By the time you read this, I’ll be part cow.

My heart beats differently than most people’s. I’ve known that for quite a while now. I’m not talking metaphorically (necessarily). I have what’s called a bicuspid aortic valve, like 2% of the population. Instead of three flaps regulating the blood flowing into my heart like the rest of you tricuspid folk, I’ve got two. Baby, I was  born this way.

The diagram makes MY heart valve look like a catfish!

To rectify the situation, the medical  community has come up with the outlandish idea of replacing my valve with a livestock one, a pig’s or a cow’s. Since the manufacturers sent my doctors a cow’s, that’s what they’ll be using for my graze anatomy.

Early Monday morning, before Dawn gets up or even rolls over, I’ll be sedated and on my way to the cattle call.

My mom had one of these operations eight years ago. Her father, my granddad, chose not to have one about 40 years back. So it clearly trods in the family, aortic stenosis. Writing about the experience obviously makes me an aortic stenographer.

Sorry about that. Humor helps me feel like me. Even though my heart murmurs with disapproval.

Miss Marci has been moooving with me every step of the way.

I was feeling nervous, and truthfully, a bit without agency. My narrative wasn’t my own to write. Then I ran into some longtime neighborhood friends at the hospital check-in queue and they told me a few other neighbors of ours had the exact same surgery years ago too. I’ve seen them — my angus associates — at protests & parties, known them for decades and somehow, that assuaged my anxiety greatly.

Since I’m a cancer survive…er …THRIVER, the medical team has gone over my past predicaments painstakingly. I feel seen and heard (herd?).

If I eat meat now, am I a cannibal, as my brother Scott suggests? He does have some skin in the game. I’m already part him. 16 years ago he gave me his stem cells in a bone marrow transplant. I’m part Scott, part cow and part titanium breast plate added, I’m told, “because you’re young, Rodney.” Call me Frankenstein’s monster. Call me anything you want, actually; a Guernsey guy, half Hereford, your Angus associate …

I explained the procedure to my granddaughters using their farm figurines as guides.

My recovery should include a week in the hospital, then another five or six back home. I can’t pick up cats, kids or babies during that interval. Though I assume they can all plop on my lap or cozy up behind my computer screen, purring with pleasure, like someone I know is doing right now. (And I don’t mean Marci.)

The doctors keep telling me this is a “bread & butter” operation, easy peasy. And as if to complete the food analogies, my college buddy, Rick, just texted saying he’d resist any “Where’s the Beef” jokes afterward.

Holy Holstein, I say bring ‘em on! Milk them for all they’re worth; don’t steer clear. Make me the laughing stock. I’ll be udderly over the moon. The steaks are low …