the new life of dicky ticker

Tutti frutti, oh rudy – morning fix.

Tutti frutti, awrooty – evening mix

life on the edge

A myocardial infarction, say the learned folk – a heart attack, say you and me.

It starts with a twinge, such as the Fool had become used to every now and then, a fleeting stab as from the point of a knife, which immediately disappeared. Only this time the knife stayed in. I rode the scooter home from the swimming session, and climbed the stairs. And the knife was twisted. I told the Begum and the Princess that we might have to go to the hospital, but my composure was such, apparently, that they didn’t immediately take it in: “If you want”, they said. I wanted.

Down the stairs again, and a few steps to the car – and they stuck in another knife. And twisted it. Then the cold sweat broke out, and the Princess burned the red lights like a pro, and we were at the hospital in five minutes. Whereupon she went and snatched a wheelchair from the hands of a startled assistant, the Begum somehow manhandled the Fool into it, and in we went, making a beeline for the ER entrance. A recepcionist tried to stop us: “You need to register admittance first!”, she cried. “Yeah, yeah!”, said the Begum, “Sure we do”, said the Princess, and we barged through the doors.

People ask me if I felt fear, or was scared, or saw my life flashing before my eyes, but the Fool is one of those simple souls with a touching faith in Western Medicine – like a little boy’s absolute belief in the magic of a Band-Aid. So, just crossing the threshold into the ER put me in the mood of “relax, you are in the hands of professionals”. Plus, one knows how men’s brains are not geared to multi-tasking even at the best of times. And what I felt was pain. My mind was pain. No room for anything else.

They connected their tubes and their wires, and confirmed their diagnosis, and started pumping in the drugs and initiated the prepping for a catheterism. First, 2cc of morphine went in. Then another 2cc, and another 2cc … I think they went up to 8 or 10 cc (afterwards, the Begum said, my eyes were bright and merry like Christmas lights; I felt nothing. Honest). And then they did their thing – aspirating clots, inflating ballons, and inserting another two stents to add to the two already in my possession since 2007 (at this rate, my arteries will soon become continuous tubes of titanium mesh). And that’s how it was.

Now I’m waiting for new life instructions. Guess I’ll have to cut down on extreme physical exertion – perhaps I’ll stick to pruning roses, and call it exercise (in the way some people call chess a sport). And potter around the base of the Hill, and call it a brisk walk. And sit back on the boat while friends pull all the ropes, and call it sailing. Ah, well.

And I wonder if I shouldn’t pin a yellow warning roundel to my clothes – inscribed “Damaged Goods” (or perhaps “Bionic Man”, on days of a sunnier disposition).

Happy Christmas

the soundtrack of lost love

I hope that I'll find what I'm reachin' for
The way that it is in my mind
I hope that I won't be wrong anymore
And maybe I've learned this time

Someday I'll get over you
I'll live to see it all through
But I'll always miss dreaming my dreams with you

But I won't let it change me, not if I can
I'd rather believe in love
And give it away as much as I can
To those that I'm fondest of

Someday I'll get over you
I'll live to see it all through
But I'll always miss dreaming my dreams with you

Someday I'll get over you
I'll miss dreaming with you
Someday I'll get over you
I'll miss dreaming with you
Some day

Dreaming My Dreams With You, Cowboy Junkies