

Last Thursday morning, I received an email from the Mesa FD PIO, telling me that one of the firefighters that answered my 911 call was currently on shift and still with Ladder 209, not far from my house in Mesa, where I happened to be staying while on a short business trip. She said, “stop by any time, he’s expecting you.”

I was about to meet my hero.

I read the email from the PIO, turned to Francy and said, “Ready to go meet this guy?”

“Of course!” was her immediate response.

My immediate thought was, “What am I going to say?” How do you thank someone for saving your life? Francy and I got in the car, scooted over to the store to buy a gift card and headed to the fire station.

I sat in the car, pen in hand, staring at this blank thank-you card. I had no idea what to write.

Ken  -

Words don’t seem sufficient. If it weren’t for you and the crew, I wouldn’t be alive today. Thank you for everything you did for me, and for everything else you do.

Warmest Regards,
Jay Thompson

I stuffed the gift card to Outback Steakhouse in the envelop and sealed it.

Turning to Francy I said, “This isn’t enough. This guy saved my life and I’m buying him dinner? Doesn’t seem like a very equitable trade.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“What if I break down and weep like a baby?”

“So what if you do?” Francy replied.

Yeah, so what. While no guy wants to break down into an emotional puddle of goo in front of the manly fireman, the simple fact was this was rapidly spooling up into a very emotional event. I felt like a teenager headed over to my prom date. I was excited, nervous and filled with anticipation.

Francy and I parked at the station and walked up to the door. I looked at Francy, she looked at me with that look of love and support only she has and said, “It’s ok,” pointing at the doorbell.

I rang it.

A young fireman opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Ken.”

“Yeah, come on in, he’s right here.”

We stepped inside the station and Ken walked up.

I said, “Ken, you don’t know me. My name is Jay Thompson, and you responded to my 911 call just over a year ago.”

“Yeah, sure! I read your letter, thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome. I really don’t have much to say, I just wanted to say thank you, and shake your hand.”

Ken extended his hand, and I was finally able to shake my hero’s hand.

I gave Ken the card, and he opened it. He read it, with a little smile. Then he turned over the gift card and said, “Wow, thanks! I love taking my kids to Outback. But you didn’t have to do this.”

And he shook my hand again. I think I mumbled, “It’s the least I could do” or something equally unprofound.

“Can I get a picture with you?” I asked Ken.

“Absolutely! Let’s go in back by the truck.”

Fire trucks are bad ass.

The young fireman that answered the door, Dan (who Francy would later point out was remarkably hot…) moved a few hoses and things around while Ken, Francy and I chatted. We talked about that day, what happend after the fire and EMT crew dropped me off at the hospital, and my subsequent recovery. Ken was genuinely interested in my lifestyle changes that resulted in a 60 pound weight loss. Ken’s my age, has the same family history I have with heart disease and has had some heart problems himself.

We talked about the other guys that were with Ken that day. He told me a little about each of them.

It was emotional as hell. Ken was remarkably humble, and just a super nice guy. He said that he really appreciated us stopping by, that they know everyone appreciates what they do, but that it meant a lot to them as they don’t hear actual “thank you’s” from very many people.

I looked over at Francy, who was misting up. I had to look away.

We talked a few more minutes, and Dan took some pictures of us:

See? Fire trucks ARE bad ass!

Francy, me and Ken at Station 209, Mesa, AZ Fire Department. May 2, 2013.

We met the station chief, and headed back toward the front of the station.

“The Cub Scouts are here!” someone at the fire station announced.

A whole pack of Cub Scouts came into the station, all excited, and bearing cookies. These young kids were about to get a tour of the station. “Y’all are welcome to tag along,” Ken said, but we had to get going. Ken jumped into community service mode, and started talking to the Cubbies.

Francy and I said goodbye to Dan and headed to the car.

Just as we are getting in, Ken popped outside and yelled, “Thanks so much for stopping by Jay, great meeting you!”

“You too, Ken. And thanks again. Be safe out there.”

I’d held myself together the entire time. Not a whisper of a tear.

I sat in the car and Francy pulled away from the station.

