HEY say that any Emily Dickinson poem can be sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” I had my own adventures in transposing last week. When you go into the hospital at 71 it is only natural that a song extolling youth that came out when you were 18 should run through your head. Lying on my back in the CT Scan room, staring up at the hospital’s big modern panels of recessed lighting, I discovered that you can sing “flat lights on the ceiling” to “Three Coins in the Fountain” without missing a beat.
I was on the cardiology floor, in for three days and four nights for the so-called “battery of tests.” I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, ventricle enlargement, and congestive heart trouble. I’m taking meds to control arrhythmia and clot formation, and a diuretic for fluid retention that really works; so far I’ve lost 27 pounds just from what we at National Reviewcall p**ing.
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