Humor: What a curable romantic I am

What a curable romantic I am

My friend Orville thinks I am insensitive. I have booked to go back into hospital the day before my eighth wedding anniversary.

"It was the only date I could get," I protested.

Um, this was not strictly true.

But the cardiologist who will be doing the second installment of my angioplasty only does that procedure on Wednesdays which limits me.
I told him that Wednesday, August 20, was no good for me because I had an appointment out of town (though I did not tell him I had merely booked to see a football game in Sydney).

My preferred option was August 13, but he said he was out of town that day.

"What about August 6?" he said. That would make it just the required three weeks after the first angioplasty.

"Fine," I said, eager to get it over and done with. "I'll be there."

It was only when I got home that my wife Katherine pointed out that the next day, August 7, would be our anniversary.

The good news is I should be out that day, after just one night's surveillance after the angioplasty.

The bad news is that we had planned to go out for an intimate dinner for two and I will probably be too tired and sore for that now.

The even worse news is that last time, two weeks or so ago, I bruised quite badly and was kept in hospital a day longer than most angioplasty patients. There is a chance, I concede, that I will have romantic hospital dinner for one instead.

"What if that happens?" Orville, gasping, asked.

"I'll send Katherine flowers," I said.

"You can't do that," Orville protested, rolling his eyes and almost choking on his own breath. "We can't have patients sending flowers to relatives. The florists would get terribly confused."

"Well, what else can I do?" I said.

Orville was lost for words. This was very unlike him.
In fact, when I first had problems with my heart he told me it must have been all my fault.
Yes, I thought, just like it was all his fault he had gone bald, just like his brothers and father and uncles and grandfather.

"I've got some bad heart genes," I said.

"Helped along no doubt," said Orville, "by you having scoffed down copious amounts of cakes, chocolates, black pudding, eggs, bacon, pies, tarts, cheese, sweets ...."

"Enough please, Orville," I said. "Have some mercy. Can't you see I am a sick man?"

There was a good reason for this.
I actually felt quite fine after my first angioplasty until I received a letter from Canberra Hospital, confirming my appointment for a cardiac rehabilitation interview ahead of entry into the "gym program."

"Nobody told me about a gym program, Orville," I exclaimed. "Goodness, the last time I took part in organised exercise it was a water aerobics class when I am quite sure they tried to drown me."

"I told you: it's your own fault," said Orville. "You need to eat less and exercise more. And anyway, you're not likely to drown in a gym."

"Nonsense," I said. "I could very well drown in my own sweat."

"I am more worried about you being kept in hospital on your anniversary," said Orville.

"It will be OK," I said.

For the record, it has been quite cold in Canberra the past week, and there is some talk of it snowing in the city.

Katherine and I were married amid snow in a chalet at Cradle Mountain in Tasmania in 1995.

If it is snowing outside the hospital on our anniversary, I shall feel very nostalgic. I wonder if they will serve champers on my dinner tray just for old times sake?

©July 29, 2003 John Martin. All Rights Reserved

Close shave on the cardiac warpath
I am pretty sure the stream of people who lifted up my hospital gown and looked at my groin over the past few days were all either doctors or nurses.
But I cannot be sure.
For all I know, there was a sign at the door saying: "STEP RIGHT UP, FOLKS, FOR A GIG AT MR MARTIN'S GROIN."
"Very impressive indeed," several of the onlookers said when they took a peek.

NB: I called this site Dunno because I kept drawing a blank when I had to put a name to it