At lunch time on Thursday I slip away from the office, to keep my rendezvous with the sad-faced cardiologist.
He tells me my condition is serious. The valve is badly damaged: "There is quite a lot of leakage". The mitral valve, which regulates the flow of blood (between the left atrium and the left ventricle) in one direction, is allowing blood to wash backwards, causing the heart to swell. Pressure is building up. He shows me the movie of my mutant heart. I can clearly see a ragged flap, flailing ineffectually.
I accept that I'll need surgery. I don't feel right at all. He asks "When would you like to have this operation?" I tell him "As soon as possible, please". He prescribes some medication to ease my symptoms.
He quizzes me about my general health (Exercise? Coffee? Tea? Smoking? Alcohol?), my occupation and my leisure activities. I tell him about the singing.
I'll have to go for some diagnostic tests, so they can decide whether to repair or replace my faulty heart valve. I have to be at the hospital at 6.45 am, having fasted and and having nothing to drink, not even water. I might be sedated for these tests, and someone will need to drive me home.
And I might need to go for these tests on two different days, which would be a nuisance, and would mean two days of fasting. I can't do anything about it. But as I wait at the Reception desk for my hospital forms, he suddenly materializes at my side, and says "We can do both tests on Tuesday morning". He casts a small smile in my direction.
Leaving the clinic, I visit my hairdresser, whose salon coincidentally is right next door. I tell Alex the news and ask if he can fit me in earlier than my next appointment, which is two or three weeks away. A bad hair day would make things much worse. Alex is astounded at the news and gives me a hug. He fits me in for the following week.
Then I go to the local shopping mall and purchase a new cabin bag for the trip to Boston I'm planning for a few months' time. It is a hard-shell four-wheel case, turquoise in colour. Di, the proprietor, pays full attention to me, helping me select, and wishing me all the best for the surgery. It's amazing what a difference a bit of caring service can make.
That evening, I go to La Boheme to see the "New Voices" showcase presented by Matthew Robinson. Sixteen singers perform his songs after a two-day workshop. I know several of the singers, and it turns out I know some of the songs too. I didn't know of Matthew Robinson before, but it turns out he is a wonderfully talented songwriter and a flamboyant performer. I settle down in the darkness, right in front of the stage, sipping on a glass of lovely white wine. I feel happy in the crowded room, listening to the music and contemplating what I'll do when I'm well again. I don't tell anyone there about my affliction - I just want to escape for an hour.
I find myself thinking - when I'm fixed, the gloves are coming off. I will not hold back. I'm really going to go for it.
He tells me my condition is serious. The valve is badly damaged: "There is quite a lot of leakage". The mitral valve, which regulates the flow of blood (between the left atrium and the left ventricle) in one direction, is allowing blood to wash backwards, causing the heart to swell. Pressure is building up. He shows me the movie of my mutant heart. I can clearly see a ragged flap, flailing ineffectually.
I accept that I'll need surgery. I don't feel right at all. He asks "When would you like to have this operation?" I tell him "As soon as possible, please". He prescribes some medication to ease my symptoms.
He quizzes me about my general health (Exercise? Coffee? Tea? Smoking? Alcohol?), my occupation and my leisure activities. I tell him about the singing.
I'll have to go for some diagnostic tests, so they can decide whether to repair or replace my faulty heart valve. I have to be at the hospital at 6.45 am, having fasted and and having nothing to drink, not even water. I might be sedated for these tests, and someone will need to drive me home.
And I might need to go for these tests on two different days, which would be a nuisance, and would mean two days of fasting. I can't do anything about it. But as I wait at the Reception desk for my hospital forms, he suddenly materializes at my side, and says "We can do both tests on Tuesday morning". He casts a small smile in my direction.
Leaving the clinic, I visit my hairdresser, whose salon coincidentally is right next door. I tell Alex the news and ask if he can fit me in earlier than my next appointment, which is two or three weeks away. A bad hair day would make things much worse. Alex is astounded at the news and gives me a hug. He fits me in for the following week.
Then I go to the local shopping mall and purchase a new cabin bag for the trip to Boston I'm planning for a few months' time. It is a hard-shell four-wheel case, turquoise in colour. Di, the proprietor, pays full attention to me, helping me select, and wishing me all the best for the surgery. It's amazing what a difference a bit of caring service can make.
I picture myself after the operation, relaxing on the couch, watching DVDs, reading books and looking at my new cabin bag, planing my trip. What I'm doing is "aiming beyond the goal". This is a concept I learned some years ago, at a meeting of the National Speakers Association. The speaker, Rowland, called for volunteers, to learn how to break a wooden board with their bare hands. I stepped up to the front, and Rowland coached me in the action required to break the board. He then held out the board, and told me "Aim at my chest, not at the board - aim through the goal". I was a bit worried about aiming for his chest - what if I punched him out? But I followed his instructions, and a moment later he was holding up two pieces of board. I assumed it had been pre-split, but no, I was the one who had broken it. I kept the two pieces of wood and had them framed as a reminder of what I'm capable of.
The lesson for me was this: when you have a difficult or unpleasant task coming up, don't focus on it. Focus instead on what will happen after you've done it, the benefits that will flow, and how great you will feel. Thinking this way helps me avoid the fear that might come from dwelling on the operation I need to have.
That evening, I go to La Boheme to see the "New Voices" showcase presented by Matthew Robinson. Sixteen singers perform his songs after a two-day workshop. I know several of the singers, and it turns out I know some of the songs too. I didn't know of Matthew Robinson before, but it turns out he is a wonderfully talented songwriter and a flamboyant performer. I settle down in the darkness, right in front of the stage, sipping on a glass of lovely white wine. I feel happy in the crowded room, listening to the music and contemplating what I'll do when I'm well again. I don't tell anyone there about my affliction - I just want to escape for an hour.
I find myself thinking - when I'm fixed, the gloves are coming off. I will not hold back. I'm really going to go for it.
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