Given that I've been having an abundance of palpitations as of late (which I am still 1000% sure are related to my anxiety), Nurse Amy fitted me with a heart monitor last Monday.
"These electrodes are going to be attached to this device that will be strapped to your waist." She held up a square box on a belt with three wires coming out of it. "See? Like I said when I called, it's not much bigger than a cell phone."
"Yeah, if the cell phone is from 1993," I said, abysmally. There was no way to hide this thing under my clothes. I was going to look like I was bundling up a tiny conjoined twin in my sweater.
Nurse Amy stuck some white stickers to my torso and then snapped the electrodes onto them. "I'm going ask you to feed the lines down under your shirt so we can attach them to the monitor, because I'm sure you don't want me feeling you up."
"I don't know. It might make my Monday more exciting," I offered.
She chose to find that funny, which is infinitely better than slapping me with a sexual harassment suit. She also still made me feed my own wires through, which is too bad because being able to claim I was felt up by someone called "Nurse Amy" would undoubtedly make my Klout score go up.
Nurse Amy showed me how things work, which was thankfully simple since my technical prowess begins and ends with buying songs on iTunes. "Every time you feel a palpitation, you press this blue EVENT button and it will mark the time. That makes it easier for the cardiologist reviewing the data to find any abnormalities."
I nodded. "Gotcha. Just like buying a Selena Gomez song."
"Um, ok. Finally, you'll notice the three electrodes are different colours. Since you have to take the device off to shower and re-attach it afterwards, we have a poem to help you remember what goes where: White is right, brown is down. Sorry, we don't have anything for black."
"It's ok," I said. "That was politically incorrect enough." I left looking like a cyborg and with a racist memory aid stuck in my head.
It was a better week for me anxiety-wise, so I was hoping I wouldn't have to press the magic button too often. Ignorance is a wonderful thing, even it only lasts about 40 seconds.
I got as far as my reflection in the car window before I realized how visible the electrodes were, sitting just below my neckline.
EVENT
And, like, if I'm going to be honest here, I'm pretty vain.
EVENT
And do I even have anything that can cover those things?
EVENT EVENT
As of that evening, I began to measure my stress level in number of events:
"Mom, this meal sucks. I want burgers!"
EVENT
"And a guinea pig."
EVENT EVENT
"AND A NEW MOM."
EVENT EVENT EVENT
"Hello. This is an automated reminder from your cellular service provider..."
EVENT
"... Your account shows an overdue balance of $207.32. Please make a payment immediately to avoid a disruption in your service..."
EVENT EVENT
"(... We don't actually have to say this, but that means you won't be able to access the internet from the grocery store. And then how are you going to tweet obnoxious things about the other customers?)"
EVENT EVENT EVENT
"Ok, how does that poem go again to re-attach these things after a shower? White is right, brown is down... Holy shit, that's awful. I feel like an oppressive asshat. A naked, cyborg-y oppressive asshat."
EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT
Instead of going with the conjoined twin scenario, I decided to call the device around my waist my Package. That meant I could go around for three whole days asking people if they want to touch my Package (like Julie, who I'm pretty sure will never invite me to the grand opening of our local Target store again.) I probably asked my husband if he thought my Package was bigger than his two dozen times in 72 hours. Why? Because I could, that's why. Nobody gets mad at someone wearing a heart monitor. They're afraid we're going to have a coronary or something. Besides, if I can't take advantage of the people I care about during my medical testing, then there's just no point doing it at all, is there?
Well, other than checking for heart defects and whatever.
Anyway, I was about the happiest person alive when I was finally able to take the monitor off on Thursday. I almost dropped a note in there to nurse Amy, pointing out the racial connotations in her guilt-inducing memory aid, but figured I was probably close to being served with a restraining order as it was and I would like to be able to go back to the clinic for my results.
This week has been better. The St. John's Wort is working wonders, my return to high school is in full swing (but not overwhelming - hooray for online courses!) and I've taken yoga as my mistress. She's teaching me how to be flexible and yet also somewhat embarrassed when my six-year-old can rock a pose next to me while I fall over and nearly crush him.
Heart palpitations? Not in two whole days. I am amazed.
Yep, it's all baby steps back to awesomeness from here. The Maven is like a phoenix, ready to rise from the dirty piles of dishes everybody leaves all over the fucking house and expects me to pick up in between avoiding the guinea pig conversation and making sure my cell phone doesn't get disconnected.
I NEED MY BUTTON.
Namaste, and shit.
