After nine months or better of taking an increasing number of pills, some of which had physiological effects worse than the psychological downer they could create, today I will go to the hospital for a cardiac ablation, a one-day procedure that hopes to realign the electrical current in the heart and, as a side effect, get me off some of the medication I can't help but think of as "those damned pills."
I am trying to suppress the kid-before-Christmas anticipation that goes with this medical effort, but it still rises up, irrespective of down-side possibilities. Some part of me dances with the Tooth Fairy who will make things all better ... the perfect gift inside an as-yet-unwrapped present under the tree. The whole thing glows, I imagine, because it has a pro-active feel to it ... "get 'er done!" But what, precisely, will get done, what the actual results might be, how I will feel and be able to act post-facto I have no real idea. At 70 years old, I can't expect e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g to get fixed, but even few small steps would be very welcome... not, for example, spending periodic nights in the emergency room only to turn around and come home, waiting for the next event.
Who knows, maybe I could even gain some weight. Over the 9 months of being a pharmacological experiment, I lost 40 pounds, some of it muscle mass, and I would be grateful to eat something other than bunny food and to stop looking like a poster-child for Bergen-Belsen.
It's an adventure all right.