I thought I could be stoic about all of this, but I can’t. This is all really severely depressing. It’s not the “you need surgery,” that I feared, but it’s not really much better. Suddenly the fact I have a man-made ventricular septum, and outer vessels confusing enough to baffle an entire cardiology department has gotten to me. I’ve grown accustomed to having an abnormal heart, but drugs reintroduce a visceral reality of mortality I don’t want to remember.

Well, I finally attended the follow-up for my initial heart evaluation at University of Chicago. According to Dr. McNally and the Echocardiogram reviewing physician Dr. DeCara, my left ventricle is slightly weakened, and both my tricuspid and mitral valves show minor regurgitation. To remedy the left ventricle, I’ve been placed on Enalapril which relaxes arterial walls and eases blood-flow to reduce cardiac workload. I already have low blood pressure, so I’m a little trepidatious; I already get lightheaded when I stand up too fast, hopefully I won’t have any fainting spells. If I tolerate this well, she also wants to put me on a Beta-blocker to slow my heart rate and further reduce its workload. Considering my resting heart rate is a low 50, I can’t imagine it going much lower safely. Hopefully it only kicks in at the upper levels.

So long without an update, and with so much to cover, I don’t quite where to start. Well, I might as well begin with the first of August. Having gone so long without a vacation, and having just endured weeks of sweltering heat, the only possible involved immersing myself in water for an indefinite length of time: let there be water parks.

Well, my real estate agent called me earlier today, and it’s official: random people now reside in my former domicile. What’s better, the state of Illinois and my bank both agree I have been swindled out of a deeded property merely by signing a few papers dictating “sale terms” or some such nonsense. I have been released to the winds, no longer obligated to maintain a small swath of dilapidated Americana. Finally, I am free to amble aimlessly down dingy alleys crawling with filthy miscreants and ignore their gravely hunger-stricken pleas for monetary assistance, for those lacking home ownership are equal in the eyes of The Man.

Ah research. Research like this, I just don’t need. After looking into my surgical summary a bit more and joining the ACHA message boards, I have a better idea of what’s going inside under my sternum. So here’s what seems to be the full list, in alphabetical order: