Papa Cado
M.G. CRISCI
A True Story
| Orca Publishing Company | San Diego | 2017 |
Copyright© 2017 by M.G. CRISCI
All rights reserved,
Including the right of reproduction
In whole or part in any form.
Published in eBook format by Orca Publishing Company
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
Designed by Good World Media
Edited by Holly Scudero
Cover Art: Papa Cado Portrait by M.G. CRISCI
Manufactured in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control No.
2009907911
ISBN 978-0-9914773-4-0
Enlarged Fifth Edition
Also by M.G. Crisci
ACE 44
Call Sign, White Lily
Indiscretion
Mary Jackson Peale
Now & Then
Papa Cado’s Book of Wisdom
Salad Oil King
Save the Last Dance
Seven Days in Russia
This Little Piggy
Learn more at
To Arthur,
My hero, my role model, my brother
Preface
I MET ARTHUR MERCADO, known to his four granddaughters as Papa Cado, some time ago, at the Scripps Hospital Healing Hearts Program in Southern California, where we both live.
Why was I there? My high-powered, self-consuming business career had left me little time for a balanced lifestyle. In other words, I had allowed myself to become a genuine candidate for a heart attack. Two years prior, I had been diagnosed with a cardiac condition called atrial fibrillation—a fancy medical term for a racing heart. While my doctor reassured me, “We don’t have any actual research on the correlation between life expectancy and atrial fib, so you’ll probably live a relatively normal life. However, there was a caveat, "But, you realize you are now in a different risk category.”
She also "suggested" I enroll the hospital's heart healthy program, which she described as "an innovative, holistic approach to lifestyle change." It only took me 24 months to heed her suggestion! By then, I was sick and tired of taking pills that made me lethargic and light-headed. I visited the program director. She took one look at my pouch, gave me the 60-second overview, took my credit card, smiled, and welcomed me. "We think you'll find the 12-week program quite comprehensive." The program curriculum included classes in Yoga, Spirituality, Stress Management, Nutrition, and Vegetarian Cooking. I was rather skeptical, to say the least.
Day 1 found me in the gym with four overweight, middle-aged men and women grunting and groaning. Day 2 was filled with stress-management support sessions—a first for me. Next thing I know, I'm sitting in a semi-circle. This gentle, soothing sounding dude named Ozzie introduced himself as "the group's facilitator." He asked us to hold hands. It seemed a little effeminate to a preconditioned-macho man like myself, but I’d already spent the $2,800 bucks, so I put my hand out. Somebody else touched it. I looked straight ahead.
Ozzie asked how we felt. You could hear a pin drop. Since I was an accomplished public speaker, I volunteered to go first. I figured my new "best friends" might as well hear my tale of woe, so they understand how lucky they are not to have my problems.
I spoke about five minutes. Ozzie nodded. Kris, Keith, Shirley, and Arthur said nothing. After all, nobody was allowed to place value judgments—it was part of the ground rules. I thought to myself, ‘good on ya.' Probably shocked the hell out of them.
They each began to recant their stories. For some strange reason, I decided to listen. (I’ve never been considered a great listener by anybody).
Twenty minutes later, I concluded I might be the luckiest man in the world. Kris told an incredible story about the loss of a limb he had dealt with since birth. Shirley has endured enough pain and suffering to drive you to atheism. And Keith, who appeared healthy as a horse and strong as a bull to boot, was looking for someone to explain why he was filled with rage.
The final member of the support group was a gray-haired man wearing gray pants, white t-shirt, white sneakers and a thick gray beard and glasses, sitting to my right. He hadn’t moved a muscle or uttered a word. I said, "And, what about you?" He stared blankly and scowled deeply. 20 seconds of dead silence seemed like 20 minutes. Then he spoke. “I’m Arthur. I told those people that I don’t like to talk about myself.”
Even though I'm loathed to make value judgments (joke), I concluded he was borderline manic depressive or a deeply introverted personality on a quest not to identify.
I was also happy I was not within swiping range of the switch blade he surely carried in his back pocket to open beer cans and slice mangoes.
I also decided I was going to make it my job to crack this guy’s shell. After all, I had the secret weapon—my bizarre sense of humor. (I find myself hysterically insightful, all the time).
“So, Arthur, is that all there is to that?”
He stared at me. I tried to smile. Frankly, I was a little intimidated.
“The doctors tell me I have no right to be here,” he revealed calmly. “I’m sixty-three, and I’ve beat death twice. I love my wife (his third) and my only daughter, who I raised by myself, and my four wonderful grandchildren. I’m just doing the best I can to avoid dying right now.” He paused. “And, that’s my story. Satisfied?”
My arrogance melted to insignificance.
His hand began to shake. “Damn hand, never used to do that. It’s that Parkinson’s thing. But the good news is when it shakes I know I’m still here!”
He smiled. We all laughed. He touched the heart of everyone in that room.
Over the next twelve weeks, I learned there was much more to Arthur’s story than just the 28 stents, 11 angioplasties, a five bypass, multiple mini-strokes, nitro patches, and numerous other cardiac procedures. I decided people needed to know Arthur. And, so it was that he agreed to sit day after day and reveal his hopes, dreams, wishes, and life in what I call Arthur speak. In the process, I learned we all have much to learn from him. I am honored that this kind, gentle man agreed to