36 Beats A Minute

Worst doctor’s visit of all time. Oh, but wait…first my car didn’t start.  Thirty minutes of brooding in my car while waiting for AAA followed by an hour of waiting at the doctor’s office did not put me in the mood to bond with the nurse over the benefits of shopping vs. therapy.

From the get-go, the doctor and I had an interesting vibe.  (In case you haven’t kept up with irony, “interesting,” is actually not a compliment).  I pegged him as White Man Who Doesn’t Believe In Acupuncture. Sure ’nuff, he gave me this whole, “Acupuncturists and western doctors speak different languages.”  Yes, like Chinese and English. It went downhill from there.

Then came the exam…

I came in for a doctor’s visit because I’ve had this thing on my face for about two years.  It’s not a Big Thing, you can’t even see it unless you spend hours studying my pores with a microscope like I do. But it’s weird.  However, I didn’t think it was “skin cancer” weird.   Just kind of “WTF?!” weird.  According to Western Doctor Guy, it could be malignant.  Thanks for the postivity Western Doctor Guy!

Then, after suggesting that I might have skin cancer, he tries to diagnose me as depressed.  I’ve been on antidepressants before and so I know that an Irish Coffee works just as well and doesn’t numb my sex drive or leave me singing showtunes at inappropriate times.  Yes, I’ve spent a good used-Audi on therapy with a very Well Groomed Therapist with debatable results..but have you not see my lovely french manicure?…(Yeah, try to tell me my therapy went nowhere…wait till I show you my boot collection).

Under pressure from the medical team, I concede to a flu shot.  After he leaves a nurse comes in and rams a needle into the muscle of my arm.

Now I have skin cancer and the flu.

I get dressed and try to make my big escape before I get any more bad news or pain, but the nurse chases me down and says that I need to get an EKG .  Apparently, my heart beats 36 times a minute.    I have always had a low pulse rate and fainted easily, but salsa and cross-country have made my heart rate even slower.

“Your heart will last forever. You might want to consider donating it,” he says.

Now I have the theme song to “The Titanic” going on in my head while considering who will house my heart when I kick the bucket.  I guess this is a positive since it means that I’m actually very strong.   However, I never thought about who I’d give heart to.  And not in the co-dependent way…I wonder if maybe this is my punishment for not having kids.  I haven’t loved enough so now my heart’s getting recycled.  It’s actually kind of nice to think that all my salsa dancing and exercise will help another person.  But who will end up with it?  What if it goes to a Rush Limbaugh supporter?

So, if having cancer, the flu, and images of my heart in the body of an overweight, sweaty Rebublican weren’t bad enough, I now need to get “blood work” done.  I tell him I’ll do it another time…(never).

Just for today, I survive my doctor’s visit.

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