Contents fragile; handle with care

Now, I’m neurotic in general. Even when I’m feeling great I’m convinced that I must have some terrible illness that’s just waiting for the right time to make an entrance, like when I’m getting ready to go on vacation. So, to have a doctor actually confirm that something may be seriously wrong is enough to cause my brain to spontaneously disassemble. Holding the pieces together is what most of us try to do when we’re awaiting the final prognosis.

A week later, I went back for a stress test, which began with a technician injecting a "radioactive tracer" into my arm. I wanted to ask her if this would result in my acquiring super powers, but I thought better of it. She’d probably heard that line a dozen times. Then I wondered if I should ask good-naturedly if anyone had ever asked her the superpower question before. Then I decided I was spending way too much time thinking about the superpower question, and that I should probably get out more.

It’s times like these that I think about the scene from, "A Streetcar Named Desire," in which Blanche DuBois says, "I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers." But in matters of health – those very serious matters that even doctors can’t affect — the only one you can rely on is Christ, and suddenly the words he uttered 2,000 years ago take on all new meaning.

You find yourself wondering how many good deeds you could fit in in the coming weeks, or how much weight that one sin is going to carry. And you begin to look at your life like an Olympic competition: Did I do well enough in the parallel bars to make up for my failure on the pommel horse? Sure I stole a Hershey bar, but I gave it to my mom for Valentine’s Day!

The next 45 minutes were spent in the waiting room reading "King Kong." I find it difficult to read at the doctor’s office. "Kong moved through the ambles, his heartbeat audible to those in hiding, especially Dave, who waited in a doctor’s office in faraway Kansas to be tested for heart problems." I reread the same paragraph 32 times before it no longer had anything to do with me.

The technician came out and instructed me to put on a special gown that made me look like a circus tent with my head poking through the top. I was placed under a CT scanner up to my chest, where I would lay for about 15 minutes. I could see a monitor of what the nurse said were my internal organs – my heart, stomach and intestines, which — and I swear this is true — formed a big smiley face. Eventually I decided it must be an illusion, like when Mary appeared on that grilled cheese sandwich that sold on eBay for several thousand dollars. (I mean, grilled cheese? Fatima, Guadalupe, Lourdes ... grilled cheese? I don’t think so.)

When finished, I marched back to the waiting room in my dress and tried to ignore the stares. When another guy walked by in the same dress, I wanted to say, "How embarrassing! Wearing the same outfit to the doctor’s!" But I didn’t.

After another 45 minutes (not long after Kong made his first appearance), I was taken to a room with a treadmill. This was the part I feared the most – pushing my heart to the limit. With the doctor, a nurse and the technician in the tiny room, I began the test. So far, so good, I thought as I huffed and puffed. In fact, I felt pretty great! I was zipping along with not a chest pain one. In fact, I started to feel pretty macho – at least as macho as a guy can feel in a dress — like I could go on forever. And when the staff began to ask every few seconds how I was doing, I just smiled confidently.

Then my leg muscles began to tighten. My breathing became something I had to think about, like long division. When they finally stopped the machine, being macho was the last thing on my mind. I was dizzy and my legs felt like Cream of Broccoli soup. It wasn’t the heart, thank goodness, just old fashioned fatigue.

The call came a few days later. I was okay. The doctor said it was nothing serious. Do you think I believed him? Of course not. I can’t just abandon all neurosis because the doctor tells me I’m fine. I mean, what do you think I am, normal?