Another Peek Under the Hood

And the journey continues. No, sadly, not the world-spanning physical jaunt that’s so far seen me cross an international border eighty four times and set foot on all continents except Antarctica. No, the medical one.

Anyone who owns a car knows the situation. You take it in for, say, an oil change or (in the past) change the spark plugs. You’re waiting patiently in the lounge, making cool bite-mark patterns in the styrofoam cup after drinking a classy Folgers when the manager approaches.

He beckons you over and, while pointing in the direction of your car, possibly up on the lift, the hood up, and a guy wearing greasy coveralls half a body inside the engine compartment, whispers, “we found something else that needs to be looked at.”

Yeah, that. Except it’s a different kind of engine.

Sure, my cardiac calcium score came back a big, fat zero. However. However! However, while ablating, the surgeon was checking other things. You know, as one does. Something he did discover was a potential soft blockage in an artery (I don’t know which one, and forgot to ask, so we’ll call it Nigel) that was concerning to him. Swell.

So, now the plan is to return to Bendo for an angiogram, and react accordingly after that. One the one hand, shit, perhaps even fuck.

On the other hand are several points.

1. It’s likely it’s something really needs addressing in some way or another. I mean cardiologists tend not to break things in the engine in order to create business like some garages did, and probably still do. (I wouldn’t know, I don’t own a car anymore.)

2. The timing of the call came before I’d booked myself outta here. I was just about to book a flight to somewhere. It was literally a matter of minutes before I was firing up Google Flights when I got the call. So, yeah, I avoided a wasted ticket.

But, I’d reserved my current rental to take me back to Bendo where I was going to fly away from. (Let’s just leave that sentence-ending preposition lie, shall we?) Perhaps I subconsciously knew the process wasn’t done with me? Who knows. At the moment, though, I’m waiting for a call from a scheduler now to arrange an angiogram on Nigel. But I’m not waiting in place: later today, I’m making my way a bit east and north toward Boise. There’s a Costco there whose hot dogs are calling to me. Call me weird (“Hi Weird!”), but I’m having fun on my Costco World Tour™ to eat a ‘dog in different Costcos. So far I think it’s eight states and five or six countries. I’ll have to spreadsheet it (yeah, I verbed that) and really think about it to confirm the numbers though.

Regarding the car I rented, first they gave me a black Soul. Despite being perfect metaphorically for me — a black soul to match my black heart — the Kia Soul is a piece of shit car, and I really, really didn’t want to subject myself to it for two weeks and a thousand or more miles. Happily, Hertz was willing to swap me out to a K5. And it’s not black. A gray car to complement my black heart instead of a black soul to match it. Still very much appropriate.

Back to the cardio crapola. Depending on the results of the angiogram, I understand the likely next steps will be either drugs (whee!), angioplasty, or a stent. Or, you know, death. I don’t have a clue how long it’d take to schedule and complete options one and two, and option three is not something one generally schedules. All speculation, though, since, you know, me and Nige have to get to and through the angio first. Fucking Nigel.

I have to say, it sucks getting old, but the dirt-nap alternative doesn’t appeal to me quite yet. I still have a few borders to cross, and one more continent to possibly cross off. Unfortunately, any plans are once again in a holding pattern as medical crapola pops to the fore. Must needs, amirite?

I’m outta here and off to eat a hotdog in Boise. Tremendous thanks to Tom and Suze for letting me hang with Monte for a week!

Be kind and take care of yourselves. If you can, care for someone else, too.

Slang, out.

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