Last Saturday, the brakes were firmly applied to my June butt-busting. Towards the end of my book signing, I started having chest pains. I made the two-hour drive home, fed the dog, watered the plants, balanced the checkbook, and went to the emergency room.
After slapping oxygen on me, taking an EKG, giving me three nitroglycerin tablets, and leaving me with just enough blood to fill a shot glass, the nurse went to get the doctor. I could swear he was young enough that his voice hadn’t changed yet.
Doogie Howser announced that this was not a cardiac event. Hooray! But he wanted to keep me in the hospital to do a stress test. Boo! I swore that I would get a stress test Monday, signed the release form, went out to the parking lot, and (since the nitro had eased up the chest pain) lit up a celebratory cigarette.
When I called Monday to schedule the stress test, they asked me, what kind? Um, Doogie hadn’t mentioned that there were different kinds. After I waited a few days for them to find my records, they scheduled me for next week. I’m supposed to wear workout clothes and jogging shoes.
This presented a problem since I haven’t jogged since I got pregnant 32 years ago. If I wear the special walking shoes I recently bought, I can reduce the cellulite on my butt while making sure that I don’t have a pulmonary blockage. I’m all about any opportunity to multi-task.
Don’t think that I’m not taking this seriously. I seriously freak if I feel the slightest pain in my chest, experience numbness in my hands, or see a re-run of America’s Next Top Model. For God’s sake, practice your runway walk, Lauren.
I don’t expect to have a massive coronary, major stoke, or sudden desire to see Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Slayer. But then, I also didn’t expect to be banned from donating blood at the Red Cross because of the possibility that I have mad cow disease. I think I would have noticed by now if I did.
Wouldn’t it be ironic if I found out the chest pain is caused by mad cow disease?