It wasn't a heart attack. That much has been confirmed. All the tests
were mind-bogglingly normal. My blood pressure is lower than normal; my
cholesterol is so low the doctor couldn't believe her eyes; there were
none of those nasty little enzymes floating around that could indicate a
heart attack. But still no one knows what the hell happened to me! Now
the heart doc wants me to check with my GP about GI stuff, because
apparently some gastric nasties can mimic a heart attack or angina. Of
course it could be something psychiatric too, God knows I'm on enough
mind-altering medication to get me permanently banned from baseball.

At least this whole ugle episode has put the fear of God into me, and
I've been fighting the good fight to be kinder to my system. I stepped
up on the exercise program, with which I'd gotten quite lazy during the
holidays. When this nightmare of a waistline has gotten smaller, I swear
on my mother's dentures that I'll spend a considerable amount of time in
the mall! Depression will keep one's a.s glued to a couch well enough.
I've been living on green vegetables and fruit cups made with just real
fruit and not some sugared-up mess marketed to children. (They have one
they make fresh at work each day and it's quite good.) It's getting on
the boring side though, and I told a coworker las week that the next
time I have to eat a leaf there's better be a burger under it. Of
course, I've had to put the kibosh on my beloved Ho-Ho's. I had such a
jonesing for those damned Ho-Ho's I thought I'd lose my mind. Louie was
kind enough to get me these fat-free Klondikes. Then he ate them.

Blessed be,
Baha