By Bert Stratton | The Wall Street Journal
I like “organ recitals”—impromptu get-togethers where old people rehash their illnesses. They never bore me, maybe because I’m 75 and can relate. I recently had an ultrasound and an echocardiogram, and today I’m going to the pulmonologist for breathing tests—spirometry.
I feel fine, but that could change by this afternoon when I get my results. I’m being tested for pulmonary hypertension, which means possibly not enough blood is getting to my lungs from my heart. It can kill you.
My primary doctor sends me around town. (Where I live, that means the Cleveland Clinic.) I don’t mind medical tourism, but I was a bit irked this summer when he sent me to a hospital in Chicago. I was visiting my daughter’s family there, and my doctor back home texted me that my out-of-the-blue swollen ankle might mean a blood clot. He said go to an Emergency room. That was a pain. Three hours in and out, and my ankle was fine. No blood clot.
