If you need open-heart surgery, as I do, the best person to perform it is a plumber.

Who also happens to be a cardiovascular and thoracic surgeon.

In my case, that would be Dr. John Goncalves, whose impressive credentials qualify him to operate at Home Depot.

“I’m a plumber,” the good doctor told me in a meeting to discuss my upcoming surgery. “And I’m going to fix your plumbing. But I’ll do it in a hospital.”

“I suppose a hardware store would be too crowded,” I said.

“This isn’t a minor procedure,” Dr. Goncalves informed me.

“Are you going to use a chainsaw to open me up?” I asked.

“Actually,” he said, “it will be more like a skill saw.”

Tests revealed that I have a large aneurysm in my aorta. Dr. Goncalves said he would fix the problem and possibly replace a valve, just as a plumber would do.

“You need to have this surgery,” he said.

“I guess aorta do something about it,” I replied.

Dr. Goncalves looked at my wife, Sue, who came along for moral support, and said, “I like this guy.” Then he added, “But that one was a little corny.”

Sue nodded and said, “I hear this stuff all the time. You learn to ignore it.”

“I gave my heart to her 46 years ago,” I told the doctor.

Sue, who had a heart attack in 2021 and has recovered completely, despite my daily barrage of stupid jokes, shook her head and said, “See what I mean?”

After the surgery, Dr. Goncalves said, I won’t be too sore, but I will be tired.

“You won’t be able to do much,” he said. “No heavy lifting.”

“How about 12-ounce curls?” I asked, referring to hoisting a beer.

“That would be OK,” he said. “But only one. And you can’t go to the gym.”

“Thanks, doc,” I replied. “You’re doing me a big favor.”

“You can’t drive, either,” the doctor said.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Walk,” he answered. “Every day, you have to walk, then rest. Walk, then rest.”

“That’s what I do every night when I get up to go to the bathroom,” I said.

“If it’s raining,” Dr. Goncalves told me, “your wife can drive you to the mall so you can walk there.”

“I hope I don’t shop till I drop,” I said.

“You won’t,” he assured me. “In six weeks, you’ll be as good as new.”

Sue and I felt much better after meeting with Dr. Goncalves, who said I needed more tests before the surgery could be scheduled.

“I hope one of them isn’t an algebra test,” I said. “I’d never pass it.”

Fortunately, it wasn’t. But I did have to go for an abdominal sonogram.

“Does Dr. Goncalves want to see if I’m pregnant?” I asked a very nice cardiovascular ultrasound technologist named Kristen.

“I don’t think he’s looking for that,” she replied with a smile.

Then she asked me to lie on my back and pull up my shirt so she could squirt gel on my belly, rub it with some electronic doohickey (sorry if this is too technical) and check out my innards.

“Did you fast?” Kristen asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It was a three-hour fast. I thought I was on ‘Gilligan’s Island.’ A three-hour fast,” I sang. “A three-hour fast.”

Kristen chuckled and said, “I remember that show.”

I passed the test with flying colors.

“There’s nothing in there,” Kristen said.

“Are you sure you weren’t looking at my head?” I wondered.

“And you’re not pregnant,” she said.

“That’s probably because I’m too old,” I said, adding that Dr. Goncalves compared himself to a plumber.

“He’s excellent,” Kristen told me. “You’re in good hands.”

“That’s great,” I said. “When I get home after the surgery, maybe he can come over and fix the leaky pipe under the kitchen sink.”

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