As I looked back at the station, I thought about something Ken said when I’d told him I owed him my life.

“I’m not hero, I was just doing my job.”

Yes, you were doing your job sir. Your job entails rushing to people’s houses, not knowing what to expect, and helping them. Your job entails going to the scenes of horrific accidents, and helping people. Your job entails building community, and talking to Cub Scouts. And your job entails running into burning buildings.

Don’t tell me you aren’t a hero, Ken.

You are my hero, and a hero to many others.

As the station receded in the background, the last 20 minutes rushed into my head. I had just spent about the same amount of time with Ken as I did the first time we “met”.

Only this time I wasn’t terrified and thinking I was going to die. This time, I was happy and full of life — a life that Ken and his fellow first responders helped save.

And THAT is when I lost it, and wept like a baby.

UPDATE: On Sunday I got to meet two more of my heroes. Steve and John. This was the first time they had worked with each other for about a year (they wondered out loud if the last time they worked together was the day of my heart attack. Weird!)

Again, both were super nice guys. gracious and humble. “Just doing our jobs.” Steve is the head of a charity, EVFC – East Valley Firefighters Charity. They do great work. Please Like them on Facebook!

Thanks Steve and John, for everything!

Steve, me and John. Real life heroes! Ladder 202, Mesa FD

Steve, my daughter Lauren, me, John and Francy. And another bad ass truck!

Dear B-Shifters with Ladder 209 -

You guys don’t know me, and I really don’t know you. April 21st of 2012 was probably just another normal day at work for you, but for me, that was one really shitty day.

That was the day I suffered a massive heart attack.

Thank GOD you guys came to work that morning!

My daughter helped me place the 911 call that brought Ladder 209 screaming to my door. To be honest, I don’t remember a whole lot, but I do remember how professional, caring and just downright cool everyone was. I was freaking out, my wife and kids were freaking out, and you guys were all like, “No problem, we’re here, we’re on it, and everything is going to be just fine.”

And you know what? You were right. Everything is just fine!

Shortly after you all dropped me off at Banner Heart Hospital, I was in the cath lab, getting a stent in my LAD coronary artery that was 100% blocked. 2 days later I got another stent in my LCX artery that was 95% blocked.

Today, just over a year later, I’m still alive and kicking. 60 pounds lighter and in a whole lot better shape.

I wouldn’t be here without you guys.

Now don’t go poo-pooing that statement above. It’s the truth. The cardiologist said so.

You helped save my life.

How does one thank someone for saving their life?

I don’t know. Saying, “Thank you” doesn’t seem sufficient.

But I don’t know what else to say.

So, thank you for saving my life.

I wish I knew the names of all the folks from Ladder 209 that helped me that day. I found the Ladder and the shift, and I have a request in for more information. I’m going to hunt you down. Not to be all stalker / whacko-like. I’d just love to shake your hand and buy you your beverage of choice.

You all do remarkable work. You save lives. You’re freaking heroes.

And I mean that, from the bottom of my damaged, but still beating heart.

Follow up post: Read this for the story of meeting three of the Mesa Fire crew that saved my life!

They probably won’t admit it, but I suspect they were afraid I was about to die.

I know I thought I was.

Yep, it’s been a year since I had a little “cardiac event”. OK, it really wasn’t so little. I had a massive heart attack — what cardiologists refer to as, “The Widow Maker.” A 100% blockage in my Left Anterior Descending (LAD) coronary artery and a 95% blockage in my Left Circumflex (LCX) artery.

It pretty much sucked.

Pretty much? OK, it SUCKED.

I’ve never felt that kind of pain. The physical pain during the heart attack was excruciating. That was pretty short-lived though. The mental pain lasted a lot longer.

Now before someone goes off and calls the guys in the white coats to bring me a straight-jacket, rest assured that mentally, I’m fine now. Physically? Better than ever. Losing 60 pounds, eating better and exercising goes a long long way toward making one feel better.

Now a year removed from that awful day sometimes I get this little thought in my head. It’s weird, and difficult to wrap my arms around…

Maybe that heart attack is one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

One of the best things? Really?

