I have built another boat

About five years ago, when in my early seventies,
I decided to build a boat. I know, now, that at the time,
I needed to decide whether I was too old.

Not too old to build a boat: just too old.
Somewhere there are human critters that seem
to go on forever, but I am not one of them.
I creak, and leak oil, and keep dropping parts in the street.
"Well," the body mechanic says, "that part just wore out.
We will have to see if we can fix it with glue and baling wire."

"Build the damned boat!", I thought.
"You aren't dead yet."

Today I cam back from a visit to a heart specialist.
Something had been wrong. My Internist thought it was
probably my heart, and advised me to leave well enough alone.
"Nonsense!", I thought. "The doctor doesn't look too good himself."

I have been stress-tested, and heart monitored
while I tried to exhaust myself. The cardiologist ran
my blood through an old hand-cranked separator
and told me the news. "You are fine," he said.
"I do believe we will change some of your medications."

My regular doctor was afraid of what I might learn
if I poked around in my chest too much. "You have had
a good life," he said. "Leave well-enough alone!"

After all these decades, I discovered that even the possibility
that something might be wrong with my heart was scary.
"That damned thing might just stop!", I thought.
"There is not much I can do about that!" And there isn't.

I have just built another boat.

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