Funny how life always seems to make a liar out of me; Monday I said I wasn’t going to post until there was something interesting to say and then Tuesday I went and got myself fitted for a heart monitor.
I’m fine, by the way. No need to panic. I have a few heart murmurs and they’ve been playing up and talking to me. And because my grandfather had a million heart attacks and strokes and my father buried his leg before his body died on him and because my cholesterol is through the roof, the doc put me on a monitor for 48hours to see what the heck the murmurs are saying. See, fine!
And yet, I’m me so a heart monitor for 48hours isn’t just a walk in the park. No, it’s just a bit of drama trauma.
Years ago I was a patient dummy for a group of cardiology doctors in training. Because of the dang heart murmurs, I was hired to be a fake patient so that they could practice their bedside manner and diagnostic skills. Of course there was a small problem; my murmurs are quiet ones and my boobs are big. What followed was two hours of awkward conversations and touching. "Ma'am. My name is Doctor blah blah. I’m going to listen to your heart.” Long uncomfortable pause as he tried to figure out how to listen to my heart and not touch my breast. “Um… sorry. I’m going to… May I… I need to move your… um… your breast?" Then the next one, slightly more confident because he’d watched the first dude go up in flames, “I’m Doctor blah blah. May I lift up your breast to listen to your heart?” And the next, “I need to access under your breast. May I just lift…”? And the next, “Could you please move your breasts up so I may…?”
When I’d agreed to do this fake patient gig, I wasn't thinking about the touching and the awkwardness and the weird pauses as they tried to hear murmurs that weren’t obvious to any of my doctors till I was in my late 20’s. I just thought, cool unusual gig. I didn’t think, “Cool. A gig with lots of boob manhandling and overly sweaty palms.” And I absolutely didn’t think “Cool. A gig sitting in my bra for three hours while thirty almost doctors stand about me ogling and making self-conscious comments.” I would have asked for more money had I known that was happening. Or the movie rights. Those would have been worth something.
I certainly didn’t think that all these years later, I’d be having my boobs lifted again and then wandering around for 48hours as a half cyborg (Husband’s description) with sensors on my boobs and under my boobs and sticky tape pulling my skin every which way.
And I didn’t count on having to do more than clutch husband’s hand as say, “There’s that weird feeling again.” Fact: when you have to note any ‘heart issue’ while wearing a monitor, every thing is a ‘heart issue’ and when everything is a ‘heart issue’ then you start thinking you’re being overly sensitive and nothing is a ‘heart issue.’ I’m almost hoping for a freaking heart attack or stroke so I know that something has happened worth writing down.
Not really. That would suck. Though having one while I have this sucker on would be really cool to see. Then when you meet me, I would have a womb AND a heart attack to show you.
In the meantime, I’ve not showered since Tuesday morning and I’m starting to feel like there’s a funk following me around along with my dangling wires and sticky skin. Add to that, every single time I’ve gone to the bathroom, I’ve forgotten the sucker is attached to my pants and almost pulled all the wires out and dropped the thing on the floor. Thankfully I’ve caught it just before the boob skin was ripped clean off but it’s been close. I’m not going to be able to wear a V-neck t-shirt for a few weeks without looking like some alien being Captain Kirk might have found on a distant planet. And every shirt I own is a V-neck. So there's that.
Last week, when we told a friend of ours I was getting this monitor put on, Husband joked that our insurance wasn’t good enough to get the actual monitor and that they were just going to hire a little person walk about with me, ear to my chest for 48hours and then Husband acted it out for everyone at the cocktail party. Awesome. And yet, I’m not sure that wouldn’t be better than what I’ve got going on right now. Of course, then I remember the fumbling cardiology students with their sweaty hands and and am thankful for the wires and the ripping skin and the lack of boob lifting.
It’s all about the little things… like murmurs and heart monitors and boobs.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me