Let me play the fool. With mirth and laughter, let old wrinkles come. And let my liver heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice (Act 1, Scene 1).
When I arrived at my cardiologist’s office, my usual doctor wasn’t there.
So, I saw a Dr. Moyo, who was sitting in his office reading Scalpel Digest when I arrived.
“So, what brings you here?” he asked.
“Well, I usually come here to flirt with nurses, but today I thought I’d let you examine me in my effort to avoid unaliveness,” I said. “Sarcasm in the face of mortality,” he said. “You’ve seen too many movies.”
He led me to a room that housed a machine that looked like an iron lung. He called it the Scan-o-Rama IV.
“First, we must analyze the composition of your heart,” he said. “Lie down and we’ll get started.”
I did as I was told, and the device began to whine as if 500 angry honeybees were flying around inside it. Then the platform I was lying on slid into the iron lung.
The experience was quite unnerving, but I tried to stay calm.
At length, the platform slid out of the tube.
“So, Doc, is it the Stones or Neil Young?” I asked.
“Pardon me?” he said. “Do I have a heart of gold or a heart of stone?” I said.
“Darkness,” he said matter-of-factly. “You have a heart of darkness. Probably caused by a recent total eclipse of the heart.”
“The horror. The horror,” I exclaimed, but the doctor didn’t seem to get the reference, further proof that my English degree is useless.
The doctor uncoiled his stethoscope from around his neck and listened to my heart.
He looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Can’t you hear the pounding of my heartbeat?” I almost added, “'cause you’re the one I love.” (Herman’s Hermits) He sat down and began flipping through pages on a clipboard.
“Odd,” he said. “There is no mention of that in your chart.”
“What?” I said.
He ignored my question and put the clipboard on his lap.
“Have you ever spent time down at the end of Lonely Street?” he asked.
“I stayed a few nights at the Heartbreak Hotel,” I said.
“Have you ever experienced any shortness of breath, fatigue or an achy, breaky heart, sometimes known as lovesick.”
“This may seem like an inopportune time to bring this up, Doctor, but did you go to medical school?” I queried.
“Just answer my question,” he said.
“Well, sure I’ve felt lovesick a time or two,” I said. “Who hasn’t?”
“Your symptoms are starting to make sense,” he said. “The Scan-o-Rama test showed some cardiological scarring, which is a tell-tale sign of a heart broken long ago.”
“You mean this has nothing to do with cholesterol,”I said.
“Of course not,” he said. “So, all this time I’ve been avoiding fats, salts, and sugar, I should have been avoiding pretty women?” I said.
“Precisely,” he said. “You see, T. Michael, the heart is a bit like a wheel, and once you bend it, it’s difficult to mend it. Ten years ago, your heart was probably a perfect disk, but now it’s more of a trapezoid.”
“So, what are my options?” I asked.
“Alcohol treatments have demonstrated short-term palliative effects,” he said.
“Such a treatment program would please the owners of The Oconee Cellar, at least,” I said.
“Or you could try a dating app,” he said. “A new love might heal the old wound.”
“I tried that already,” I said. “I only got one like, and that was from someone named Gary.”
At that moment, my real cardiologist blundered into the room with two policemen.
“Arrest that quack!” he shouted, pointing at Dr. Moyo. “He’s promulgating a preposterous theory [along with most of the poets and songwriters for the last 2,000 years] that heart problems are caused by unrequited love. He’s turned half of my patients into drunks.”
Dr. Moyo resisted and was thrown to the floor, but before he was handcuffed, he pulled a pad from his pocket and scribbled something on it: a prescription.
“Have this filled immediately,” he said.
SweeTARTS: three times daily with copious laughter.
Keeper’s Heart Whiskey: shots as needed for pain.
(Manufacturer’s warning: If taken seriously, this column could cause unpleasant side effects.)
Selah.