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The Herald Scotland
21-07-2025
- The Herald Scotland
Here's how I've stayed healthy since my heart attack
The first presentiment of something not quite right was some breathlessness when I stood to wrestle something from the aircraft's overhead luggage rack. And then, as I made my way through Perth airport it felt like I was walking up a down elevator. I ascribed it to a touch of anxiety about long-haul flights (never liked them). And so I downed a large Bacardi at an airport bar and nipped outside for a smoke … just to calm everything down and re-capture my equilibrium, you understand. By the time I reached Melbourne to be greeted by our Clare, I couldn't lift my own luggage. 'Dad, you're as grey as death,' she said. 'I think I should take you to hospital.' Read more Kevin McKenna: 'Behave yourself,' I replied. 'It'll be a touch of that thrombosis everyone gets on these flights. It'll sort itself out.' For the first few nights I was staying at the apartment of my friend David Dick, then an executive at the Melbourne Age and now editor of the Daily Record. There's a picture of me somewhere on Facebook at his place, sipping a large glass of red wine just an hour later. It was only when I went to bed that it occurred to me this could be something serious. I began to feel some unruly activity in my chest and realised that this wasn't good at all. Worse: it was probably too late to do anything about it and that I should probably accept my fate and ask God's forgiveness for being a daft fud. I also made a mental inventory of all those people I'd hurt or slighted and asked for mercy. And then I made my peace with those with whom I still had some unresolved issues. What with all that and three Hail Marys, a Glory Be and an Our Father I might yet have a wee chance of a fair hearing should I wake up dead in the morning. Fortunately (or not, depending on your point of view) I woke in the land of the living and my daughter immediately whisked me to St Vincent's Hospital in downtown Melbourne. They took one look at me and began kitting me out in the hospital gear and a drip. I love Australians' propensity for plain speaking. 'How did you not know you'd had a heart attack,' asked the consultant, astonished that I hadn't immediately popped in following the flight. Glaswegians also like to speak plainly. 'Well, not having ever had a heart attack, how was I supposed to know,' I asked him. It's not as though I'd had the falling-down-while-clutching-your-chest type of event you see on the telly. After the scans and a wee angiogram they concluded I didn't need the hacksaw and staples routine. Some tablets and a couple of stents would do the trick. 'Is it because I'm quite a healthy specimen that I don't need a bypass,' I asked the consultant. 'No, it's because you're one lucky b****** and you need to be taking better care of yourself,' he said. And besides, he pointed out, there was some old scarring on an artery, indicating I'd had some kind of 'cardio event' several years ago. It was only later that I learned that many of the male McKennas have been going down like skittles with heart failure since we first got off the boat from Ireland in the 1890s. My Glasgow consultant would later tell me that, in all probability, I was destined to get a heart attack at some point and that getting it when I was 'relatively' young and 'relatively' fit was preferable to falling over later in life. I was working for The Observer at this time and they were keen that I write one of those arse-clenching pieces about kindness and being more appreciative of wur planet. But that's not really me. So they settled instead for a lighter, self-mocking piece about my delinquent life choices. Read more Kevin McKenna: 'Give us your blueprint for surviving a heart attack ten years on,' absolutely no-one has ever said. But here it is anyway. My handy lifestyle guide to living responsibly after a heart attack. Alcohol. Rather than deny yourself the delights of the swally, maybe try putting an extra slice of fruit in your gins, vodkas and Bacardis. Kevin McKenna won't deprive himself of time in the pub. (Image: Newsquest) Sex. When men write about sex there are no good outcomes, but the doctors kept mentioning it. So, based on anecdotal research among other heart attack survivors, I'd advise using the approach favoured by our international football team. Just leave all the fancy stuff to the continentals and only venture over the halfway line when absolutely necessary. Pray. If you're an atheist, don't kid on you don't get worried you've backed the wrong horse whenever you start feeling fragile and