Yep. What it amounted to was a swift kick in the pants. Or maybe it was more like getting smacked by a 2×4 across the back of your skull. The proverbial “wake up call.” I needed to make some lifestyle changes, swiftly.

I am a very lucky man. I’m lucky that I was home, surrounded by family at the time of the heart attack. My cardiologist said if I’d been in a plane — as I had been just eight hours before the heart attack — that the chances of survival would have been zero. I am lucky that I was only three miles from one of the best heart hospitals in the Southwest. I was lucky that my ambulance driver drove like a wild man. Lucky everyone pulled over for him. I don’t know if it was luck or “the system” that gave me incredible care providers from the 911 dispatcher, to the firemen and paramedics that responded first, and fast, to the simply amazing doctors and nurses. Whatever it was, I literally owe those people my life. There are no words to express my gratitude to them all. Thank you, from the bottom of my damaged heart.

Depending on whose data you look at, survival rate for the Widow Maker heart attack is 5 to 10%.

I beat the odds.

Yes indeed, I am a very lucky man.

With incredible support from my wife, kids, family and friends, we’ve managed to make the most of this little health crisis. Other people have too. I travel a lot for work, and invariably where ever I go someone comes up to me and says my heart scare got them motivated to lose weight, exercise and/or stop smoking.

I find that unbelievably cool.

When I sat down to write this piece, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I figured I would get all emotional and misty-eyed recalling the really shitty day of the attack and all that’s transpired since then.

But you know what?

Screw that. Believe me, it is REALLY easy to feel sorry for yourself when something like this happens. I assure you that facing your own mortality blows and seriously jacks with your head. Oh I could talk more about the pain, all the medications and side-effects, the really crappy feeling that waking up every day and having the first thought in your head be, “well, I didn’t die in my sleep!” creates.

Screw that. Sure, all that happened. But all that is over. Done. Finished.

I don’t feel sorry for myself. I no longer wake up thinking about dying (most of the time).

I AM ALIVE!

And that my friends, is what matters.

I’ve been given a second chance at life, something most people don’t get. That is a good thing.

It’s been a year, and in coronary artery disease that’s a big deal. After 12 months, the chances of restenosis (repeat blockage of coronary arteries) is rare. I may be able to remove or reduce certain medications. I won’t have to visit the cardiologist as often.

Living rocks. I like it. I plan on dong it for a long, long time.

Please, do me one favor!

Go to these pages, and read them:

Warning Signs of a Heart Attack

Heart Attack Symptoms in Women

It is so important to understand the signs of a heart attack. Everyone is different. I was lucky in that my symptoms were impossible to ignore. Others aren’t so lucky and walk around for days in the middle of a heart attack. Or they drop dead. Don’t be that guy (or gal. Women tend to have less intense symptoms than men and can be more likely to go longer before seeking treatment than men.)

And please, do what you can to control the factors you can control. Your weight, your diet, smoking, exercise. All that you can do something about.

So do it.

Because living rocks, and the last thing you want to do is look in your loved one’s eyes and see them filled with fear.

PS: Big, HUGE shout out to my peeps in the Under 55 Heart Attack Survivors group on Facebook. Y’all are a pure delight. Your passion, drive and sense of humor go a long way in making this journey easier!

Photo Credit: Lotus Carroll on Flickr. CC Licensed.

Eleven months ago I survived what cardiologists call “The Widowmaker” heart attack. A 100% blockage in one coronary artery, 98% in another. Apparently it kills  90 – 95% of the people that have it. I’m lucky to be alive. It was a shitty, amazing, painful, beautiful and life-changing event.

Somewhere very early in the aftermath, lying in the cardiac ICU in a morphine drip induced haze, I realized I had to get off my fat ass and make some changes, big changes, in my life.

So I started eating better, and I started exercising. Big heart attacks damage heart muscle. Kills heart muscle. So I need to build up the remaining muscle, open up those arteries and get that heart pumping. I need cardio. Ellipticals and treadmills are boring. Bad genetics and three knee surgeries make running difficult. So I elected to start walking.

Not just take a Sunday stroll in the park walking.

