Heartbeats

July 01, 2005 | Category: In My Life

When I arrived at the cardiologist's office, it was all business and smiles.

The folks at the reception desk guided me through the paperwork. They liked my purse. It's an aqua leather shoulder deal with white piping. I've become a purse whore lately, like some are with shoes. But I have platypus feet, so it's purses.

Once in the testing room, the two lab women introduced themselves quietly. I was told to strip to the waist and put on a gown, open at the front. I was asked if I wanted privacy.

Hell, yes.

A few minutes later, we begin. They open my gown and have me hold my ponderous breasts out of the way while they stick 10 plastic circles all over my chest.

Then they strap an octopus of wires around my waist and up clipped onto each lead. The glue on some pulls at my skin and I twinge.

I haven't eaten or drank anything in almost 3 hours, on a day of 95 degrees (F) and no central air conditioning at my house. Now my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I lay on my side, my chest open to anyone walking down the hall.

"Close the door, please," I ask softly. She pushes it mostly shut, and I decide not to argue the last inch.

A wand with cold goo is pressed, hard, against my sternum. The little bit not covered in wires. I look on the screen. Last time I went through this, I was watching Bear squirm and hiccup.

This time I watch an impossibly small muscle beating.

I try and relax.

That little thing is all that keeps my world going.

I feel infinitely frail.

They lead me over to the treadmill. I tie one of the ribbons on my gown shut and then begin the fast walk.

I try not to look at the screens. I try and look anywhere else. I am panting immediately, dehydrated and out of shape.

I imagine my house, after a rehab. I imagine finding a pink party dress and dancing with CD (clearly a fantasy since neither of us knows how to do more than shuffle around together), I imagine cooking school in France, I picture Bear's grinning, freckled face.

None of it helps. I can see the monitor. I can see the irregularities.

In only 5 minutes, I am done. Moved off the treadmill and over to the bed again. More with the wand and the goo. Wait. And then again.

And again.

And my blood pressure, many times.

I am light-headed, now, and chilled from the air conditioning on my sweaty body. I keep trying to cover my breasts, a modesty born of the door that they left opened, again.

These women, they are trying to be nice. They rush to close the door again when I point it out. They get me a small paper cup of tepid water. They cluck to me that it is almost over.

I am feeling exposed and broken.

Alone, I wipe myself down with wrinkled gown. Dipping a corner in the small sink and cleaning the goo off as best as I can. The sweat from under my breasts. The leftover adhesive from the circles ripped off my skin.

My breath is sour. My eyes close to tears.

I dress. Brush my hair. Reapply lip gloss. Deep breath, purse over shoulder, I leave.

They say the results will be given to my doctor in less than 24 hours. I nod.

I pass through doors and hallways and down the stairs. I think about that small beating heart that keeps my whole life going. I think about what happens if it stops. If it is sick.

I feel disgusting and unhealthy and afraid.

I get in my car. And go home.

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