Tonight I’m going to a wake, not my own thankfully, for a relative of an in-law on my wife’s sister’s husband’s side of the family.
She was 63 years old.
Once upon a time I would have considered such an age old but today I am more inclined to beg to differ on the subject, anyway, it’s the West Side Irish side of the family.
Think “Shameless” if you aren’t familiar with this particular Irish American experiance.
Today my doctor for the day was my electro-cardiologist.
I was watching “Face the Nation” last Sunday and my defibrillator went off.
I was watching two Republican talking heads arguing over whether or not Donald Trump was qualified to be the next President of the United States of America.
And this time it had nothing to do with what landed me in the ICU last week.
It was an issue with how the device interpreted my heart rate.
My heart attack in 2009 so damaged my heart that as far as my defibrillator my heart rate can’t go above 188 BPM without me dropping dead on the spot.
Thus the shock.
This time the problem was with the lead that connects the device to my heart.
That’s a problem for another day.
I’m doing fine, no worse for wear.
I thank everyone for all their wishes for my swift recovery.
I’m having the time of my life.
I told this to my electro-cardiologist this morning.
He just looked at me and replied.
“I’d be pissed.”
I can’t tell you how many times I have imagined the scene here Thursday afternoon.
The 911 call.
The fire engine in front of the apartment building.
Me lying on the floor.
My interrogation by the paramedics.
A circle of faces looking down on me.
A flurry of hands hooking me up to the EKG.
The arrival of the ambulance.
Being carried down the stairs of a building constructed in 1903, so tight a fit you have to move your furniture in and out via the back stairs, in a chair of all things.
I am alone.
The sighs when the supervisor, the guy in the white shirt, showed up to bark instructions at them.
“Get a move on!”
After looking at my EKG, the paramedic in the ambulance could see the damage from my widow maker and told me.
“You are the luckiest man in the world.”
She doesn’t know the half of it.
Om mani peme hung!
Amitabha in the house.
I could not be more thankful for the continued blessings of my guru Khenpo Karthar Rinpoche’s Karma Kagyu lineage.
May we drain the swamp that is KTD and sort out its creatures that have emerged from Karme Ling every three and a half years for more years than I care to remember, once and for all.
These people so obscure all that the Karma Kagyu lineage has to offer us as Westerners, with our own ideas about Enlightenment, as in the “Enlightenment,” and what Enlightenment should look like, let’s put them in their place once and for all.
In this Post Panama Papers world we live in the Karma Kagyu sect is an anachronism, at best.
The Karma Kagyu sect collaborated with China’s genocidal occupation and it has been caught red handed hiding the funds it has received for doing so, laundered through the donations it has been receiving from Pro-Mainland China Buddhists, talk about wheels within wheels, since 2007.
Spread the word, please.
We can do better than this as dharma practitioners.