But not that “Power Walking” you see people doing with pumping hand weights and flailing arms. I do have some dignity.

I walk fast. About 4 miles per hour – 15 minute miles. It’s a pretty decent clip, I’ve passed “joggers” on occasion.

For me, it’s the perfect exercise. Low impact helps the knees (and hips. Sucks getting old). Best of all, just before my heart attack I moved to Seattle. I have an amazing city to explore. I live right in downtown Seattle and can walk forever and see cool new things.

So that’s what I did. I went from lugging my 235 pound gut up hills that kicked my ass in 300 feet to dropping 60 pounds and walking 15 miles in an afternoon.

Uphill. Both ways.

Months ago, I don’t know exactly when, I decided that I wanted to enter, and complete, a marathon. Actually, I have always wanted to finish a marathon. It’s been on the Bucket List in My Head for as long as I can remember. It’s hard to describe why anyone wants to run, walk or crawl for 26.2 miles under time limit conditions, but the desire is there.

A part of me wants to do it now just to raise a big giant middle finger to heart disease.

I refuse to let this disease bring me down. Finishing a marathon seems a nifty way to say, “Fuck you heart disease. You tried, you failed. I win, get the hell out of my life.”

So off to train for a marathon I went. Set my sights on the Seattle Rock & Roll Marathon on June 22. The time limit for walkers in that race is seven hours. Hit that time while still on the course and you get swept up in the trailing Van of Shame and shuttled to the finish line.

7 hours. That requires a pace of just over 16 minutes a mile. When I first started walking, I was doing 20 minute miles, and lucky to finish three miles.

This wasn’t going to be easy. But I walked on. Every day, no matter how sore I was, or how cold and wet it was outside. I walked.

It got easier. I got stronger.

Two weeks ago I did 10.5 miles at a 14:34 pace. I’ve done 18 miles at 14:54.

I’ve got this.

I publicly posted my goal, and training updates along the way. My amazing friends provided support, inspiration and motivation. Painful as it was sometimes, I trained hard. I track every step I take and I’ve taken over 3 million steps since my heart attack. I’ve walked over 1,400 miles. All in an effort to get to the point where I can walk 26.2 miles in less than seven hours on June 22.

I waggled my middle finger at heart disease with every mile that clicked by. It made me smile, even when it hurt.

Then there was this little bump

Three months ago there was this weird feeling in my foot. It felt like there was a little pebble — inside my foot. I pushed through it but it kept getting bigger and more annoying, so off to the doctor we go. It’s a Morton’s Neuroma, a benign growth in my right foot that makes walking painful. The doc whips out a needle the size of a pencil and gives me an injection into the neuroma, says to stay off it a month, and it will probably go away.

And it did. I eased back into training and the foot felt good.

Three weeks ago, the neuroma came back. The doc said it might. The next plan is to cut the damn thing out.

Here’s the problem with that:

Thanks to the aforementioned cardiac event, I am the proud owner of two titanium stents that prop up a couple of really important cardiac arteries. Seems these things are prone to clogging back up in the first year, so stent patents are put on anti-coagulants for a year while the stents “settle in”.

There isn’t a legit surgeon on the planet that will slice open my foot to remove a growth while I’m taking anti-coagulants. If I nick myself shaving it looks like someone slaughtered a hog in the bathroom, so bleeding out from foot surgery isn’t an option.

So I pushed on. I wasn’t about to let some stupid thing growing in my foot stop me from accomplishing this goal. I’d just deal with the pain and get through the marathon. By then I would probably be off the meds and could have the thing removed and I’d deal with the recovery and rehab then.

It’s called denial

This time the neuroma is bigger. And it’s growing. What felt like a little pebble in my foot before started feeling like a pea. Then a marble. Then I woke up today and it felt like a damn golf ball. Still refusing to believe this was happening, I put my shoes on this morning and headed out for an 18 mile walk.

Two steps into it I knew it was over. But I pushed on.

Two miles into it and I was in a cab, headed back to my apartment, fully cognizant that everything I’ve been working toward for the past 11 months was for nothing. I had failed.

