Ugh, world. Why do you have to fuck with me universe–I feel so lucky as is it would seem teasing out extra is a definite risk. My most recent echo came to fuck me with a nice dose of holy shit, you might have just a year to live to, holy shit, they might want to get this done this summer, to holy shit, I might want to push it out a year or two. If you don’t know me well, one of my mantras is–“life always happens when you’re making other plans.”

So now, well let me explain first what happened. So I had my little virtual follow-up to my echo which was fine, though they kind of slipped in a nasty piece of news in the last few minutes. I started my question with–well, I read the report, didn’t look too alarming to me but what do I know? I guess I know nothing, actually, so won’t try that again. The, where did you get your surgeries questions came again to town and she suggested we have a surgical consult because it appears St Jude has left me scarred and needs a replacement. I asked her how long this was supposed to last to which she replied, some people they last forever–but some people get scar tissue which affects the pressures in there and ability for my body to push that oxygenated blood out, I would assume. So yeah, that does mean open heart because they have to go dig the old one out through my breast plate, which keep in mind, has already been diced open twice but three is the prize apparently.

I asked her what she thought in terms of time because we all know my 2023 is going to be the next good time prediction and there is a killer virus and all rampaging through hospitals I would like to avoid. We usually see replacement needs within a year with your gradient, she said.

So oh fucking great. A hopefully last open heart surgery done in the midst of a fucking pandemic. Now, with a range of a year, you have to wonder–should I embark on what is a possible suicide mission before the end of the summer, because the summer will be slower for the virus since it does get heavily fractured in UV–err, that’s the theory anyways. Do I live the next few months as if they are my last since I am sure this surgeon would like to do it before he encounters illness or the hospital gets too busy? Will I die in August? I don’t know why I came out with August, it could be July I die–but, as I have said before–I am fucking expert at heart surgeries but you have to wonder when my luck might run out. I was thinking like age 57 would be a perfect time to die because it’s a 3 and by then I will probably have had time to do everything. But yeah, that’s a hope it won’t be before then but then you think of the wish in one hand and shit in the other mantra I got from my father and really, anything can happen.

So they didn’t really believe me when I told them I had no chest pains or issues with fainting–I suppose those would be the signs it is time. But now that I know what the issue is, there is also my mind I sometimes use to correct things. I wanted to tell them in the appointment that I would fix this just like I fixed my leg clot—but I think I have to prove that to the surgeon. So one more CT scan which I will have to make sure shows a heart that is strong and a valve that works fine. I don’t need it to work perfectly, no, but for the two of us to move far away with this issue in my chest might not be ideal unless they tell me it can wait a few years, after all. Now, they have been harassing me about this valve for at least the past 6 years here so maybe I got a little more time–but now you kind of wish, shit, why didn’t I get it done before we had a deadly freakin pandemic to wreck everything?

Because shit happens when you are making other plans. So now Don has to look for work maybe locally, maybe not. Maybe a short contract here and then we can do what I have done more than a few times after a major surgery–do something insane like move the fuck away. I did it in 1998–after the valve I moved to NYC. Nothing to lose if I was going to die in a few years which is all the information I had at that time. In 2006 I tried to do ivy league at Columbia, not 8 months after I was out of that last major arch surgery, that pack of 3 I was working full time and going to Columbia full time. Who fucking does that? An insane person, apparently. Now this might end up either moving, find a surgeon, get it done, or get it done, move, whatever, but right now I told Don to keep me stress-free, we could move wherever–or we could stay here which seems like a better idea during certain times since I did think for my whole childhood and into early adulthood I would come here to make my life and likely die here—but I never got the means or success to make that seem like the final plan either.

So, welcome back, time bomb. If I start fainting or getting severe pain they said it would be time to get it done, but that has not happened at all, so I am going to try and mind meld that test into waiting a bit. I assume it will happen in June, we will probably talk no later than July, which would mean August earliest. But again, I will try and mind meld that shit and things might be okay.