Reassurance

I had a little episode a couple of weeks ago that sent me to the doctor, who in turn sent me to a cardiologist, who appeared quite bored as he read my charts and ordered thousands of dollars of tests. In a couple of weeks, they want to hook me up to a bunch of wires and put me on a treadmill after they inject NUCLEAR material into my veins.  And oh, how proud they are of their services judging by the price tag.

Yesterday, they did a sonogram of my heart. The technician had me take off my shirt and lie on my side while she sat behind me and reached around to the front of my chest to probe my ribs with her little wand. It was up close and personal—only my wife puts her arms around me like that, usually in bed, and that’s the way I like it. The technician was nice but I didn’t like having her that close to me, and sometimes it smarted when she jammed that thing in between my ribs. 

Then they hooked me up to a monitor which I’ll be wearing for a month. Here I am sitting with my shirt off (I’m painfully aware that I don’t look like Adonis) while three women about half my age chat about how best to hook this gizmo to my body. It takes several tries and lots of conversation before they get it up and running.

It’s not reassuring to hear them speculate: “Let’s see, where does the white electrode go and where does the black one go?”  

They told me (while my shirt was still off) that I could do anything I wanted with this monitor on. 

“Can I leave?” I wanted to say.

I understand that trips to the doctor require some invasion of personal space. And I don’t usually mind being treated by a woman. Frankly, I prefer them because, they’re smarter and probably had to work harder than men to get through medical school.  And the women who have given me physicals are more respectful and considerate than the male doctors I’ve had. 

But this visit, though not so invasive as some physicals I’ve had, was different.

Mostly, I think it was because I’m scared. I’m probably going to be fine, but I really am a bit scared. 

Which brings me to the subject of being head of the house. When I’m scared, Lynda is afraid, too. It hasn’t helped that in addition to doctor visits, work kept me away from home, requiring me to go to the office early and stay out until nine or ten most evenings.

When Lynda is scared, she won’t admit it, even to herself. But she’ll talk about how tired she is and she’ll be even more absentminded and flustered than she usually is.  

Last night I was able to be home at a reasonable time. We had dinner together, watched a show (yes, it was a Star Trek episode) and then I told Lynda she was off for the rest of the evening. While the boys cleaned the dishes, I took her to the bedroom and showed her my electrodes (that’s not a cute word for something sexy). I showed her how it worked and put on an amusing show about how I was wired for high voltage action.  

Then I gave her a package from Victoria’s Secret that I had been saving, and had her do a modeling session for me.  

At some point I said, “You know with all this medical stuff going on, my male ego needs some reassurance.”

“Oh, you do, huh?” she said. 

And then I had occasion to demonstrate that my vigor has not left me.

It made us both feel better. 

Today, I have the morning off. I’m sure I’ll find a reason to give her at least a play spanking. And then repeat last night’s performance.

It’s all for her benefit, of course.  She’s really the one who needs reassurance. I’m doing it for her. 

Really.

No kidding.

I wouldn’t lie. 

Oh, alright. You people think you're so smart.