And I was blaming heart disease. It was giving me the finger big time. If it weren’t for that damn medication I would just have the surgery now. I’m 14 weeks pre-race, I could take six weeks off to recover from the surgery, doing non-weight bearing strength and endurance training and still have time to finish training by June 22.

But thanks to that med, the timeline is whacked. There’s no way I can wait another month to get off the meds and have surgery. There just isn’t enough time.

I’ve finally accepted the fact that’s been staring me in the face the past two weeks.

My dream of finishing this marathon are over.

I’m devastated.

Deep in the throes of a pity party of epic proportions…

That is where I have spent the last several hours. I hate failing. I’ll freely admit that I don’t handle failure well. I actually contemplated stopping my anti-coagulent med early and having the foot surgery done. Then I remembered what the cardiac nurse told me about taking this med. She said:

Miss this once, you might be OK. Miss this twice and *I* will be pissed because I’m the one that will be consoling your wife and kids while they put a toe tag on you downstairs. Understand?

I loved that nurse. Yeah, go off the meds early. How’s this for a headline, “Man goes off heart meds early. Runs marathon. Dies.” That’s just stupid, it’s Darwin Award material. This goal is hardly worth dying for.

Yes, I wanted it. Bad. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long long time.

Boy howdy was I feeling sorry for myself.

Then, some wonderful things happened during my pity party. My wife, of course, pledged her undying support and understanding. I posted a picture on Facebook captioned, “Lots to contemplate…” and had friends from literally not just across the continent but across the world reach out privately and ask, “Everything OK?”

How cool is that?

You know what? Everything is OK. Better than OK. Life is terrific.

There will be other marathons. I’ll get this thing cut out when I can, I’ll train again, and I’ll try again. If it grows back, I’ll have it cut out again, and I’ll try again. I’ll have it cut out until there’s no foot left to cut from. If this stupid thing in my foot ultimately wins, well, then I’ll find another challenge to conquer.

A pity party? Seriously? With all I have to be thankful for? On April 21, 2012 I got a second chance at life. I don’t have time for a pity party, there is too much to do, too much to enjoy. Too many people to talk to, too many friends to spend time with.

So go ahead heart disease, stick out that middle finger at me. Wave it in my face.

Next time I’m breaking it off and shoving it where the sun don’t shine.

Well, sorry it’s been so long since my last post. Not to make excuses or anything, but five days after my last post was published here I suffered a massive heart attack. You can read all about that really shitty day here.

And here we are, three months to the day since that fateful event.

I’m alive and kicking. Physically, I feel really good. Better in fact, than I have in years. Coronary artery disease is a slow progressing illness. Like my cardiologist said, “It’s not like your arteries clogged up over night. It’s been happening slowly, probably over a decade”.

A week or so before the “event” I was walking up one of Seattle’s steep hills and I got a sharp pain in my chest and was pretty much winded. At that time I just figured I was old, fat and out of shape. Little could I imagine that a few days later I’d be lying in the cardiac ICU with two stents in my heart and listening to the doctor say, “If you’d waited 20 minutes to call 911 you’d be dead.”

I *was* old, fat and out of shape, but not enough to cause chest pain and shortness of breath.

Today, I’m still old. But I’m 25 pounds less fat and in far better shape. I can walk that same hill today at twice the speed and with no chest pain or shortness of breath. (Yeah, the legs still burn a little, but that lessens every day.)

I’ve been to several real estate events since “the day” and invariably people that haven’t seen me since before the heart attack say, “Wow! You look great!” I don’t notice the weight loss much since I look at myself in the mirror every day, but I sure can tell in the way my old pants fit. One of these days I’m going to go through airport security with no belt, raise my arms in the body scanner, and everyone is gong to get a lot closer look at my narrowing ass than they want to.

People ask how I’ve lost the weight. It’s really a matter of portion control, eating healthier food, and moderate exercise. My diet used to be atrocious. When I was in the hospital, a dietician asked me about my eating habits. The conversation went like this:

Her: How many times do you eat fast food?

Me: In a week?

Her: Sure

Me: Five.

Her: You eat fast food five times a week??

Me: OK, eight. Sometimes ten.