vulnerable. My Godless chums always ask for proof of The Almighty's existence. But if you're ever in a life-threatening situation, can you be absolutely sure he DOESN'T exist? So try a bit of praying now and again. Swearing. Do lots of this. And if you recoil at the use of profanities, get over yourself. Read these f***ing sentences aloud minus these f***ing asterisks. You'll feel better for it. Try to be a decent c*** and not a w***er. You only get one f***ing shot at this, so stop f***ing around. There: that's better, isn't it? Silence. We're always told to share our problems and open up more as a means of mental self-medication. B*******. You'll just worry about over-sharing and that'll make you more anxious. If you want to unburden yourself, get a dog. Be cardio-smart. You're going to have a dickie ticker for the rest of your life, so turn it into an asset. Need to make a last-minute cancellation for a party or an event full of sanctimonious rockets discussing climate change and pronouns? Just use your heart condition. To add depth to your little white lie, memorise all the terminology around heart health: the arteries, the valves, the ventricles and all the other tubes and chambers. If you're really desperate, just say you need to have another cheeky wee stent put in. I'm up to about six, but I've only got the two. It's the wee changes that make all the difference. When you're in the pub, choose a seat furthest away from the bar and volunteer to fetch all the rounds. That way you can get in your 10k steps a week in no time. Kevin McKenna is a Herald writer and columnist. He is Features Writer of the Year and writes regularly about the working-class people and communities of Scotland
Yahoo
21-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Parishioners react to passing of Pope Francis
SCRANTON, LACKAWANNA COUNTY (WBRE/WYOU) — People all around the globe are mourning the death of Pope Francis, including here in our area, where the faithful are coming together to celebrate his legacy. Parishioners at Saint Peter's Cathedral say they were devastated by the news, but they come together in times of need like this. The group at St. Peter's 6:30 a.m. mass tells 28/22 News it's like a family, as many of the same members go to the mass at this time routinely. They prayed for Pope Francis by reciting the Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be. But another way they've been paying tribute to him can be heard all across the city. The bells at Saint Peter's Cathedral tolled 88 times before and after the 6:30 mass, signifying Pope Francis' age of 88-years-old when he died. A photo of Pope Francis was also put on display inside the cathedral. The bells, remembrance, and prayers are being shared throughout the church community, something that parishioners say is a way they support one another through difficult times like this. What are the rites and rituals after a pope dies? Speaking to one of the church's congregants and Reverend Jeffrey Tudgay, they spoke on the devastation of the pontiff's death despite his recent health improvements, but also said it's bittersweet, stating it's our loss but heaven's gain. 'Got the news this morning that he had passed away. It was quite a shock, but on the other hand, we think there's much rejoicing in heaven because heaven now has a new saint. If anybody was a good and faithful servant, it was Pope Francis,' stated Joan Hodowanitz, parishioner at the Cathedral of Saint Peter. 'You know, we're in the easter season here. We celebrated easter sunday yesterday, Christ's victory over sin and death for all of us, and we trust the holy father now rests eternally in peace with the lord forever,' explained Rev. Tudgay, of Saint Peter's Cathedral. The Most Reverend Joseph C. Bambera, Bishop of Scranton, released the following statement upon the death of Pope Francis; Most Rev. Joseph C. Bambera, Bishop of Scranton, on Pope FrancisDownload The Diocese of Scranton stated there will be a special memorial mass held at St. Peter's Cathedral on Tuesday, April 22, at 12:10 p.m. All are invited to attend. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
CBS News
27-03-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
The CBS New York Book Club spotlights a mystery series with a unique amateur detective
