DAZE WORK: The beat goes on ... you gotta have heart

You’ll have to forgive me if I feel a little like The Tin Man from “The Wizard of Oz” these days.

While I may not have made a visit to the Emerald City for a new ticker, I did go to IU West at Avon and ended up with a shiny new piece of tin in my chest.

And as the group America once sang, “Oz never did give nothing to The Tin Man that he didn’t, didn’t already have.”

But my cardiologist team gave me something I never knew I needed, implanting a pacemaker to apparently help my heart squeeze a bit better.

Of course, I could have asked for a brain and some courage as well. But as a Mizzou grad, you can forget about any trip to Kansas.

Recent surgery did prove one thing though -- I actually do have a heart. Some had questioned that over the years. And although it’s been broken a few times, it’s only been weakened, which stands to reason.

Those of you of a certain age will recall the late, great Johnny Carson -- if you don’t know, check him out on YouTube -- categorizing a situation as his “second favorite thing.” When second banana Ed McMahon dutifully asked what was his first, Carson would respond, “Removing my own spleen with a shoehorn.”

That’s just about how my chest felt after doctors inserted the pacemaker and attached a couple of electric leads to my heart. Not sure what I was really expecting, but I can now feel this three-inch lump under my skin. It has made it tough to sleep and even tougher to shower. And it hurts like heck when you inadvertently poke it, as I did at Kroger the other afternoon when I leaned over the basket on my cart to retrieve final items and nearly impaled myself on the end of my cane that was propped up in the basket.

Don’t be so quick to criticize the situation, a buddy with a similar device suggested. Facing long lines at the airport, Lucas Oil Stadium or the Indianapolis Motor Speedway? Just catch the eye of a TSA agent and point to your heart, he said, and they’ll wave you through like Taylor Swift heading to a Chiefs’ game.

Oddly, I was not allowed to drive for a week because of the surgery. Did they think I’d be all heartless behind the wheel and go all demolition derby on the detour traffic winding its way through Greencastle?

Instead, I dropped my Jeep off at Hendershot’s the night before my procedure, giving them a full week to do major surgery on my brakes at 308,000 miles and taking care of an oil change and some other necessary items.

Got the car back Thursday but it seems I’ve forgotten how to drive over the past couple weeks. When I steered the Jeep back home, I clipped my Mitsubishi Spyder as I turned into the parking spaces behind my house, blaming the bright sun and its glare for contact that slightly dented the body at the wheel well. Yea, the sun ... that was it. Lost the Spyder in the sun.

With this hunk of metal joining the stent already in my heart for a couple of years, I have new respect for Lee Majors’ character, Steve Austin, in “The Six-Million-Dollar Man.” When I move, believe me, it’s in slow motion.

When I walked past the ice box, I swear the refrigerator magnets rearranged themselves in the form of a pentagram.

And I’m not sure if I’m supposed to use the microwave or not. But I slipped a couple pieces of fried chicken in there to nuke Sunday and slid well over to the side before I pushed the button to initiate action. If the answer is ultimately no for using the microwave, I’d look for a significant drop in Marie Callender frozen meals stock.

Meanwhile, I’m worried about a sudden affinity for heavy-metal music and an attraction to the Bionic Woman.

But seriously, this whole thing is supposed to make my heart work better, improve my quality of life and extend my years on this earth.

Consider yourselves warned.