<<long conversation ensues>>

Her: What about sodas?

Me: Love them!

Her: How many?

Me: In a day?

Her: Sure.

Me: Six.

Her: You drink six soda’s a day? Diet or regular?

Me: Regular, but hey I used to drink ten a day. So six is better.

Her: You realize that is 900 calories a day just from sodas right? That stuff can kill you.

Me: Let’s not talk about dying while I lie in a cardiac intensive care unit. Yeah, I know. But I’m telling you that if you tell me I can never have another cheeseburger, or never drink another soda again, that I’m going to fail.

And you know what? The dietician was super cool. She said no, I didn’t have to stop eating and drinking things I enjoyed. But that I did have to cut back, a LOT, and substitute healthier foods, or that I would end up right back in that ICU. Or worse.

Worse that being in the ICU = dead.

So that’s what I’ve done. I’m down to six or seven sodas a week now. That’s down from forty two. Sometimes I don’t even finish the can. While I still like soda, drinking one is starting to taste like drinking a can of maple syrup. And please, don’t tell me to drink diet soda. That stuff tastes like ass (or at least what I assume ass tastes like). Besides, if you think diet soda is even remotely healthy, you’re fooling yourself.

42 sodas a week? Good Lord, how stupid was that? And I’ve had three fast food meals in the last three months. That’s down from one hundred and twenty over a typical three month period in my recent past.

It’s a wonder I didn’t die of a coronary years ago.

My salad intake (go easy on that dressing people. That stuff is full of sodium) has increased infinitely. Ditto with the fish consumption. Rather than having red meat twice a day, every day, I eat a lot more chicken and fish. And some days I eat no meat {gasp!}. I’m cooking at home far more often, which oddly enough is cheaper, tastes better and is a lot better for you than eating out.

And I walk. Every day.

No, I’m not going to be winning a marathon (or even a 10K) any time soon. I’m still quite terrified of over-stressing my heart. But my little FitBit step counter device tells me this is the walking and stair climbing I’ve done since I got the little gizmo shortly after my heart attack:

Not too bad if I do say so myself.

So physically, thing are good. I want to loose about 15 more pounds, and I would like to step up the cardio exercise and add in some strength training.

Mentally, things are a little more challenging.

Not to go all cliche on you, but staring death in the face messes with your head a little. I don’t particularly care for the first thought that usually pops in my head when I wake up in the morning — “Well, I didn’t die in my sleep of a heart attack.” It’s not like every waking moment is fixated on dying, not even close. But those thoughts do come and go. And trust me, when you feel a little flutter in your chest it is difficult to escape the “please no, not again” thought that races through your head.

But the docs tell me those are very normal feelings and will fade over time. They do seem to be fading. I don’t know if they will ever go away completely.

On the bright side, starting death in the face does allow you to put a whole lot of things in perspective. Life is full of minor annoyances — traffic, stupid people, the government, the economy. And those things are just that — minor annoyances. Life is a miracle. It is good. And I think a whole lot of people under-appreciate it.

Not me. Not any more. I love life. I love living. And I can’t wait to live some more.

I want you to love it, live it and enjoy it too.

On Sunday, I “moved” to Seattle.

I put move in quotes because right now my apartment is furnished with a queen sized air mattress, a cardboard box for a table and a 12-pack in the fridge.

No TV, no Internet, no furniture.

Fortunately, my downtown Seattle apartment building (pictured to the right) has a resident lounge and rooftop deck, complete with TV, wifi and furniture. I’m spending a lot of time there.

When I’m not out exploring my new ‘hood.

Sunday afternoon and Monday evening were spent walking around the neighborhood.

If you are familiar with the website WalkScore.com – which rates the walkability of neighborhoods — then you’ll appreciate that my apartment has a “Walk Score” of 95. That’s a “Walker’s Paradise” according to the site. To put that in perspective, my house in Gilbert, AZ has a Walk Score of 23 — “Car Dependent.”

I think the only thing keeping the apartment from being a 100 is the fact that the closest school is a whole half a mile away.

