The following article, My Heart Runs Cold Blooded and Other Medical Mysteries, was first published on The Black Sphere.
Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t avoid doctors out of fear. I avoid them out of principle. Why pay someone to tell you what you already know? “Sir, your cholesterol is made of bacon and regret.” Thanks, Einstein.
But age, that relentless sneak thief, has a way of making those late-night pharmaceutical ads sound less like dystopian fiction and more like a personal biography. “Do you experience… being alive? You may be at risk for… mortality.” Terrifying.
So, when my wife Melissa—who may or may not have ulterior motives involving life insurance—dragged me to get my heart checked, I went. Not because I’m responsible, but because I’d run out of excuses. (“I’m busy” doesn’t fly when she catches you watching Dead Like Me and reruns of old golf classics… between naps.)
The Medical Odyssey Begins
First stop: a solo trip for a heart sonogram. (BTW, IT’S A BOY!)
The doctor delivered the news with all the warmth of a tax auditor: “You’ll need more tests.” Of course I would. A stress test. A CAT scan where they pump me full of iodine, blast me with nitroglycerin, and inspect my valves like a used car.
Then came the second appointment—honestly, I still don’t know what they needed there. Maybe a psychological evaluation to determine why I agreed to any of this. It’s scheduled for next month.
But the real fun began when they told me I couldn’t drive after the procedure. My son, the freeloading tenant, was my first choice for chauffeur, but Melissa insisted on taking me. Mistake.
The Car Ride: A Comedy of Errors (Mostly Hers)
Melissa’s driving could best be described as “Fast & Furious: Midlife Crisis Drift.”
I gripped the door handle and debated the optimum time to jump out and grab an Uber.
“Your driving is giving me a heart attack,” I muttered.
She laughed, floored it, and let out a demonic cackle.
“What the heck are you doing, Lucifer?!” I demanded.
“After this, nothing will rattle that heart of yours,” she smirked.
Once we settled into what would be a 45-minute ride, she hit me with: “I wonder if they’ll even find your heart.”
Me, ever the romantic: “Oh, they’ll find it. Broken. Like my spirit after that comment.”
Then came the zinger: “The doctor’s gonna say your heart is made of stone.”
“Total stone,” I agreed.
“And there’s a pool of cold blood in one of the chambers.”, she added.
“Obviously,” I said.
I then launched into a karaoke-award-winning rendition of “Cold Blooded.” Because if you’re going to face your mortality, you might as well do it with a Rick James soundtrack.
The Procedure: A Sci-Fi Horror Story
If you’ve never had your heart valves checked, it’s a bit surreal. They poke you, feed you iodine through a catheter, and then demand your heart rate drop below 55. Mine was 63—better than expected, but still not good enough. So they dosed me, and 15 minutes later, I felt my body slow to a crawl.
Next, they moved me to a new room, placed nitroglycerin under my tongue (“It’s dynamite!” the nurse chirped), and watched as my capillaries expanded like a cheap motel bed. Then came the iodine—administered through the catheter, it first made my head feel like a radiator, then my crotch like a furnace. (Pro tip: Do NOT take Viagra before this procedure.)
Five minutes in the CAT scan, and it was over. I survived. Barely.
The Moral (If You Must Have One)
The test results? Still pending. My sense of humor? Fully intact. My health? Let’s just say stress is my personal trainer, and he works me hard.
I’ve got grand plans to fix this—right after I launch two companies, solve world hunger, and finally understand cryptocurrency. Priorities.
So here’s the takeaway, wrapped in sarcasm and a sprinkle of truth: Take care of yourself… but not so seriously that you forget to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Because if you can’t joke about your own hypothetical stone heart, what’s the point?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a salad. (Just kidding. It’s nachos.)
Final Thought: Life’s too short to skip the fun—but long enough that you should probably get your heart checked. Just don’t let your wife drive you there.
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