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE . Find out more about the books below. Club Calvi is spotlighting a new amateur detective series unlike any other. The heroine is a woman of a certain age named Glory Broussard, who the New York Times called "a character for the ages" in Danielle Arceneaux's 2023 debut novel "Glory Be." Now Glory is back in "Glory Daze," the second book in Arceneaux's Glory Broussard Mysteries. The series is set in Lafayette, Louisiana. "In the south you meet a lot of really unique characters," Arceneaux told Mary. "Church is just part of the fabric of the south. But I think in order for the book to be entertaining, you have to have a lot of contradictions and complexities." Glory Broussard is a dedicated church-goer and member of the Acadiana Red Hat Society for Black Catholic women. She's also a bookie running her operation out of a local coffee shop. "I think a lot of people can relate to why she became a bookie," Arceneaux explained. "She's trying to make ends meet. She worked in a grocery store her entire life. Her ex-husband was a bookie and this was the unofficial divorce settlement. He has moved on with a new woman and she has moved on with his clients." In "Glory Daze," Glory receives a unwelcome visit from a woman from her past. "Her ex-husband, now her dead ex-husband, had multiple affairs ultimately settling with one and marrying her," Arceneaux said. "It's this woman who comes to Glory and asks for her help in solving his murder because she knows that despite the fact they have been married for many years now, nobody knew him better than Glory. And his secrets and the double life that he was leading. The two women who are really adversaries become co-detectives and partners in crime in solving his death." Arceneaux has worked in the public relations field, but has always wanted to write a mystery. "I was the kind of kid who consumed every book of Encyclopedia Brown," Arceneaux told Mary. "I was allowed to stay up late to watch 'Cagney and Lacey' and 'Remington Steele.' I've always been drawn to mysteries. I tried to write a memoir and no one wanted to publish that book. I was feeling down and out and I said, you know what I'm going to do, I'm going to write the book that I want to read and that is always going to be a mystery." Arceneaux shared that she is working on the third installment of the Glory Broussard Mystery series. You can read an excerpt, and purchase the book, below. The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ From the publisher: After her life was turned upside down by solving the murder of her best friend, Sister Amity Gay, all Glory Broussard wanted was a little peace and quiet. That included getting back to her Sunday morning routine as a bookie in a coffee shop, and planning the annual Mardi Gras gala for her church. But there's no rest for Glory once the woman who broke up her marriage walks in to CC's Coffee House and asks for help finding her missing husband. It doesn't take long before Glory finds him . . . with a knife impaled in his chest. No one knew the man—and his dark side—better than Glory Broussard, who would rather let the local authorities take the lead. But Glory's daughter, still reeling from problems of her own, insists on her involvement. Glory's search for the murderer takes her deep inside the seedy world of Louisiana casinos and racetracks, from their high roller VIP rooms with chatty dealers to stables filled with thoroughbred horses and shady dealings. As if solving a murder and sparring with the woman who had an affair with her ex-husband isn't enough, Glory has to get to the bottom of her daughter's secrets, and there are a few members of her church group who would love to see her fail in her Mardi Gras responsibilities. Walloped with one revelation after another, Glory's no-nonsense, tell it-like-it-is attitude and strength is tested like never before. Danielle Arceneaux lives in Brooklyn. "Glory Daze" By Danielle Arceneaux (Thriftbooks) $22 Chapter One Glory yearned for her old life, before everything had turned itself upside down and sideways. She strode through the heavy doors at CC's Coffee House, the one on Ambassador Caffrey and West Congress, in the same shopping center as Albertsons and a new restaurant called Soulhaus. She had not yet tried this new restaurant, but her daughter Delphine had texted her some videos of a local newscaster consuming piles of food on TikTok. So far Glory had been able to resist because she had received a stern lecture from her doctor about her numbers–and by "numbers" he meant every number that can be measured by modern medicine–but she could sense her resolve weakening. To help regain a sense of normalcy, she had just returned from church and the monthly meeting of the Red Hat Society of Acadiana, of which she was an outlier on account of her work as a bookie, but also because of a long-ago wave of food poisoning. The membership had insisted the culprit was a cooler of discounted crawfish Glory had purchased from a roadside stand in