Shock and disbelief can do much to quell pain. The shock came courtesy of the twelve-footer that had flattened me in shallow surf, the disbelief from the fact that I couldn’t walk but had to crawl up on to shore like a pulverized lung fish. Pain paid a visit as soon as I managed to roll over and examine the bursting haggis that used to be my left ankle.

But that wasn’t the hell of it. “Wow, do you know you have an incredibly loud heart murmur?” The doctor’s tone held professional admiration, but I wasn’t flattered, even by the crowds of interns who started paying me daily stethoscope visits to check out a classic blown valve. LA 2 – ME 0.

I was insured, but what of it? “Oh yeah, that valve’s gonna have to be replaced,” my corporate-assigned physician grinned. I’ll spare you the jawing over whether a pig valve or a metal valve was for me, the former having to be replaced every eight to ten years, the latter requiring daily intake of blood thinner until stroke at last fell me. Fearing the Hollywood Upstairs School of Medicine surgeon, and the six-figure co-pay [that’s right, six figure. Don’t believe me? Watch Sicko], I turned to Chinese medicine, foul reductions of cicadas and winged lizards. It helped, but only love, and Chinese doctors, can mend your heart.

The first Beijing winter was enough to win a hand with the reaper. He dealt me a Joker – Fuwai, the best heart hospital in China, was the closest health center to the Pizza Hut I collapsed in. One of the best heart surgeons in China perused my X-ray and CAT –scan portfolio. He turned to regard me sternly, lowering his glasses to peer at me.

“I can fix you.”

“B-but the doctors in America said..”

I may as well have argued with the wind. “I can fix you.”

Back then I couldn’t contemplate it, but now I want a video of the team carving me open like a turkey, attaching my pipes to a circulator, sawing into my heart, and affixing a tiny titanium staple to straighten out the valve. Imagine the Nietzschean fortitude in watching that, and the endless fun you could have with guests- after a five course dinner, say.

I never got the tape, but I got a fixed ticker and a month in a private hospital room. Could I smell the bathroom? Sometimes. But it had a color TV and a phone, masked nurses 24/7, and home-style Chinese cooking. Oh yeah, and they fixed my heart. No steel valve. No blood thinner. Fixed. Four grand U.S., in and out. Plus ten thousand RMB in a red envelope for the “I can fix you” man. Put that in your next “The problem with China…” pipe and smoke it.

That was three and a half years ago. Some people play a hand with the reaper and know when to walk away, wiser. I figured if God had wanted me to stop smoking and drinking he would have given me the steel valve package. Hey, I could have folded. But whatever the frustrations and disappointments of the following years, I had a fist-sized heart again, with four slammin’ valves.

Last weekend, I thought I felt the reaper come to play again. Something just switched off my battery, and I sunk onto a stall vendor’s stool, feeling my feet and hands go numb. After ten minutes, I could walk home. Frickin’ Beijing winter. But it hit me again when I got home. In the States, I would have dialed 911 and prepared for the worst. Here, I walked to the local clinic. It took ten minutes.

Could I smell the bathroom down the hall? No – it was winter. The halls were cold and austere, like a YMCA at night. But a merry glow came from the doctor’s office. Ten p.m., Saturday night; he was in, talking to a young friend.

He kindly gestured for me to sit down, listened to my story, then performed a twenty minute examination. There was nothing obviously wrong with my heart function, but I’d better go see a specialist to be safe. Seeing a doctor with no insurance company involved? Priceless. Having peace of mind an hour after hearing the reaper knock? Priceless. Cost of the visit? “Bu yong, bu yong. Ni manzou.” No need, no need. Go slow.