In case you were wondering where I was all morning yesterday (I’m sure you were not), I was at the Cardiologist’s office. I have had major chest pain ever since I joined the awesome yet creepy MILF gym, and was worried I might be dying (as per usual). The Doc was concerned so ran every test imaginable on my poor body. Including but not limited to drawing my blood, hooking me up to electrodes, a heart sonogram (it’s not pregnant) and my favorite… the treadmill stress test, a worst nightmare for women everywhere.
First of all, this doctor could’ve been out of Saturday Night Live. Sometimes I thought he was serious, but then he would laugh. Then he would crack (what I thought was) a joke, and then say, “No. I’m serious.” He was so interested in my mystery heart condition that he invited a couple more doctors to watch my stress test and asked them to weigh in.
I had my work outfit on because it was a Wednesday morning and was instructed to take everything off but my (high-waisted) pants. They brought me some dingy men’s size 10 running shoes to put on, and I did as I was told. I’m sitting there, in this chair; with high-waisted pants on, men’s tennis shoes, and a completely bare chest under mockingly bright flourescent lighting.
The doctors were too busy looking at charts and beeping screens to pay attention to my mortifying state, but I wanted to die. The nurse came in with more electrodes and stuck about 10 all over my chest and shoulders and asked if I could unzip and roll my pants down so she could stick some on my stomach. She then hooked these electrodes up to a series of wires connected to the treadmill.
So not only am I bare chested in a bright room with 5 doctors, but I’m hooked up to wires connected to a treadmill with my stomach and the top half of my panties hanging out. I felt like I was in some futuristic fetish porn just waiting for a burly spaceman to come in and take his clothes off, too.
I’m sure you can guess what happened next… As if it couldn’t get any worse, I was asked to mount the treadmill and start jogging. As a courtesy, the nurse draped a gown around my neck, but it couldn’t shield the image of my not-that-small chest bouncing off my chin and the walls. I’ve never ran without a sports bra let alone no bra at all. It’s not a good feeling and it’s definitely not a good look.
They had to get my heart rate up to 180 BPM. That is 100 more BPM than a resting heart rate. It took 12 minutes. 12 excruciating minutes.
After sonograming my heart again, the doctor said, “Well this confirms what I thought.”… All of that for a formality. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach last night and have to take tiny steps as to not disturb my lovely lady humps because of a formality. Awesome.
He concluded that I was in good shape and had a “good strong heart” but need to come in once a year because of a tiny piece of scar tissue in one of my valves. I think I’m going to take the risk and not do that again ever.
Four hours, five doctors and countless tests later they found a harmless piece of scar tissue in my heart. My dignity, however, is still at large.
Preferring conversation over cardiovascular,
*The picture above is not me, it’s a man. Although it looks like we might be the same cup size.