Earlier, the doctor in the white coat had taken pictures of my heart with a machine called an echocardiogram. The machine is able to display the heart on a screen by using sound waves. The procedure doesn't hurt, one of the few such procedures in medicine. 

The three of us were meeting to pick a date, a date for my third heart surgery in 11 years. 

I had my first in 1982 to replace the faulty aortic valve I appeared with in October of 1946 in Fort Benning, Ga. 

They replaced my old valve with a tissue valve that came from a pig. I was home in six days. 

I went to the Soviet Union in 1985. While there, one of my wisdom teeth became infected. The infection went to my valve. 

The way they tell it now, I beat death back home by about three days. 

This same surgeon operated again and put in another pig valve. 

I've known for over two years this day would come. The present pig valve, because it had to be installed in such an infectious environment, is leaking and causing me to be severely anemic. 

About two years ago, I went to bed one night weighing 180. The next morning I weighed 160. 

People were always asking me, "Did you drive here?" I suddenly looked that frail. 

I couldn't list all the unpleasant things I had rather go through than my third heart surgery. Amputation of both my big toes is right up there, however. So is having to move back to Chicago. 

The first time I had the surgery I didn't know what to expect. The second time, I was too sick to care. 

But this time I will be aware of it all. I know where all those tubes will go. I know how much it will hurt to have the two in my stomach pulled out. 

I know all about the lady who comes by your room after surgery and tries to convince you to cough in order to clear your lungs. You can't imagine how much you don't want to cough after somebody has just opened up your chest. 

And I know about that damned shave. A man comes into your room the night before your surgery and shaves you from your neck to your knees. It's embarrassing and it's degrading. 

And I know of the anticipation of the week before the surgery. It is all-encompassing. 

No more pig valves for me this time, they say. Pig valves, safe from problems with blood-clotting, don't last very long. This time, I will receive the St. Jude's mechanical valve. I will have to take blood thinners to reduce the possibility of blood clots. 

But if all goes well, the valve, said my surgeon, should last me the rest of my life. 

I was lifted by the surgeon's confidence. 

"You'll do fine," he said. My greatest concern, of course, is a third heart operation might kill me. 

"You're not going to die," the surgeon said, and then he told me about a lady he would operate on later in the day who was in her 70s and had a lot more problems than me. The surgeon said he expected all to go well with her, too. 

I have to look at it this way: At least there is something they can do. Patients with inoperable problems would love to have the chance I do of total recovery. 

The doctors told me I could be back on the golf course in eight weeks. I'm shooting for six. The surgeon said, "You'll be surprised how much better you'll feel." 

We compared our calendars. March 22.