Pacemaker

The time has come to start a new series in this blog. Or a new sequence. On Wednesday the 13th of April, 2011, a Doctor Dwyer will cut a hole in my flesh below my right shoulder, thread some wires through my veins down to my heart, connect them to a pacemaker, and sew me up and send me home after one night in hospital. (Why do Americans always say 'the hospital.'--as if there is only one.) And from then on, if my heart rate drops below a certain pace, the pacemaker will shock it to raise its speed. All very simple. Lots of people have them: nothing, really, to worry about.
This all started with my annual physical towards the end of February. These annual check-ups have rolled on from year to year with my taciturn GP telling me something like--"You're Ok," "You are pretty fit." Or some few words like that. This year it was different: "The cardiogram shows some atrial fibrillation and I think you had better see a cardiologist. Here's the name and phone number of one--he does the electric shocking procedure, which is what you will probably need."
It was like being mugged: like strolling along merrily on a nice day, admiring the cherry blossoms, when out comes someone from behind a tree and hits you over the head. The heart supposedly lies at the centre of your existence. Physically and, metaphorically, emotionally--although we all know that the emotions are in the brain and have no connection with that meaty muscle that beats away in your chest. And those health problems that attack your brain are more deadly to the essential YOU than problems with hearts, lungs, bowels, or kidneys.
To be continued. Now Joan and I are off to the Kennedy Center to hear Mozart's Requiem--that should cheer me up...