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Well, my depression is now extreme nervousness. See, tomorrow I must go have a trans-esophageal echocardiogram. This involves swallowing a transponder, letting my cardio doc take purty pictures, and then having the thing yanked back out. No big deal; I'll be sedated, though not unconscious, so I'll supposedly not mind any of this foofaraw. Unfortunately, I'm one of the folks who hates being anything other than alert . I have to argue with myself just to get any sleep. My brain thinks it will miss something good. My overdeveloped sense of responsibility worries that my inattention will result in disaster. It's extremely hard for me to relax. In addition to my own natural inclinations, I've been warned to pack for a "possible overnight hospital stay." WTF? Isn't this supposed to be a simple, quick, relatively non-invasive thing? I don't want no stinkin' hosital stay, no siree. I'm likely to be found crawling out the window if they try to keep me. Maybe the Samurai can calm me down. I guess I have to keep in mind that this is the test that will determine whether or not they can fix my heart. (It ain't broke, just unfinished.) I really want them to repair me, so I guess I'd better cooperate. My role model will be my man Lance. Watched the indomitable Mr. Armstrong *power* up that mountain on live TV this AM. He made his rivals appear to be standing still, and did it after taking a spill himself. His face was a study in steely, iron, rock-solid determination. Lance is one of my heroes. Happy thought: only four days until Seabiscuit opens! That little horsie is another of my heroes. If the Samurai won't go see it, one of the cute young ladies from the dojo has said she'll go with me. I can't wait. Off to do more Pennsic sewing! On the Headbone: Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen |
 
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Nervous