What WalkScore shows within 0.25 miles of my address:

• Restaurants – 16
• Coffee Shops – 16 (Eight are within 500 feet of my front door. Welcome to Seattle.)
• Grocery Stores – 7
• Shopping – 16
• Parks – 2
• Book Stores – 4
• Bars – 6
• Entertainment – 6
• Fitness – 6

All that (and more — including my office) all within 440 yards of the place.

WalkScore lists 618 amenities within a one mile radius of my address.

It’s kind of ridiculous. And very cool

I have yet to be unable to find anything I need within a short walk. Well, I do need an ironing board, but that’s pretty low on the priority list.

I’m thinking I don’t even need to bring my car up here. Why pay for city parking, gas, insurance, and monthly car payments when I can walk to anything? And if I need a car or truck, I can get a Zip Car for $10 – $12/hour. There’s a few of their cars scattered about downtown Seattle, including two that reside in my apartment parking garage.

Failing walking or Zip Car’ing, there is always public transportation. My place has a Public Transportation Score of 100.

I’m digging the urban lifestyle. Maybe just because it is so different than living in suburbia. Maybe because it’s new. Maybe I’ll get sick of it at some point.

But I doubt it.

Stay tuned here as I’m sure I’ll be writing more on my urban experience.

Foursquare. It’s one of those “social networks” that some love, and some hate (that’s pretty much the story for any social network, no?)

Me, I love it. I’ll freely admit that I’m a bit of a “badge whore.” I like collecting badges. I like leaving tips. I like getting mayorships. I can’t help it, it is the competitive streak in me.

Want to know what I really like about Foursquare? (Probably not, but you’re going to hear it anyway…)

It’s a great way to meet up with your friends.

A few minutes ago, the awesomely fabulous Heather Pierucki checked into a Starbucks on Foursquare. The Starbucks that is about a 2 minute walk from RETT (a real estate co-working space) where I was attempting to get a little work done.

I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing Heather in… forever. So I closed up the MacBook and headed over.

Feeling slightly guilty about interrupting her work, I plopped down next to her and we had a great little chat. We talked about work, our lives, my kids, her husband, my wife, Hawaii, and some other stuff.

It was short, and sweet.

Without a simple Foursquare checkin, it never would have happened.

THAT is what Foursquare is all about. Forget trying to use it for business to “generate leads”. Forget trying to calculate the Return On Investment (ROI) of Foursquare.

Use it to find your friends. To sit down for a few minutes with them and catch up.

You want to know the ROI on that?

It’s priceless.

Photo byJeff Turner

The photo above is of a “Computer College” in Nairobi, Kenya. Jeff Turner took it on his recent visit there to further the amazing work Mothers Fighting for Others is doing for some young ladies in Kenya.

Jeff wrote a terrific piece today about his travels titled, Kenya – Recalibrating My Worldview.

Go read it. Trust me.

From Jeff’s piece regarding the computer college:

One of the projects Josephine [Josephine Chaveseki, founder of the Fair Oaks Academy in the Quarry Slum of Nairobi, Kenya] was eager to show me was their computer college. In Kenya, colleges and universities are quite different things. But by any definition, before this day, I would never have described what I saw as a computer college. The lone student in the room was diligently working on an assignment as we toured. Josephine was very proud of the college and what it was doing to prepare its graduates to seek work. All I could think while standing there was how woefully inadequate it seemed.

I had more computing power on the phone I took that photo linked above with than all of the computers in that room combined. And yet, the student there appeared delighted to be learning. And what I was delighted to learn, as we walked from room to room, and as I looked at the faces of the children and the teachers, is that the quality of the education being given could not be limited by the weakness of the facilities. It could only be limited by the will to teach and the desire to learn. Neither appeared to be lacking.

When I saw the photo of the computer college, my mind immediately flashed back to the tour my family and I recently took of Arizona State University’s Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. In a few short months my daughter will be starting a new chapter of her life as an incoming freshman at “Cronkite”.

It is an impressive facility. Very impressive. Built in 2008, the main building is a six-story 225,000 square foot building that “is equipped with 14 digital newsrooms and computer labs, two TV studios, 280 digital student work stations, the Cronkite Theater, the First Amendment Forum and the latest and most sophisticated technology found anywhere.”

