Life is great........... really.....

I wake up. I am in my own bed. It is eleven-thirty in the morning. I have had less then four hours’ sleep. It was indeed a long night. I feel as if I had the best dream ever followed by worse nightmare. I didn’t though. They were both real. They happened to me.

A mass of images are swirling in my head. I see William gazing longingly into my eyes as we make love.

My head aches as if I have a hangover, which I don’t, of course. It would be easier if I did.

All I would have to do is drink lots of fluids, go off. Unfortunately this ache is not going to go away so easily. Back to bed and sleep it

I get out of bed and draw back the curtains. The sun comes streaming in. A new day and a whole new era has dawned. Najib’s faces were in every page of the star newspaper for his first year in his office... and as well on telly....

I think I had enough of him today, I changed to sport channel insted.

I guess I am the bad boy of heart attack survivors. Mine played like low comedy from the start. It felt not like shearing pain: I had no revelations of mortality and sense of end times and lost opportunity. Actually, it seemed Bill Clinton was sitting on my chest playing the saxophone………

My initial diagnosis was hunger, so left my apartment, bought a hamburger and returned to see the end of the game on telly. When the game was over and the burger’s gone. Bill hadn’t left, so I call the taxi to drove me to the Clinic’s emergency room and promptly got into a fight with a line-butter who said he had asthma.

I thought a heart attack trumped that, but there was no order, no authority in that place. Just pure Hobbesian angst. Not for me, thank you very much.

So, I take taxi across town to a Pantai Medical Centre, where I was well treated from the start and even – I love this part- recognized. (The Doctor has been drinking at the same bar) I got my stent in 45 minutes, which I remember mostly for the one-liners, the best of which belonged to the young Doctor who put the thing in.

He said, “If you write about this, make sure you tell them that I am taller and cuter.”

I never cried, I kind of enjoyed the attention, I never felt particularly mortal, and my sworn changers lasted about a week. The no-caffeine went first, and if you’re even tried to go no-caffeine after a seven-cup-a-day habit, you know why.

I suppose I am better off now, due mostly to my so call ‘date’ heroism, not my own. That man just won’t let me die. Supposedly I am down to two drinks a day. I almost never eat fast food. I try to exercise at least four times a week, though mildly, and I am on the Lipitor/Toprol express to my late 90s.

I will say that, psychologically, the attack had almost no weight at all. When I see the leaves on the trees in my balcony and I realize that at 47 I’ll see them for fewer years than I’ve already seen them, that depresses me.

The same is true of men’s legs in the short, or good movies or nice guns. All those emblems of diminishment point are enough to make me tragically rue the two-drink rule.

But I hardly even think about the attack or the three days in bed or the sense of being wired to a billion dollars worth of gizmos. I don’t think of the fatigue, the hunger I felt for real food, fresh air, a good pair of new Nike hikers, maybe a little hoochie-coo, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I’ve banished all of that, like a lot of other unpleasantness in my life.

But I will say this, now that via these paragraphs I’ve revisited all: Life is god, death is bad.

Maybe I’ll start walking FOUR times a week………… Life is Great..........!!!!

Till then, I'll servive for sure............