On each of my pacemaker’s first four birthdays I have marked the day here on my blog, wishing it a Happy Birthday and thanking it for the work that it is selflessly doing on my behalf. A fifth birthday is different, a bit more special, so it only seems right that I do something different.
Which is what I did. I forgot its birthday altogether.
Pacemaker day is January 22nd, and went by uncelebrated. I thought about its imminent arrival in the days coming up to it, but not once on the day itself did the significance of the date sink in.
Since we are as close as it is possible to be, practically joined at the hip (though if that were true it would mean that the doctors had put it in wrongly) I imagine that this is the equivalent of forgetting one’s Wedding Anniversary.
The pacemaker is probably not speaking to me, and may maintain a frosty silence for the next few days.
Or not. As a general rule, hearing nothing from your pacemaker is a Good Thing, since that means that the heart that it is meant to kick-start should the heart decide it’s time for a quick nap is behaving itself. So perhaps the pacemaker will do the opposite, turning on at random times of its own accord, giving me the sudden inner jolt that I feel on the occasions (thankfully, very rare occasions) that it has to leap into action, like a metal Batman summoned by the Batsignal. This usually causes the muscles around it to go into spasm for up to an hour afterwards, and is a thoroughly unpleasant experience. It may, if it is feeling particularly offended, time these jolts for when I am deep asleep, or on a training course (I have one tomorrow, I’m sorry I have just given it that idea) or sitting, as I am now, on a crowded bus.
Anyway, Happy Birthday to my pacemaker. I hope it can forgive me for being late.
I wonder should I buy it flowers.