The Beat Goes On
Dodging bullets in late middle age
I was circling around my small office like a hamster in a cage, desperately searching for my cell phone. I had no trouble hearing the phone’s ring; it was locating the source of the action that was almost impossible. (Since I suddenly lost the hearing in my left ear eight years ago my ability to locate sound in space suffered accordingly). I’d emailed my cardiologist that morning, asking for clarification and five minutes of the doctor’s time. But it wasn’t until the phone stopped ringing that I finally found it on the floor, right beneath my seat.
It was Wednesday afternoon, the middle of a stressful week that had begun with my annual visit to Dr. B, my cardiologist. For the past ten years I’ve made regular trips to his office in Brookline to make sure my ticker is still in good working condition. Those trips always engender fear and trembling; I saw my father weakened by a massive heart attack at age 44, a quadruple bypass at 60, and a second fatal heart attack the following year. Several other relatives also died from heart disease; it seems to be the curse that dogs my family, handed down from generation to generation.
On this particular visit, I was scheduled for an echocardiogram. In my twenties, a doctor informed me that I had something called mitral valve prolapse –- a floppy valve –- that…
