Last Friday I received a pacemaker.

I’m still not over the shock that I needed one. I was skeptical because surgeons want to do their job. You know, they’re trained to cut. Same as my hairdresser. But the cardiac surgeons at St. Vincent’s in Erie were convincing.

Long story short, my heart did beat normally most of the time, but when it chose to go on a whoopee spree – into atrial fibrillation – the low heartbeats were much too low. Solution? Kick them back into normal gear by giving this lady a pacemaker.

I’ve been told by people who have one – all men so far – that it will change my life and give me back some of that za-za-zoom that has been missing. That would be welcome. Tedious bouts with Covid messed with my lungs, but then their neighbor, The Ticker, began to act up.

The cardiologist spelled out why other solutions wouldn’t work. “Plus, this is only a few weeks inconvenience early on and that’s it.” And then he pooh-poohed the popular tales about not being able to use microwave ovens or go through the airport scanner.

The doctor gave me two simple rules: No raising or lifting above the elbow, and no lifting more than ten pounds. “Be vigilant, because if it gets fouled up, we are right back here starting over.” OK then. Sounds simple, right?

Actually, there are a few general safety rules. But after checking them out on line, I’m pretty sure I am not going to short circuit anytime soon:

I already tell the airport TSA people about my other purchased body parts, so this will just be added to the list. A quick trip through the scanner is OK, but the dreaded wand is a no-no.

Since I’ve never smoked – neither a Virginia Slim nor an electronic device – there is no danger of now picking up the forbidden E-cigarette habit.

Standing around large running motors – trucks, bulldozers, airplanes, cranes – can interfere. Not to worry, it’s too late for me to study the mechanics’ trade.

I’m not allowed to become a welder. Okay, I can manage that. And the power tools I’m supposed to stay away from? I can happily watch at a distance.

High-voltage power lines are not friendly, but only if I go and stand directly under them. So, not a site for my next picnic.

I shouldn’t operate high-voltage transmitters or radar devices. Rats! I guess my career potential as a state trooper is up in smoke.

Any magnetic devices can interfere, so the rule-makers are picky about cellphones, headphones, and anything that operates with magnets. Six inches away is the rule. Cellphone use concerned me, but I’ll just use mine right-handed.

In the meantime, getting used to this implant isn’t that difficult, it’s just that at my age we forget. Everything. And it turns out that those early “few weeks of inconvenience” are really eight weeks.

I am so right-handed that I have never considered my left hand all that important. It’s pretty useless – except in partnership with its right-hand buddy. I’m working hard not to lift my left hand or elbow upright. It’s not a problem unless I want to wash my hair. Dry my hair. Or curl my hair. That sorry state has led to wash and dry appointments twice a week at my hairdresser. The one I usually see only when it’s cut time.

Getting dressed? Pulling any item on or off over my head is possible, but only if I stop and rethink it. I naturally raise my arms and thinking isn’t usually involved.

I’m reaching up into closets or kitchen cabinets only with my right hand, and for nothing over ten pounds. Finian, our 12-pound cat, is off limits for now.

I was a few weeks into an upper body exercise program which is now scratched until July 5th. I have given up exercising in my past, but never on doctor’s orders. In the meantime, Dear Richard can stretch for the un-reachables. And since he does most of the grocery shopping, I’m not fretting about lugging too much.

My only immediate concern is my spring planting, scheduled for the next two weeks. I think I’ve always been a right-handed digger/planter, and a left-handed patter-inner, so that should work. Richard will carry the bags of potting soil I used to throw onto my shoulder. And I know for a fact none of my petunias will weigh ten pounds.

I do respect what the docs are saying. I want my new electrified gizmo to work and be my buddy for the rest of my days. All I have to remember for the next eight weeks is … to remember.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her home in Warren. She can type with both hands.