Here are a couple of photos I took on the tour:

The "News Studio" at ASU Cronkite School of Journalism

The "Control Room" at the Cronkite School

Compare and contrast those two photos with the picture of the Nairobi computer college at the top of the article.

Kind of makes you stop and think doesn’t it? Maybe puts some things in perspective?

It sure did for me.

I’ve never visited Africa, but I did visit Beijing and Tianjin, China for a week and the abject poverty I saw there was eye-opening. Beijing is a growing and vibrant city. But there are multi-story skyscrapers sitting next to slums with houses made of dirt and cardboard. Yet virtually everyone we saw had a smile on their face. We could hear laughter in the streets. Laughter emanating from people that earn in a year what many of us make in one day…

We are privileged to live in the greatest country in the history of mankind.

And I think we often forget that. We take things for granted. We bitch and complain about the economy, because our job sucks, that people suck. We get pissed off when our team loses a playoff game. Or Facebook changes their layout. Or Twitter goes off-line. And we whine about that?

Really?

Yes, I am guilty too.

Almost a year ago over on my other blog I wrote an article – A life-altering moment. Putting things in perspective. One of my most commented articles, it seemed to resonate with many. The article recounts some horribly frightening moments when I came upon the carnage of a fatal car accident and was certain my only son was involved.

I said then that I was going to look at life differently, to put things in perspective. While I’ve done a fairly reasonable job of that, I still forget. Jeff’s article rekindled that desire, that need, to look at things differently.

Look at that top photo again. A young Kenyan girl working hard in a schoolroom with plywood walls and a corrugated tin roof. Then imagine my own daughter, also working hard, in a facility that costs tens of millions of dollars and contains more computers, cameras and technology than probably exist in some third-world countries.

Ponder that for a moment.

Jeff tells us that his worldview still needs more recalibrating.

Yeah, mine too.

Back in those dark ages, there were no DVDs. VHS and Betamax had just been released and no one coud afford them. So the “What movies would you want if you were stranded on an island?” really never entered the conversation.

Today we have DVD’s, and iPads and all sorts of things to make life on a deserted island more tolerable. (Yeah, I know there is no electricity on a deserted island. Work with me people.)

So I’m asking myself (and you) this question:

You are stuck on a deserted island, what 10 movies would you want to have?

This is not the same question as, “What are your 10 favorite movies?”  You are marooned, trapped for years. You need movies you can watch over and over without getting sick of them. Or depressed. You probably need entertainment, not thought-provoking drama. I mean, Schindler’s List is an amazing  film, but could you watch it week after week with no end in sight? Though I am really a far bigger fan of dramatic films than comedy, I’m thinking that some levity would be a good thing when you’re stuck on a deserted island so I suspect this list will be heavy on the comedy.

What that in mind, here is what I’d want loaded on my magical no-electricity needed iPad if I was stuck on a deserted island.

• The Godfather – sure, it can be depressing. But it is just so damn good.
• The Princess Bride – the ultimate escape. And funny.
• Braveheart – Inspiring, and some kick ass fighting scenes. Freedom!
• Office Space – Laughed my ass off throughout this. Years in a corporate cubical ruined me.
• Fast Times at Ridgemont High – Classic. And then there is the Phobe Cates scene. Hey, if you’re stuck on a deserted island by yourself…
• There’s Something About Mary – Normally this type of movie doesn’t really appeal to me. But I found it hilarious.
• Shawshank Redemption – If Andy Dufresne can escape from Shawshank, there is hope you can escape the island.
• The Big Chill – amazing dialog, and a huge bonus for a killer soundtrack.
• Rudy – How can you not be uplifted and ready to take on anything after watching Rudy?
• A full version of Superbowl XXXII – OK, so it’s not a “movie”, but it is the greatest NFL game ever played, and the Denver Broncos first Superbowl win. I could watch it over and over and yes, weep at the end.

There you have it, for what it’s worth. Which really, isn’t much…

Photo Credit: Atoll Island by Christina Spicuzza on Flickr. CC Licensed.