The unexpected death of Emmy Award-winning actor, and Westwood
native, James Gandolfini has a special meaning to many of his fans. In
particular men like myself, men “of a certain age.”
James Gandolfini died at age 51. That’s about how old I was
when, after decades of assuming I must be all right because I felt all right, I
finally got around to an “annual” physical.
During the course of that much-delayed examination, the
doctor took my blood pressure. He took it again. Then he took it a third time. Later,
looking me straight in the eyes, he told me, “Bill, you know those stories you
hear about guys who suddenly drop dead on the street? That’s you.” To say I had
high blood pressure would be an understatement. The doctor was genuinely amazed
I was still alive.
After he wrote out prescriptions for blood pressure
medication, he penned one for a chest x-ray. “When and where did you receive
your last x-ray?” I honestly couldn’t remember.
The x-ray revealed a small anomaly in the upper lobe of my
left lung, a “spot.” My new primary care physician ordered a follow-up CT scan,
just to be safe. The CT scan verified that indeed something was there. Next
came a PET scan, to determine if the “spot” was biologically active. It was.
A surgeon told me I could wait a few months and see what, if
anything, developed. Or he could perform an endoscopic procedure, take a biopsy
and have the tissue examined. After ignoring my health for years, I was in no
mood for waiting. I opted for the exploratory surgery.
The surgeon later recounted his horror when he discovered
the “spot” was actually one of many. I was lying unconscious on the operating
table, as he waited for confirmation from the pathology lab as to the type of cancer
flourishing inside me. As the surgeon prepared to remove the top third of my
left lung, worried about how he would tell me the bad news.
He didn’t have to. While the pathologist couldn’t
immediately identify what the “spot” was, it wasn’t malignant. The surgical
team patched me up and sent to the recovery room, more than a little worse for
wear.
Eventually it was determined the “spot” was a type of
fungus, and my lung was in the process of encapsulating it. In other words, I
had respiratory equivalent of athlete’s foot, and if I had done nothing I would
have been just fine.
I don’t regret that surgery, or the painful recovery. It
taught me a number of lessons, not the least of which is the obligation I have
to the people who love me. Not taking care of oneself is the ultimate in
selfish behavior.
Exercise. Eat responsibly. Reduce stress. There really isn’t
any mystery here. What remains a mystery is why guys like me need to have the
equivalent of a near death experience before we admit to ourselves that we
aren’t 23 any more.
Admitting that you are growing older is infinitely better
than being dead.
