Anne Lamott in her book, Bird by Bird, describes the methods and lengths of her writing procrastination, including hypochondria. It’s a humorous anecdote, but not one that I’d experienced. At least not until now.
Ever wondered what it would be like to have a fish in your chest? That’s the best description I’ve come up with, yet. The flopping sensation started short of three weeks ago. We’d launched a huge project, my son is cutting his two-year molars, and I’d been slamming some 100-watt coffee. Figured the wiggly heart was overdue for a little detox and some solid, wholesome sleep. A week later, good sleep, no caffeine – wow, did I actually spell that correctly on the first try? – nor beer, nor wine, nor Bourbon, nor Irish Whiskey, and still the double-dutch heartbeat. So, last Friday night, I searched WebMD. Big Mistake. As a younger man, I would have soiled myself.
Fortunately, my wife is a patient woman, and once she coaxed me out from my kids play fort and wrestled my daughter’s favorite stuffed guinea pig out of my grasp, she explained in no uncertain terms that freaking out all weekend without proper medical documentation was not an option. So I called the nurse and set up a very special Saturday doctor’s appointment.
I’d never had an EKG. Now, I’ve had two. Turns out I have a little heart goodie called premature ventricular contractions, or PVCs. They’re benign, and evidentially rising in prevalence. At this very moment, I’ve seven little pads stuck to various points on my torso collecting every flippity-dippity heartbeat over 48 hours. So, no big whoop, thank you for you concern. I can get back to the business of the story.
But wait, there’s more: I’d never shaved my chest, nor had it shaved for me until Saturday. Bonus: I had it shaved again on Tuesday. Extra credit: both times I enjoyed the shearing of a disposable plastic razor without the benefit of lather, that is to say, dry. I think I might find it arous…nah, it sucks.
109 days remaining (2600:52:10). 645 words per day.