For the remainder of the afternoon, Dad wouldn’t drop the subject of my heart. He gobbled up his pasta quickly, so as not to delay my return to New York. I wanted to explain to him, there was nothing wrong with my health. It was fatigue. It was the wine and the stress of awards ceremonies. I promised to call after I saw my guy.

December 20, 2005

Well, this is going to be a fun holiday season. I had the stress test, failed miserably, and, surprise, surprise, I’m scheduled for surgery in eight days. (Maybe I died on the table, which is how you came to be reading this?) Something called “minimally invasive direct artery bypass”(MID-CAB). They will cut me open and stick a scalpel into my beating heart. Graft a vein. All that. What makes it minimal is that I will never legally be dead during the surgery. My heart will keep beating. No machine will be required to keep the blood coursing. It’s a no-brainer. They perform hundreds of these every week. Yeah, right.

The surgeon was reassuring. Very little chance of a problem. I did some research, learned that Philip Roth had heart surgery and came out of it okay. He wrote like a speed freak for the next ten years. I have no choice in the matter so it makes no difference what Philip Roth did or didn’t do.

I will have to take time off to recuperate. Supposedly I will be able to return to “normal activities” two weeks after the surgery. The bad news is that my book tour is coming up and anything that involves getting on airplanes, let alone passing through airport checkpoints, is considered stressful.

I informed Leon of this new development. He clucked and made a big show of disappointment. He assured me that as soon as my heart is healed, I’ll have my tour. He insisted that strategically this will work out for the better in the long run. Fuck him. More money saved. But I can’t think about Leon now. My life is on the line. A major medical event. I have insurance, so what more can I do but lie down and let them stick a knife between my ribs?

Now and then I sense a slight ache in my chest, something I’ve never felt before. The more I try to ignore it, the more it makes itself known, a sensation that beats like a distant lighthouse in deep fog. I’ve also developed a form of insomnia that tenaciously fights the Valium the doctor has prescribed. I lie on my back for hours, rolling a single thought back and forth: “Maybe I will die.” Of course, I will die, sooner or later, but will I die this week? This month? Before spring? Before summer?