"You Gotta Have . . . "

. . . Heart."

Yup, you do. I know that a few of you have heard that I had a cardiac incident my last night in Spain. I got up at 400 hours with a terrific pain in my RIGHT thoracic region, right under my right nipple. Hurt like hell, and scared the hell out of both of us so we went to the urgent care center and then were almost immediately referred to a major hospital's emergency ward in Madrid, where we spent the next fifteen hours, underwent many EKG's and blood tests, and saw three shifts of doctors, nurses, technicians and others. Bottom line (1): I did not have a heart attack, but they discovered atrial fibrillation, for which they gave us drugs and the admonition to consult a cardiologist immediately upon return to the US, which we did. We will pursue this further now that we are home, but I learned that I am part of a large cohort of men my age who have a similar problem. They could not explain my pain, nor could the cardiologist in Green Bay; I'm hoping someone here can get to the bottom of that. Bottom line (2): those fifteen hours in Madrid cost me nada, nothing. Hurray for 'socialist' medicine. And the accuracy and thoroughness of the care I received there was sheepishly acknowledged in Green Bay: Who knows what THEY will charge?

We missed our flight back to Chicago but the Madrid hospital staff rearranged the Iberia flight for us to the next day. We arrived in Green Bay on the third, and back here in Huntsville on the eighth. All is well and I have an appointment with my GP on Friday.

My two weeks in Spain were wonderful, though I was slow getting around with my staff (I was called a berger (shepherd) by the owner of the Bordeaux wine chateau we visited. I gave up the walker for obvious reasons involving cobblestones, omnipresent stairs, taxis and busses. I did OK, and Erin and her family were very patient with--and considerate of--me. It was a great vacation: I got to see Basqueland again and they all got to see it for the first time.

My legs are dishearteningly slow to respond. On Friday I will ask for referrals to a neurologist, an orthopedist (my right knee keeps wanting to give way), a cardiologist, and God knows what-all. 'Tis a bitch to get old, I'll tell ya; not for the faint hearted and certainly not for wusses of any stripe.

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It ain't as though I've had thousands of cards, letters, emails, Facebook things, and phone calls, but I really thank those of you who have managed one of the foregoing. It's nice to know that someone out there is paying a bit of attention and is concerned about my welfare: I'm more grateful than I can say.