Mortality, Part I

My regular doc got annoyed at some of the early results out of my annual physical, and found out it had been a really long time since I had seen my heart doc, so he scheduled me. 

As a side note, I have a heart doc in the first place because several years ago, I went down like a sack of wheat, which concerned The Beneficiary, so I gritted my teeth and dragged myself back to my feet and got to the car so she could get me out of my area of operation and into an ER further upstate. She understands the importance of information control, and if I had to be in an ER it was necessary for it to be an ER somewhere other than where we were. Yeah, doesn't make any sense to you, I know. Don't worry about it. 

Bottom line is, I wound up with a heart doc in a major hospital upstate who ran me through a gauntlet of pretty horrible shit before announcing that what had driven me to my knees was not in fact a heart attack, but rather a stress reaction which resulted in adrenaline overload and various toxic byproducts, which fucked everything up for a bit. Turns out that being ten feel tall and bulletproof does not translate into 50+ for shit.

As a result I have a heart doc who has a wad of material to compare to my current state, and my regular doc thought it was about time to see where I'm at, comparatively speaking.

So today, I went in for my initial visit. Long involved chat, lots of thumping and banging and listening and analyzing. Then the doc looked at me with sad middle-eastern eyes, and told me I had to lose weight and get some exercise. He told me my job was high-stress (or, as he phrased it "Terrible, terrible."). He told me I spent too much time in cars and sitting at desks. He told me my blood pressure was too high.

He then reemphasized that I HAD to get more exercise and lose weight. I told him I'd work on it. He said I didn't sound serious, so he'd try again.

"Get some exercise and lose weight," he said, "or die."

OK. Seems serious enough.

Turns out he's not a big fan of some of the stream of numbers coming out of his exam.

He's told me I needed sonograms, nuclear stress tests, echocardiograms and a variety of other junk - all of which are now on my calendar over the next few weeks.

Well, THAT'S gonna fuck up my schedule.

So anyhow, I told The Beneficiary about all this, and the next thing I know, we're at the grocery store buying all kinds of low-cal, healthy shit. I grabbed a box of Nutter Butters chocolate-dipped thingers and she told me no. 

"The heart doc told you there's no choice," she said.  

"Wrong," I said. "He said lose weight or die. That's a choice." I held the box of Nutter Butters in the upturned palm of one hand and the imaginary outcome in the other, then pretended to be balancing them, with the Nutter Butters about to win.

I swear to God, the woman has no sense of humor sometimes.

In Our Next Episode: Other heart-stoppers.