Abbeville. But honestly, they ought to have thanked her for being resourceful. Crawfish was now twenty dollars a pound on account of global warming. And no one could definitively prove that crawfish was the culprit of the food poisoning, but it had tarred Glory's reputation, nonetheless. As was tradition, Glory and the members wore red to these meet- ings. Today she wore wide-legged red pants with a coordinating blazer and a red hat. This particular hat was purchased by her daughter Delphine, who lived in New York City. It featured a wide brim with an exaggerated rosette to one side. Glory squealed when she opened the bundle, packaged in a stunning black-and-white- striped box with the most perfect ribbon you've ever seen. It was the kind of finery that Glory had always loved but only Delphine would spend money on. By the time she sat down, Noah Singleton, owner of this particular CC's franchise, was walking her way, balancing a tray of small sample cups on a tray. "You have a good Christmas, Miss Glory?" "Sure did, and you?" Small talk was the glue that held the South together. No matter one's political affiliation or personal beliefs, the connective tissue of Lafayette Parish had somehow remained intact with benign and comforting questions like: How's your mama doing? You have people over for Mardi Gras? What you fixin' for Easter? Not that most people minded. It was better than asking questions that might disturb the peace. "You just look mischievous today, Noah Singleton. I can already tell you're up to no good." He swung a small tray with the sample cups in front of her. "Try this." She gave him a skeptical look, sipped, and coughed dramatically, as if she had ingested poison. "Noah Singleton, I don't know what you put in that drink, but I suspect I have a case of sudden-onset diabetes. What in the name of the good Lord is this?" "I'm still working on the right level of sweetness," he said, with a hangdog look that reflected his disappointment. "I'm trying to create a signature drink to go viral on social media. I call it Praline Perfection . Chicory coffee, six pumps of praline syrup, whipped cream, and topped with a crumbled praline candy." Glory had no idea why anyone would ever want to go viral. She had had a brief moment in the spotlight a few months ago and it was more than enough, thank you very much. "Here's an idea," she added. "For an extra $200 you can serve it with a vial of insulin." She thought of Noah like a brother, even if he was always doing too much. "Did you know that there is no actual pumpkin in a pumpkin spice latte? Not one drop!" And before Glory could respond he added, "And do you know how much money Starbucks has made off that drink? Over a billion dollars! Yes, ma'am, I just need to calibrate my recipe a bit." Noah gestured for the barista at the counter to bring Glory another cappuccino, on the house, as he often did. Before walking back to the kitchen he pointed at her and said, "I'm going to perfect this recipe. You watch." It was an apology and a declaration. He disappeared behind a pair of swinging doors. As Glory sipped her cappuccino, her clients streamed in at a steady pace, which was always the case during football playoffs. Glory worked year-round but made a good chunk of her earnings in January and February, when amateur betting and foolishness collided. She had also been busier than usual since everything went down a few months ago. Glory had become somewhat notorious in Lafayette after the murder of Amity Gay, and her role in solving it. It was attention that she had relished at first, but now it made her itchy with discomfort. Word of mouth had brought a whole new slew of customers. In the world of unsanctioned and illegal betting, publicity is not welcome. But Glory had always had a keen eye when it came to vetting her customers, and those instincts had not faded. That is why when a lighter-skinned Black woman with caramel highlights and artfully layered hair walked toward Glory, she did a double take. She did not know this woman, or at least, that's what she thought. She knew just about everyone who walked through those doors. But there was something about her that rang familiar, like a relative you haven't seen in many years. She wasn't Glory's age, but wasn't her daughter's age, either. Glory judged her to be somewhere in the middle. This woman could no longer rely on her youth to be naturally firm without effort. And though she had just a few lines that feathered around her eyes and a couple that stretched across her forehead, Glory knew that her still-pretty looks would be deteriorating at a rapid clip from here on out. Glory had been there herself, many years