Oh, and Jesse, who came up with this all too true gem: "Look Eric, don't die. If you die, Gina will get surly and we can't have Gina surly, now can we?"

I bow to his wisdom in this matter.

So. The doctor's visit.

It's worse than we thought.

I seem to have cardiomyopathy, a condition where the enlarged left side of my heart leads to weak contractions. It's not working "efficiently" in expelling blood to the rest of the body -- thus the increased heart rate. And the shortness of breath. And and and so on and so forth.

Humorously, it's got nothing to do with my weight or lifestyle. Honestly. I could have been two hundred pounds of rippling muscle and still had the same thing. Doctor Fleet eliminated most of the usual causes, and currently thinks it's a viral cause.

It's permanent. I may be able to manage it, but unless we tear the heart from my body and replace it with another (which is a possibility we discussed), it's there forever. I'm now on ACE inhibitors and a diuretic to help lower the volume of fluid going through the heart. I'm also taking aspirin daily because I'm at significant increased risk of stroke.

I'm not to exert myself -- and he pointed out that short walks are exertion as far as my heart's currently concerned -- until we see if we can get this under control. I'm also to lower my fluid intake and make sure sodium leaves my life as completely as possible. (I'm off soda now, probably for good. Soda is so named for the word "Sodium," you know.)

Look at the last. I'm not supposed to exercise or drink too much water. The opposite of every weight control plan known to man. Go bloody figure. Sometimes life is goofy.

I'm not scared today. Oh, the fact that I could have congestive heart failure walking out to the car's no picnic. But I'm more stunned. Shocked.

Look, assuming we don't transplant right away, I've probably lost two decades off my life expectancy. And it's not even because of my faults. That almost offends me. If I'd done it to myself I could have coped better, but it's random. It's just... there.

I just got mail from John's wife Lisa, who's a seriously cool person. As with John, her response was "look -- I have nothing to wear to a funeral, mister."

I love my friends. I really do. I hope they all know that. I hope you know it too, because it makes it easier for me to cope if I tell you about it. So thanks for reading.

With luck, and the trip to Washington tomorrow, these entries will start getting fun again. Heck, they almost have to.

Because this condition isn't going away. Ever. So, best to learn to manage it and live with it, now.