On one of those days last week, I had obligated myself to construct a soup. I had bought some kale at the farmers’ market, and found a recipe I thought I’d like for it; then the old bod said, “Uh-uh. You’re not doing a darn thing today.” So I didn’t.
The following day, I finally got all the ingredients chopped up and put together in the kettle, so the soup is now happily simmering on the stove.
A couple of days ago, I had a routine appointment with my cardiologist; I hoped to find out from him what I could do about the bad days. I told him I wanted an answer; in other words, “What do I have? Do I have congestive heart failure?”
Without replying immediately, he sent me home with a 24-hour monitor that I mailed back out to him when it finished ticking. I’ll have to wait a bit for the results from that; but he also said he wants a follow-up in a couple of weeks, and we’ll take it from there.
I began to ponder … the column would be due early in the week. When would I have time to write it, with impending soup? That would probably take up writing time, since I’m so slow getting the vegetables all appropriately prepared.
And I speculated … what would happen if I didn’t write the column this week? What would be the repercussions, if any? I don’t even remember how long I’ve been at it, but I do know it’s been several years, and the only ones I’ve missed so far were a very long time ago, when I was hospitalized for one thing or another.
Who would miss me? My two readers, of course … but would there be anyone else? And what about my pride, in keeping the column up, often under trying circumstances, that the readers will never know about because I don’t write about them?
Those who might think they know everything about me would discover they were sadly mistaken; I may reveal a lot, but I also keep a lot to myself, in a private place that I share only with Sam and the cats. (Ask any of them, if you want to know more.)
Would I lose my place in the universe? I can’t answer that question, although I do suspect I’m on a slippery slope as it is.
On the way to see the cardiologist, my chauffeur and I stopped at a Chinese restaurant for lunch. When I got to the office, the nurse told me that had been a bad thing to do, with all the salt in the food; I explained that I ingested salt about once a year, and I figured that was okay.
But then the doctor came in, and told me, relieving my mind, “I have the answer to your question. You don’t have congestive heart failure, but you do have that heart disease called chinesefooditis.”
