We like the heart to behave—no skipped beats, no atrial flutter, just the regular, precious, plodding cadence. For this, we will sacrifice much. The medicine my father began taking for his irregular heartbeat, in 2014, could have turned his skin gray, or caused him to grow breasts, or collected in tiny granular deposits behind his eyes, so that everything he looked at would have had a blue halo. None of this happened to him. Instead, he was cold all the time. At the end of his life, my father went from doctor to patient, from scientist to subject.
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