Eight years ago, I went to my nurse practitioner to get help with some breathing problems; I told her I had asthma and probably needed an inhaler. I was having trouble walking, crossing the street, or breathing easily.

My legs were swollen at the ankles. I felt ancient and worn out.

The nurse listened to my heart, ordered an emergency EKG, and told me what I needed was to get to the hospital fast.

I did, and four days later, I had open-heart surgery.

The bad news at the time, which I didn’t learn for a while or reveal to anyone, was that the most prominent artery of the heart was too far damaged to be opened up. The operation was, in some ways, a failure.

They took veins from other parts of the body and patched me up. For a year or so, I could walk without pain or fatigue. Then it all came back. I accepted this as life. I was getting older, a phrase I hear too often from people my age.

For the first few years after the surgery, I went to a male cardiologist with whom I could never develop any chemistry or talk easily to him. He wanted to know nothing about me. He was brusque and impatient and made me feel small.

I know how important this connection and chemistry were, but I just assumed that was how doctors are – remote and data-driven.

I did appreciate the nurses, almost all of them women,  many of whom made sure to talk to me and listen.

A few years after the surgery, I developed angina again; walking uphill became too painful.

There was pain around the heart muscle, edema, (swelling of the legs,) severe drowsiness, weight gain, and the return of my breathing troubles. It was discouraging, to say the least.

I was allergic to the statins my doctor insisted I needed to take – he loved his data – and I  had welts and bumps all over my body. My weight was heightening my diabetes. I felt under fire from all sides.

I could hardly stay awake for much of the day, and even writing on the blog took some extra work and planning.

I don’t know how or why, but I sensed I had to get to a different doctor in another place.

I felt old; I felt like I was dying. But a part of me did not want to surrender; I’m not a quitter, and I have a lot to live for.

I went online, asked questions, did some homework, went to the Saratoga Hospital website, called their “concierge,” and found myself sitting across from a young Romanian woman in her late 30s, a cardiologist named Nicoletta Daraban.

It was certainly different. I had never met a doctor like this, so charismatic, direct, honest, and warm.

When I was examined by her just a couple of years ago, she reminded me that I weighed 294 pounds then.

She was concerned, but she also was warm and open and wanted to know me and something about my life.

She immediately took me off the statins – we’re not supposed to make things worse, she told me – and ordered a catheter procedure to put stents into my heart.

She began a conversation with me about my health and weight and diet and life that was to grow and evolve, and which transformed my life.

She was also challenging, refusing to lower or drop the different medications she insisted I take for my heart. She was very direct with me, empathetic but not coddling. But I was allergic to none of these medicines

She found alternative medicines for me.

A couple of years ago, she took me aside and told me she wanted me to take a dangerous and experimental surgery that could open up the large and critical valve to my heart and give me almost 100 percent of the blood I needed.

When she saw how ragged I had looked, she sat down with some surgeons and went over my X-rays.

They wanted to try to open the valve; it was too important to leave behind.

She shocked me; I had never met a doctor like that. She projected warmth, concern, honesty, and competence.

She said you are in your 70s; you are too young to be drowsy and look so tired and worn. You’re not 94, she said.

We talked openly and easily with one another, we just clicked, and I remembered thinking, she is someone who could be a friend. She had a great sense of humor, we both laughed at the craziness of the world.

She saw right through my posturing and denial and found the good parts of me. I always felt good when I saw her.

She introduced me to a cocky Pakistani surgeon who said he could open that valve. But, he warned,  I would have to go to a different hospital with an emergency cardiology surgical staff that could rush in to take over if the surgery failed or misfired.

It was dangerous, he said.

The surgery was excellent, miraculous; I watched on a big screen – they wanted me awake –  which displayed in living color a needle going up my arm, opening my valve, and guiding the blood to my heart.

I couldn’t believe it.

I believe Dr. Daraban saved my heart and my life, and the process of opening that valve began a revolution in my health care, which altered the trajectory of my life in many ways, and which, in many ways, is just beginning.

Today, I saw Dr. Daraban for the first time in months; it was my bi-annual check-up, EKG, and conversation. She and I often talked about the calling to do good, and she told me she was gone half of the time this year. She was out teaching poor rural communities in the Adirondacks how to set up cardio practices where there were none.

It was difficult, challenging, and exhausting work, but she said she looked at my blog once or twice and saw that I was helping the elderly and the refugee children. She said this was wonderful, she said she admired this, and it inspired her. Ditto, I said. She took being a doctor seriously and very much to heart.

It was true, we did admire one another, and this meant a great deal to me.

Today, she told me if she had a gold sticker, she would stick to my chest as the “most improved” patient in my practice. I had lost more than 30 pounds since the last visit; she said I only needed to lose 15 or 20 more, which would take a year or so.

Don’t rush it, she said. My swelling is gone, I write all day long, I take walks,  I’m going to the gym every other day, my diabetes is firmly under control, and thanks to the Mayo Clinic, I eat more carrots and vegetables than Bugs Bunny.

You are doing well, she told me.  My blood pressure was excellent, the EKG extreme, my drowsiness had vanished, and I slept six to eight hours every night with my apnea mask. “Thank you for listening,” she said, “you are a pleasure to treat.”

I was blushing.

We talked for more than an hour about our lives and the hard times doctors faced during the pandemic.

I thanked her profusely for taking the time to speak to me and notice me and help me to understand that the problem was never that I was getting old but that I was still stupid and failing to take care of myself.

She even read one of my books – the Second Chance Dog – to understand me and how to approach my treatment.

I went on to see three or four other doctors in the same system, and I have listened to them, and they have pushed me further to take care of myself. I feel healthier than I can ever recall feeling in my adult life.

When you feel good, all the work and exercise are suddenly fun. I am working hard.

I can’t wait to get to my computer in the morning and write.

When I asked Dr. Daraban if I could do a portrait of her because she was important to me,  she shrugged and said, “sure, of course.”

She is one of those strong women who doesn’t blink at being photographed; she barely pays attention and doesn’t fluff her hair or look in a mirror. A photograph is nothing to be nervous about.

Looking back on these years since the surgery, I am in awe of the process Dr. Daraban, a total stranger, triggered in my life. Maria was there with me every second of the way. It is so helpful to have the support of someone you love.

Somehow this doctor cut through years of stubbornness and denial and got me on the right path.

I can’t express how grateful I am, but I appreciate what she did for me and will never forget it. I am getting older, and I still have heart disease. No doctor can erase that. When I first saw Dr. Daraban, I thought I didn’t have too much time to live.

Now, I think I want to live a long time and will work toward that.

She and I talked about the farm and her young daughter, who loves animals and would love to meet some donkeys.

We made plans for them to come out to the farm in June or July and to see the donkeys.

When I left, I joked that I wanted a gold sticker, a nurse practitioner used to give one to me when I did what I was told, which happened occasionally.

“We’ll get some,” she said. “You deserve it.”

Isn’t it curious that a grown man in his 70’sreally wants a gold sticker.