A Divine Message Serious As A Heart Attack

Sometimes you need a heart attack to clarify your path in life. This is the true story of how I was absolutely, positively told of how one life must end and another begin.

Closing Chapters, Chasing Dreams

November 2024 was an convergence of endings. I sold LivingInHawaii.com back in March, a deal that marked the end of a 40 year wild ride that included launching Hawaii’s first commercial website. After months of ensuring a smooth transition, the final close was here. At the same time, I was wrapping up an eight-month exit from my biggest client at CyberCom. Walking away from that client was like slaying a fear dragon—freeing, but heavy. Both these closings, by divine design, not chance or planning on my part, landed in the same month. I was 32 years married to Roni, my rock, my foundation through every hellish storm we’ve faced together. We’d just returned from a spring cruise to Japan and a trans-Pacific voyage on Princess Cruises in September. Life was good. I was kicking back, contemplating retirement, wondering what’s next. Another business? Or just lean into this new chapter?

Killing it On Battlefield

Picture me on that lazy Saturday afternoon, November 16, sprawled in my La-Z-Boy, 85-inch screen blazing with Battlefield on Xbox. I’m not just playing—I’m dominating, the world-record holder for vehicles destroyed. I am “Death from above”, a killer pilot in a multiplayer warzone so intense it gets my heart racing. Roni’s in our home office, working, so I’m alone, lost in the game. Our home, nestled near the beach in Hawaii, is my sanctuary, a far cry from the scrappy days of building XenTec or CyberCom. I’m healthy, or so I thought—bodysurfing Makapu’u, vegan half the year, eating whole foods (okay, maybe too many ribeyes) and my weight coming in at what I was in my 20s. I’m checking every box for a heart-healthy life. My parents, in their late 80s, are thriving—Mom doesn’t even take aspirin. No heart disease in the family. I’m set to live to 90, right?

The Chest Pain That Didn’t Go Away

Then it hits. A chest pain, sharp and stubborn, right in the middle of a Battlefield chopper dogfight where I’m flying my AH-6 “Little Bird”, slicing and dicing. I’ve felt this pain before, sporadically over the past year, maybe two. Last week, it jabbed me while walking up the hill near our house, my daily cardio haunt. Usually, it comes and goes (can’t possibly be a heart attack, right?), so I figure I’ll cool it and wait it out. But this time, it doesn’t fade. It grows, more painful than ever. I’m thinking, “Shit, what the hell is this?” I climb out of the La-Z-Boy and lie down on the bed, hoping it’ll pass. It doesn’t. It gets worse. My mind races—could this be it? A heart attack? Me? The guy who bodysurfs, eats clean, checks every box? I’m a Christian, not afraid of death, but lying there, I’m wondering: do I just let this take me, or do I act?

Wife Confirms What’s Happening

I call Roni—not yelling, just a quick phone call to the next room. She comes in, sees my flushed face, and says, “You don’t look good. Something’s not right.” Roni’s cautious, maybe overly so, after years of medical traumas we’ve endured together. Her instincts kick in, and she insists we go to urgent care, not the ER—surely it’s not *that* serious. We jump in the car and head to Dr. Kane’s office. He’s in his mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair Hapa Hawaiian, fit, probably a waterman, with a calm, professional vibe and a slight local accent. By the time we get there, the pain’s gone, and I’m feeling “fine.” But the nurse checks my blood pressure—160 over 90, sky-high, not my usual 120 over 75. They hook me up to an EKG, and though my pressure normalizes, Dr. Kane’s not convinced. “I don’t have enough equipment here,” he says, cool as a cucumber. “ Go get yourself checked at the ER at Straub. They’ve got the best cardiologists.” He hands me a summary of the tests, and we’re out the door.

We Don’t Need No Stinking ER Visit

In the parking lot, I hesitate. “Roni, let’s just go home. I’m fine.” She’s not having it. “Let’s just get it checked. If it’s nothing, we’ll go home.” Her insistence, that unyielding love, saves me. We drive to Straub’s ER on Ward Avenue. I hand over Dr. Kane’s report, sit in the hallway briefly, then I’m admitted. Nurses swarm, hooking me up to monitors—blood pressure, oxygen, EKG, blood draws. Dr. Susan, a no-nonsense haole blonde in her 40s, runs the ER with military precision. I tell her about the chest pains over the past year, the one last week, the one today. She takes notes, then steps away to tend to others. Roni’s by my side, steady as ever, while the ER hums with other patients’ dramas—a guy next door, suffering, hating every second of it. I feel for them, but I’m still in denial about my own crisis.

