A funny thing happened on the way to a DHMC operating room. On the morning of July 26, as I pondered my fate on a hospital gurney, a medical professional asked me if I knew “exactly” why I was there that day.

I chuckled. “If I wasn't here,” I said, “my wife would kill me.”

True enough, but I’d dropped by for a triple bypass heart surgery. When I informed them of that, they deemed me in touch with reality.

I won’t bore you with every detail that led to my first surgery since my tonsils were removed, back in the days when they did that willy-nilly and promised kids unlimited ice cream. They didn’t disclose that your throat would feel like it’d been hacked with an ice pick.

All these years later, I was a reluctant patient. And scared. I was told the mortality risk was 2%. In some math-free lobe of my brain, 2% felt high. It’s a major surgery. A lot of people compare it to being hit by a truck. I have successfully eluded trucks my entire life.

This adventure began with mild symptoms leading to a bum cardiac stress test, after which I went into foot-dragging mode. Enter the wife, Dede. She enlisted friends, family, neighbors, medical professionals, people we know who’d had heart surgery — everyone except the mail carrier and the 3-year-old who lives across the street. Only neighborhood dogs remained on my side, and the secret Brotherhood of Men Who Ignore Health Warnings (SBMWIHW).

My primary care provider influenced me when she said of the cardiology team, “They’re concerned about you.” She added, “I’m concerned about you.” It had come to this: talking human to human. A cardiologist told me a catheterization (for precise plaque detection) was a “no-brainer.”

Unfortunately, it revealed that I had copious plaque in relevant heart arteries and that stents couldn’t take care of it. I met with a surgeon who instilled confidence as he laid out the risks and rewards in a straightforward manner. Against all my worst instincts and apprehensions, I signed up.

After that, it’s pretty easy. You show up, you go to sleep and, while you are in some faraway place, they crack open your chest, stop your heart and redeploy veins borrowed from elsewhere in your body. As it happened, through a happy mix of anesthesia and pain-killers, I felt fine that very night. I thought my post-op patter was clever, but I can’t be sure.

I spent four nights in the ICU, because they didn’t have a room for me elsewhere. The upside was that I had impressively attentive care. The nurses explained what they were doing before they did it so I didn’t fret. They chatted me up to keep spirits high. My pain level wasn’t bad, ever. I wasn’t line dancing or anything, but before you know it I was shuffling around the department, somewhat faster than a turtle. “You’re doing great,’’ they told me. I asked Dede to hum the theme from Chariots of Fire. She indulged me.

I hit a low point on day two, because the trip from the bed to the chair was going to be the highlight. I called a staff meeting with myself and said I needed to be optimistic and hopeful, whether I believed it or not. It worked.

I stayed in the new hospital tower one night. The size of the room and the new furnishings blew me away, but then again I’d been living in a very small world.

Back home, I settled into a routine of walks and naps. I reread a book because this didn’t seem time to break new ground. I watched a lot of TV — too much Trump coverage. A documentary about monkeys in the Amazon gave me more satisfaction.

My appetite returned. Coughing hurt, so I kept a pillow nearby to clutch as needed. My daughter bought me a soft Squishmallow beet, which amused me and did the trick.

Day by day I feel a little bit better. In 12 weeks I’ll be as good as new, or 70-years-old new. I could have a decade or two of nifty blood flow to the heart. It would beat a long period of declining health.

I don’t know if my wife and her co-conspirators saved my life, but I may have dodged a heart attack, which is a pretty fair return. She is free to remind me of my obligation to her some future day when she wants me to move furniture.

For now, this day, this moment, life is OK. The sun comes out sometimes. I sit at home listening to cardinals feeding their babies and crickets doing whatever the hell they are up to. I await the invention of a drinkable vein cleaner that will counteract super-premium ice cream and fatty hamburgers. I’ll take mine chocolate-flavored.

Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.