Snaps To You Award: My Heart, The Rockstar

I've written before about my fear that my heart was going to explode at any minute, ruining my life and probably preventing me from posting for awhile, but I've never explained where this paranoia befitting a forty-five-year-old, smoking fat man originated. Well. To make Mini Me-short a story so long it makes Gone With The Wind look like a picture book, I went for a run in June, thought I had a heart attack, went to the ER, had a bunch of tests run, was poked and stuck like an innocent voodoo doll in really cute sandals, was determined to have not had a heart attack, and was told to come back in a few months for a cat scan because my aorta looked big.

Oh yeah. That's right. My aorta's bigger than your aorta. Think of my badass blood-flow garden hose, supplying blood to me and at least seven other people, next time you get winded on a run because your little twisty straw of an aorta starts to cry.

Right. So, my assbaggery aside, that's not actually a good thing. It's bad like "Snakes On A Plane." Thus, a few weeks ago, I reported for my cat scan, which would determine whether or not the docs needed to carve me up like a holiday ham to put a fence around my aorta (white picket, natch). I was pre-Oscars nervous about this, and high on the drugs I had been given to take ahead of the scan, in case I was allergic to the intravenous tie-dye. I got to the hospital, broke my cardinal rule of never sitting next to people who smell like tuna, and only then was told that I couldn't have the scan--the scan that would determine whether or not my heart was trying to assassinate my other organs--because my insurance company had decided that it wasn't "medically necessary."

I'd warn you away from this company, just to save you the money and screaming matches down the road, but in the interest of not getting sued, let's leave it at this. They offer an HMO and their name rhymes with I violate my clients from behind while laughing maniacally and eating chocolates.

The day devolved rapidly from there, culminating with my stoned mouth shrieking impotently at the "nurse" in charge of my case at Satan's lair, "WOULD YOU COVER ME IF I DIED??? WOULD YOU, PUNK??!?!??!?!????" Not my finest moment. But really, not my worst, either.

After all this, calls from three doctors, and possibly a cautionary visit from Death himself, the insurance death-harpies agreed to cover a cardiac ultrasound, to find out once and for all if my aorta had gone rogue. I was excited about this, because ultrasounds don’t involve needles, and I want to know if I’m going to die soon, because if so, I’m going to start eating a lot more Big Macs and taking more cheap shots at my boss. I showed up at the appointed tee time, and was walked to the ultrasound wing by a lovely little old lady who would probably be very impressed with my obscenely large china collection.

I never did learn my ultrasound technician’s name, but I did learn very quickly that he was highly uncomfortable using medical terms like “chest” and “please take off your shirt and lie down” with me. Obviously I was given a chic and stylish tie-back gown, but, also obviously, in order to scan my heart, he had to put the gooey laser glow-pen* on my chest. I was surprisingly nonchalant about this, especially since I’m normally a caffeinated Pomeranian when confronted with medical procedures, but really, we were there for my heart, and I had the gown--plus a sheet, a towel, and a blanket that he had given me, more likely for his own protection than mine.

Once he was able to sit still, he fired up the Doppler Hurricane Seeker 3000 and I got to see what my heart’s been up to. If you’ve never had any kind of ultrasound, I highly recommend them—they’re the coolest home movie ever. I have no idea how they work, but word on the street is that Dumbledore was involved in the start-up. I got to see my heart, busily engaged in keeping me alive, and I have to say, my heart is awesome, even though it didn’t look like I was expecting. In terms of what you’re used to seeing from ultrasounds of marinating babies, my heart looked like a fetus playing a drum set. Really rockin’ out on a drum set, actually, performing like a total rock star on my behalf.

I was so touched and mesmerized that I almost forgot to ask if my aorta was trying to stealth-bomb my loving heart. Happily, it’s not. I am medically sound (if not mentally), and cleared to do all manner of things, including running and continuing to hate yoga.

All’s well that ends well, and this ended…like a bad prom date. When he had taken adequate surveillance footage of my rock star, the ultrasound technician reminded me to wipe the goo off my neck before getting dressed again. I thanked him, and he looked at me, then looked at the ceiling and said, “I’m actually supposed to help everyone wipe the gel off…but I’d rather not lose my job today.”

At that point I was so glad my heart was strong enough for me to run like Forrest. Snaps to you, my heart, for doing your job with such style and flair. If you were a person, you’d totally be Cher.

*Possibly not the technical term.