No. Friggin. Way.

Dr. Susan returns with the blood test results. “Your troponin levels are high,” she says. “That’s what you get after a heart attack. You had a small one last week, and another today. You’re lucky to be here, because you’re at high risk for another soon.” Holy shit. My world tilts. A heart attack? Me? I’m shocked beyond disbelief, mad even. How the hell does this happen to a guy who bodysurfs, eats vegan half the year, exercises daily? No family history, no warning signs, just… this? I spend the night in the hospital, reeling. Sunday, the cardiologist confirms blockages and schedules me for surgery Monday, placing two stents in my heart’s left anterior descending artery, aka “The Window Maker”. So yeah, Dr. Susan was right: had I not listened to my wife and gone to the ER, there's a good chance “The Big One” would have come up right around the corner. That artery is called the Widow Maker because it’s a major blood vessel in the heart. When you hear of folks that drop dead of a heart attack, it’s because that artery is blocked. And that could well have been me. By Tuesday, two stents later, I’m home, feeling 100%—like nothing happened. But everything has changed.

Chronic Stress, My Old Friend

Lying in that hospital bed, I was forced to face the truth. I research, talk to Grok, dig into what lifestyle choices cause heart issues. I’m acing the heart-healthy checklist—exercise, diet, no smoking, no drinking (well at least no excess). But one box glares at me: chronic stress. Son of a bitch, that’s it. As a feral entrepreneur, stress is my water, my air. It’s not the guy cutting me off in traffic; it’s the deep, buried weight I carry every day, so constant I barely notice it. From building XenTec to birthing CyberCom, stress has been my shadow. It’s what drove me to sell, to pivot, to keep pushing. And now, it’s what nearly killed me.

Hold or Fold On Life

This is the stakes, the conflict, the feral entrepreneur’s classic dilemma: hold or fold? I could walk out of this hospital, skip the surgery, the blood thinners, the statins, the aspirin—meds I’ve never taken before. I could wait for the next heart attack and call it quits. I’ve faced hold-or-fold moments before, like walking away from CyberCom’s biggest client or selling LivingInHawaii.com. I’ve never been afraid to fold, to let go. But this is different. This is life or death, and I have control. Do I fight for life or let go? I think of Roni, my daughters, my parents. I’m at peace with my life—I’ve raced the Nürburgring at over 150 mph, surfed big waves that would kill most people, built businesses that made millions, and I’ve lived the dream in Hawaii going for beach walks every morning. I’ve got no bucket list left. But I’m not going before my parents. Hell no. And my daughters, grown and amazing, don’t *need* me, but I know they’ll want me there. Roni needs me most of all. I can’t let her down. So I choose to hold. I’ll take the meds, get the stents, face the stress head-on.

The Divine Path Plainly Revealed

This heart attack, this convergence of closing LivingInHawaii.com, exiting my biggest client, and surviving a near-fatal heart attack all happened within a two week window (Nov 16-30)—it’s no accident. It's a divine design. God’s showing me the path, clear as day. The businesses, the stress, the grind—they’re done. I’m no stranger to letting go, but this is bigger. The heart attack sealed that “Work Town” road shut. My path now is to live, to enjoy the life I’ve built. I don’t know if I’ve got one year or 30, but it doesn’t matter. I’m free to walk the beach with Roni every sunrise, to meditate, to play pickleball, to volunteer and help others. Since November, I’ve doubled down—30-minute hardcore cardio walks twice daily, vegan most of the time (with the occasional tomahawk steak, not those 32-ounce ribeye slabs I used to reverse-sear to absolute perfection). I’ve said no to stress-inducing clients, keeping only the ones I love working with. I now have perhaps the most perfect excuse to live and enjoy life the way I always wanted to. What’s that excuse? (As if I need an excuse). “I had a freaking heart attack, dude!”.

Truly Was All For The Best

I decided to make this heart attack the best thing that ever happened to me, right up there with marrying Roni and raising our daughters. I’m not a victim, never will be. I’m at peace, healthier than ever (well aside from having Coronary Arterial Disease) and boundlessly grateful. Every morning, Roni and I walk that beautiful beach, and I meditate, feeling the stress melt away. I’m living the dream, not because I needed an excuse, but because God made it clear: this is my time to thrive, not just survive. The divine path is clear to me now and though I have absolutely no idea where it will lead, I’m walking it—feral, free, and alive. Aloha!