"These electrodes are going to be attached to this device that will be strapped to your waist." She held up a square box on a belt with three wires coming out of it. "See? Like I said when I called, it's not much bigger than a cell phone."
"Yeah, if the cell phone is from 1993," I said, abysmally. There was no way to hide this thing under my clothes. I was going to look like I was bundling up a tiny conjoined twin in my sweater.
Nurse Amy stuck some white stickers to my torso and then snapped the electrodes onto them. "I'm going ask you to feed the lines down under your shirt so we can attach them to the monitor, because I'm sure you don't want me feeling you up."
"I don't know. It might make my Monday more exciting," I offered.
She chose to find that funny, which is infinitely better than slapping me with a sexual harassment suit. She also still made me feed my own wires through, which is too bad because being able to claim I was felt up by someone called "Nurse Amy" would undoubtedly make my Klout score go up.
Nurse Amy showed me how things work, which was thankfully simple since my technical prowess begins and ends with buying songs on iTunes. "Every time you feel a palpitation, you press this blue EVENT button and it will mark the time. That makes it easier for the cardiologist reviewing the data to find any abnormalities."
I nodded. "Gotcha. Just like buying a Selena Gomez song."
"Um, ok. Finally, you'll notice the three electrodes are different colours. Since you have to take the device off to shower and re-attach it afterwards, we have a poem to help you remember what goes where: White is right, brown is down. Sorry, we don't have anything for black."
"It's ok," I said. "That was politically incorrect enough." I left looking like a cyborg and with a racist memory aid stuck in my head.
It was a better week for me anxiety-wise, so I was hoping I wouldn't have to press the magic button too often. Ignorance is a wonderful thing, even it only lasts about 40 seconds.
I got as far as my reflection in the car window before I realized how visible the electrodes were, sitting just below my neckline.
EVENT
And, like, if I'm going to be honest here, I'm pretty vain.
EVENT
And do I even have anything that can cover those things?
EVENT EVENT
As of that evening, I began to measure my stress level in number of events:
"Mom, this meal sucks. I want burgers!"
EVENT
"And a guinea pig."
EVENT EVENT
"AND A NEW MOM."
EVENT EVENT EVENT
"Hello. This is an automated reminder from your cellular service provider..."
EVENT
"... Your account shows an overdue balance of $207.32. Please make a payment immediately to avoid a disruption in your service..."
EVENT EVENT
"(... We don't actually have to say this, but that means you won't be able to access the internet from the grocery store. And then how are you going to tweet obnoxious things about the other customers?)"
EVENT EVENT EVENT
"Ok, how does that poem go again to re-attach these things after a shower? White is right, brown is down... Holy shit, that's awful. I feel like an oppressive asshat. A naked, cyborg-y oppressive asshat."
EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT
 |
| Also tried really hard to make the Holter monitor sexy. And pretty much failed miserably. Stickers with wires coming out of them murder hotness. |
Instead of going with the conjoined twin scenario, I decided to call the device around my waist my Package. That meant I could go around for three whole days asking people if they want to touch my Package (like Julie, who I'm pretty sure will never invite me to the grand opening of our local Target store again.) I probably asked my husband if he thought my Package was bigger than his two dozen times in 72 hours. Why? Because I could, that's why. Nobody gets mad at someone wearing a heart monitor. They're afraid we're going to have a coronary or something. Besides, if I can't take advantage of the people I care about during my medical testing, then there's just no point doing it at all, is there?
Well, other than checking for heart defects and whatever.
Anyway, I was about the happiest person alive when I was finally able to take the monitor off on Thursday. I almost dropped a note in there to nurse Amy, pointing out the racial connotations in her guilt-inducing memory aid, but figured I was probably close to being served with a restraining order as it was and I would like to be able to go back to the clinic for my results.
This week has been better. The St. John's Wort is working wonders, my return to high school is in full swing (but not overwhelming - hooray for online courses!) and I've taken yoga as my mistress. She's teaching me how to be flexible and yet also somewhat embarrassed when my six-year-old can rock a pose next to me while I fall over and nearly crush him.
Heart palpitations? Not in two whole days. I am amazed.
Yep, it's all baby steps back to awesomeness from here. The Maven is like a phoenix, ready to rise from the dirty piles of dishes everybody leaves all over the fucking house and expects me to pick up in between avoiding the guinea pig conversation and making sure my cell phone doesn't get disconnected.
I NEED MY BUTTON.
Namaste, and shit.