Well, Hell.
I went to the hospital in the big city at 4:00 a.m. because the dermatologist (who lives in another big city far from this big city) had some things to do there early in the morning, and he wanted to take a quick look-see at the skin, a casual examination, to see whether or not I should be going in there anytime soon again.
(He decided no; there's a couple of new bothersome things, but just to keep the regular late-November appointment.)
I mentioned George VI and this Buerger's disease thing, and my gratitude that despite I have fertile ground for it--the very cold body temperature caused by some sort of blood circulatory malfunction (I've had it all my life, no big deal; it's nothing new)--so far it's pleased God this cup's passed from me.
He arched his eyebrows, telling me to "hold on."
He said in fact I'm a "prime candidate" for it.
"You're saving your ass right now, because you're always doing heavy manual labor keeping yourself in good shape, add to that your abstemious habits, but the minute you let up, start enjoying the finer things in life, you're going to get it, and get it real quick."
Ouch.