I went to see a cardiologist today, and that ugly word cropped up: blockage. Well, that sucks! It's a bad thing, right?

What to do, what to do? Roto Rooter comes to mind. Liquid Plumber? Draino? The doctor forces a chuckle. "No, no, and no." Then the good doctor, who, I believe, hails from India or thereabouts, says: "You don hiv de bon don doo nu biddle da nob dib kondando, ha, ha, ha." What a guy. We just laughed and laughed.

We pulled ourselves together and after a good deal of repetition I think I discerned that I have a posterior artery which is probably 70% to 80% blocked. Just the one, I gathered. He pointed out rather jovially that it is not the "widow maker" artery, and it is not completely blocked. This was determined via an earlier stress test coupled with nuclear (or “nucular,” if you're a republican) injections and scans prior to and after my nine and a half minutes on the treadmill.

Good. I guess.

I am going from simply taking an aspirin and multi-vitamin in the morning to downing those plus Zocor for high cholesterol and something to slow my heart rate, a beta blocker of some kind, the name of which I never quite understood. I am also supposed to carry nitroglycerin tablets with me in the event my chest explodes. I always thought that nitro had the tendency to go Boom, but what do I know? Nitroglycerin, for poop sakes!

Life moves on inexorably, with changes that inevitably lead us to the happy hunting grounds.

Things changed for me today. I don't feel any different. I haven't been having any pain, sweating, or shortness of breath (except when I was on the treadmill), but nevertheless things have changed. This is the first definitive chink in my immortal armor. By golly, I might not live forever. People have been telling me this for some time, but I never really believed it applied to me.

True, I've had some knee problems — a torn meniscus, a little arthritis — but that had little to do with continuing to draw breath. It just slowed me down a bit - a little pain; mostly just a nuisance.

But a blockage? That's my heart, man! That's pretty basic.

The doctor tells me I'm fat. What's up with that? I point out that "I wouldn't be fat if it wasn't for my weight. Ha, ha." And, then: "My gelatinous gut here? Well, it used to be my chest, but gravity being what it is... Ha, ha, ha." He doesn't get it. "Yes,” he says, “You weigh a great deal, and so you are fat. You have the belly fat. Badinably kondeendi pundamakolindar. Okay? We'll see you. Have a nice day."