“Holding. Natalie.” Waiting in the hospital’s busy eighth-floor prep area for yet another attempt at zapping out the unwelcome atrial fibrillation inhabiting my heart, I swore I heard the young nurse answer the phone with this greeting: “Bowling alley.” Spare me the boomer age jokes. We both heard it, so it’s true. “Did she just say bowling alley?” I asked Rebecca, my eyes and ears since they had already confiscated my glasses. “Yes, I think she did.” “That’s weird,” I said. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what they call this place: ‘The Bowling Alley.’” “Right,” I added. “Where bad patients end up in the gutter!” Good one. Thanks. Tip your server. We’re here all…