Good evening Netizens...
Today was my first appointment with the cardiologist after having succumbed to three heart attacks over eight years ago. I had some considerable trepidations about this visit because I had just had a heart electrocardiogram done last week, one which I was informed was “abnormal”. Ack! At age 65 what parts of my life or body isn't abnormal, I immediate thought to myself. I've got implants in one ankle, a plate in my head, artificial lenses in both eyes, diabetes, two stents in my heart and an unrepentant attitude that I will live so long as I am useful to someone other than myself.
So accompanied by Suzie, my unofficial butt-kicker and chief translator (from blood-curdling Dave-speak to polite English, thank you) hi ho, it's off to the cardiologist we go. Did I say how much I loathe trips to see the cardiologist? They always seem to want to talk down to me, as if I couldn't possibly understand the rarefied technical complex world they live in, which only coincidentally happens to be my aging fatbody.
If they only knew how, after three heart attacks, and feeling the unmistakeable hand of my imminent demise slowly creeping up my spine like a vagrant earthworm, I became somewhat self-taught in medical and pharmacological terminology. After all, I reasoned, they are just words, aren't they? I reasoned that perhaps if I could hold a cogent conversation about medicine in general, perhaps I could increase my longevity while I was at it. I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, despite what multiple generations of Hollywood doctors may seem to be saying.
However, after modifying my diet, moderately exercising and fervently taking my medications in a timely manner, I managed to survive eight long years without a cardiologist until my much-beloved doctor pushed a big button in her computer and ordered that, after all this time, I needed an electrocardiogram, and her computer, being a good little machine, promptly tattled on me and showed the errors of my past sins. However, it is not as bad as it could have been. I'll survive another year before I need to see another cardiologist. Just no more sixteen ounce steaks for breakfast five times per week, nor other gastronomical sins.
So onward we march. If Jeanie can survive without her kidneys, I can survive with only a percentage of my heart. We'll proceed on that basis.