ago. "Excuse me, are you Glory Broussard?" asked the woman. Glory sized her up further, now that she was up close. She wore a patterned blouse that was too busy for Glory's taste, jeans that clung tightly to her slender frame, and stiletto heels, which Glory noted was not a reasonable choice for a Sunday before noon. "I'm afraid not, miss. You must have me mistaken for someone else." There was something about the woman that she didn't trust, and having more customers than she knew what to do with at the moment, she was not about to take any risks. Glory peered over her reading glasses and did some calculations to convey that she was not interested in any further conversation. Not even the polite Southern kind. "Actually, I'm pretty sure you are. I saw your picture in The Daily Advertiser ," the mysterious woman fired back. Glory pressed the lead of her pencil harder and scratched away in her notebook, as if the woman did not exist. This was another reason Glory hated all the attention: it had shaken all the crazies loose from the trees. Old men showed up who wanted her to investigate the chattering voices that echoed in their balding heads. Throngs of women pleaded for her to surveil their husbands, who might be stepping out on them. One thing Glory knew from personal experience is that if you think your husband is stepping out, he most definitely is. You don't need to spend hard-earned money to figure that out. And besides, Glory Beverly Broussard was not for hire. "I'm real sorry to bother you, ma'am," insisted the woman with the pretty-enough face. "But my husband has gone missing, and I thought you'd like to know." That was it. Glory snapped. "Let me tell you something. I've done had it with you people showing up here with all of this nonsense. What I do know is that I can't help you, and I definitely don't know who your husband is, so please leave me to my business. And support a Black-owned business on your way out. I recommend the Praline Perfection." She shifted her focus back to her ledger. She had never formally studied math beyond basic algebra, but somehow had developed a pretty spot-on way of developing scenarios for a slate of games and estimating her earnings by the end of each weekend. Glory called it her special arithmetic while her daughter called it an algorithm, which must have been one of those ten-cent words she learned working at that law firm. "My husband is Sterling Broussard." Glory pressed down so hard on her pencil that the lead shattered. Graphite dust smudged her algorithm. Now it was becoming clearer. The woman was vaguely familiar to Glory because this was the woman, among many women, that Sterling had cheated on her with. Years later, once emotions had been reduced from a rolling boil to a simmer, Glory kicked herself for not seeing it coming. Sterling's purchases of new underwear, the trail of cologne left behind when he was allegedly going bowling. This wasn't a run- of-the-mill infidelity. It was the infidelity that caused him to leave Glory. It was the infidelity that would lead to a new start for Sterling, a new marriage. The woman took a seat across from Glory. "Look, I know I'm the very last person you ever want to talk with, but I don't know what else to do." Her voice ached with weariness, and there was not enough concealer and tinted face powder to camouflage her exhaustion. "Sterling went out to see some friends two days ago, and I haven't seen or heard from him since. It's so unlike him." Glory huffed. "Sounds exactly like the Sterling Broussard I know . . ." "Not the Sterling I know," the woman said, leaning her body halfway over the table. It was a confrontation. The Battle of Two Wives . Or, if Glory were framing their relationship correctly, the upstanding, righteous woman who raised him and his daughter, and the hussy who broke a family apart. Noah's barista delivered Glory's cappuccino at this exact moment, allowing Glory a few moments to regroup. She smiled at the barista, took a sip of her coffee, then delicately placed the small cup on its saucer. "Listen, I done unsubscribed from all that Sterling drama years ago. I'm sorry you've gotten yourself tangled up, but you of all people should have known what you were signing up for." She shoved her notebook into her purse and stood up. Panic raced across the woman's face. "I thought maybe you'd want to look into it . . . for your daughter's sake." Glory glared down at her. With fire pulsing through her veins, she snapped. "Keep my daughter's name out of your mouth." From "Glory Daze" by Danielle Arceneaux . Copyright (c) 2025 by the author and reprinted by permission of Pegasus Books. Return to top of page
