All you really need is heart

A life change

I am feeling good in spite of being diagnosed with irreversible microvascular arteriosclerosis. Microvascular arteriosclerosis has two definitions.

First, microvascular arteriosclerosis is the inability to pronounce medical terms because they have more syllables than supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

The only effective treatment is to attend medical school. That was not an option for me becuase I hated to draw blood. I could never find the right red pencil.

Second, microvascular arteriosclerosis is a condition wherein the tiny capillaries around the heart start to clog like an LA Freeway at rush hour.

My situation is not dire, just tiring. Much like the Trump saga.

The same arteriosclerosis that blocked my heart’s main artery, a year and a half ago, and required a stent, is now plugging up the teeny tiny itty bitty capillaries (more medical mumbo jumbo) around the southeast portion of my heart, causing me to crave oxygen, like a Koi out of water, and to experience Angina, which I was surprised to learn is not a small African nation.

Which means I have to take being a slacker seriously.

Ever since I was diagnosed with my genetic curse—thanks, mom— Type Two Diabetes, more than forty years ago, I fought the accumulation of bad gunk (my fancy medical term) by sticking to a healthy diet, testing my blood sugar levels with oral exams, taking my pills like a good boy and pretending to exercise often.

I like to naively believe the progress of the disease can be stalled thanks to two pharmaceutical wonders, the first being O-O-O-ohzempic, which I’ve been injecting into my belly for a month. O-O-O-ohzempic has driven my dangerous A1c numbers lower than the I.Q. of a Cyber Ninja. This is wonderful news because my numbers had begun to skyrocket out of control throughout this summer due to stresses beyond my control. (See my previous newsletter) Thanks to O-O-O-ohzempic I also lost 35-pounds, got a super model contract with the Hallmark Seniors Channel and I no longer need to wear a bra.

The second miracle drug in this story is called Ranozaline which keeps my arteries open like a 24-hour Walmart.

I thought about asking my cardiologist if she could be miniaturized like Raquel Welch in “Fantastic Voyage” and could implant hundreds of teeny tiny stents in my capillaries. And then, on second thought, I passed on the idea becuase she is so young she wouldn’t recognize my dated reference.

With the condition as irreversible as my first car, a Nash Rambler with a screwed up transmission, I must live with this new reality. The trick will be avoiding exerting myself and embracing my Inner Slacker. I’m learning what my exertion limits are. On short walks my heart tightens like a leash tugging me back to a slower pace. This means I no longer can do jumping jacks all the way up Tumamoc or wrestle greased javelina or participate in Sonoran hotdog eating contests.

It also means I no longer will be performing in front of audiences anymore. You heard me right. In order to focus on recovering what health I have I am retiring from public speaking. All of it. Standup, keynotes, school lectures, emceeing, auctioneering, luncheon speeches, moderating. No more exertion. Nothing that might leave me winded. You’ve got to know “when to leave the stage” and protect your health.

Some people just don’t know when it’s time to leave the stage. Years ago my friend Elliot Glicksman and I went to see Jerry Lewis perform at Desert Diamond Casino. Lewis was as surly, cranky, unfunny, arrogant and dreadful as we expected him to be. His material was dated and his use of words like “fags” and “Japs” were disgusting. Tethered to an oxygen tank, he insulted his band and members of the audience who braved a Q & A with him. From that spectacle Elliot and I took away this simple life lesson, you’ve got to know when to leave the stage.

When I was prescribed nitro glycerine, which takes the form of three tiny tablets in a capsule that looks like something “Q” insisted James Bond carry in case he was ever captured by agents of THRUSH, I knew it was time.

It pains me more than angina to announce this upcoming “Old Pueblo Holiday Radio Show” will be my last visit to the Arroyo Cafe. Even if I have to be wheeled around the stage by Nurse Ratchet like Hannibal Lecter I’m doing the show. EMTs get in free.

I am curiously happy with this decision after a lifetime of being a public figure who has enjoyed the good will of this unique, beautiful, diverse, welcoming, wonderful community which I have called home most of my fortunate life.

I will joyfully continue to write and publish this substack newsletter. It pleases my heart. I am so blessed to have this platform. And to have readers like yourself.

When I shared this news with my dear friend, Marty Bishop, he wrote me, “I see you in 30 years, shriveled like a dry old apple, so small you need pillows all around to keep you upright in your hover-chair, tubes snaking out from under blankets to connect to onboard oxygen, dialysis and artificial liver machines … still hammering out vicious wit and colorful characters, still comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, still fighting the good fight in a vernacular no one under 40 even understands, as if you’re speaking to them in cursive.”

I typed a “laugh” emoji and then he added, “I see you asking your doctor if she might be willing to shrink to microscopic size and fight corpuscles à la Raquel Welch in a skintight diving suit – and she says sure, set an appointment with her assistant for the new Shrink Ray machine at Banner/McCusker Medical Center.”

Such a good life. And so many more essays to write.