So here's my Epiphany, today being La Fête des Rois, the Feast of Kings, the Twelfth Day of Christmas with its lords a-leaping, the manifestation of a deity, and the moment when you suddenly see something in an entirely new way:
Kinda late in life, I know, to blame stuff on your parents, but I was born with a congenitally defective, leaky aortic heart valve.
I was almost 50 before anybody noticed, and quite a bit more time passed before there was any real trouble. Fortunately, help was available (Yay! Let's hear it for modern medicine!): a prosthetic implant from a specially bred Canadian pig. Enough to make you believe in rejuvenation! Mind you, this isn't clogged arteries; too much red wine for that!
But a leaky valve ain't no fun, either. Just walking feels like slogging through mud. And now, some 14 years later, the implant is on its last, er, legs. The cardiology team at Swedish Heart & Vascular reports that the valve has literally reached the end of its useful life. G-gulp.
They could, of course, let me expire along with the spare part from that lazy Canuck porker. But no.
The one downside is that I'll be out of commission for a few weeks, starting Tuesday.
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