I'm supposed to see the cardiologist every six months. They sent me a
notice the first of June to make an appointment, but I was seeing my
regular doctor, a dermatologist and the dentist in June, so I didn't
respond. Then they called in early September and asked me to make an
appointment. The pharmacy was cutting off my meds because I hadn't been
to the doctor, so I went yesterday.
My cardiologist is
in his mid-thirties, handsome and charming, with dark Italian skin, a
pretty smile, and a southern drawl. The problem is that he wants to run
tests. When I saw him in January, I agreed to some kind of stress test
with radioactive stuff, now that I have Medicare to pay. At the time he
said "Your heart is not as bad as you think."
This time
he was concerned, as was the dermatologist in June, that my legs are
swollen. After an ultrasound in June, they decided that wasn't so bad
either. This time, the cardiologist said the magic words "heart
failure." Which is what killed my father. Maybe it's not that. They
checked my thyroid (always iffy) and maybe that is the problem. Still he
wants to do an echocardiogram next week. He asked about chest pain and
shortness of breath. I don't think they are any worse than ever. But
yes, sometimes
We are in the Jewish Days of Repentance,
when we ask God to write us in the Book of Life for another year. I've
always looked at this as superstition, and maybe I still do. But next
week, at Yom Kippur, I will pray for a long life with added fervor. I
have friends who are in much more perilous health than I, people who
can't walk a flight of steps or ride a bicycle. I will pray for them
too.
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