If you don’t tear up after hearing this song, you don’t have a human heart.

I haven’t posted since early January, and for good reason. Where’ve I been? Inundated with medical issues and related doctor appointments.

Long story short, I’ve been sidelined with medical issues. January was a total knee replacement, followed by arduous physical therapy. Breaking down scar tissue hurts. A whole lot. The eff-bombs flew as my physical therapist bent my knee to achieve optimal flexion.

“Breathe through it,” she’d say.

“Goddamit!” I’d shout, tears of pain rolling down my face.

As things got better flexion-wise, they deteriorated edema-wise. My operated leg got fatter and fatter. Then my other leg swelled up. Then I started gaining weight, for no apparent reason, and I was short of breath on the shortest walks.

I went to the doctor, after gaining 10 pounds in one week. He hooked me up to the electrocardiogram. Yipes! Heart rate of 200??? No bueno. He whipped out his cell phone and called for an ambulance. Then he ordered a crash cart as we waited for the EMTs, and called ahead to the ER, saying I’d be there in minutes.

Four days in ICU, and three days in cardio step-down unit. They squeezed twenty pounds of liquid out of me. They got my heart rate down to way under 100. My orthopedic surgeon, affiliated with the same hospital, came downstairs to visit me and check on my knee. It was not improving, as I couldn’t do the painful exercises while laid up in bed.

After three cardioversions and an ablation, I was released. Along with a short leash. No salt, minimal liquids, pills in the morning, pills in the evening. I sourced some very expensive pills creatively and now have an ample, affordable supply.

Every morning, I must log in my weight, BP, and heart rate. Thanks to various diuretics, I now plan my daily movements to ensure handy access to urinals. The fear of getting stuck in traffic, without a nearby men’s room, is constant.

Once upon a time, we’d laugh at the myriad doctor’s appointments noted on the white board in my mother in law’s kitchen. The laugh’s now on me. My weeks are studded with visits to various doctors. I’m poked, prodded, jabbed like a pin cushion.

Bette Davis was right. Old age is not for sissies. “Where’ve I been?” Battling, folks. Battling.