Pictures of my heart

Yesterday, I paid my regular six-month visit to the cardiologist. First born was able to fit me into her busy schedule for the short ride to his office in that nearby town that is also home to Rinky-Dink University. (I call it that, because I have been on a number of campi, including two Big Ten schools, and I have never before heard of drunken, partying college students beating and knifing each other on the adjacent streets, and apparently getting away with it,)

The doctor certified I was indeed alive. Actually, he described my heart as "strong." You may verify his results by calling MY HEART DOC. Have your credit card ready.

This was the first time in the 7-8 years I have been going there that I met Steve who hangs out in a small dark room at the end of a hall I had never noticed before. It turns out Steve is an affable young technician who performs ultrasounds. I asked him if he was new, because the last time I was thus tested, it was across the street during my initial visit. It had never happened since, but apparently I said some magic word that triggered this repeat procedure. Steve's response to my question was, "This used to be Doctor's private office," When he was installed there he didn't say. I hope someone plans to replace the narrow, uncomfortable bed I was made to lie on. Being a troublesome old codger, I suggested that to Steve. After all, Louie and I once reformed a skilled nursing facility, didn't we?