IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER GRUMPY FUR BALL

Now more than ever I feel like Portnoy the groundhog in Bloom County. You will recall that the little fellow once had a birthday, seven years old, which is past middle-age for that type of animal. He was in denial about it.
I am not old. Dammit. Yes, I am recovering from a heart procedure which saved my life, but I am still very very liberal!

Coronary stent.

In the past week, people heard about the event, and have reached out.
Which surprised me. And I am very appreciative.

I had stoically said nothing in two years leading up to this. Because, you know, when people ask "how are you doing?" they don't really want to know that you feel like crap, and have felt that way for many months.
I can't complain. I'm full of piss and vinegar.
I'll spare you the details.


For a while near the end I had answered the question by saying I felt like crap. Because I did feel like crap, and I no longer saw any point in being diplomatic. Crap, but bubbling over with piss and vinegar.


"Oh, you'll be fine!"


January second I went to the clinic.
Over the next month, things happened fast.
At the beginning of February an angioplasty was done.

I am now taking Losartan, Atorvastatin, Clopidogrel, and Metoprolol. And avoiding alcohol, because it combines badly with two of those medications.

I cannot think of anything more romantic on Saint Valentine's Day than being alive, seeing brightness at the end of the tunnel, and being just brimming over with piss and vinegar again.


Yes, I still go to bars. Because I like people around me, some of whom occasionally speak. But everybody knows that alcohol is out of the question.
A mixture of Coca-cola and Fanta Orange, plus multiples of ginger ale, ginger ale, ginger ale, ginger ale, and a nice tall glass of weak tea.

I'll be fine. I am full of piss and vinegar.
As well as carbonated beverages.



I gotta pee.



I expect to be almost fully back to my old self by mid-March.




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