As long-time readers know, I am a fifty year old with a subtle (okay, not so subtle) flair for the dramatic. I wasn't going to write about this but I decided it's only fair. I tell all to my readers. (Correction: almost all. The wife has requested a few boundaries be kept. In her words, "is NOTHING sacred?") I write this for entertainment value and to show solidarity with the peri-menopausal, anxiety-ridden hypochondriacal women of the world of which I am sure exist. Stay strong, sisters of the middle age!
No need to panic. I am alive, well and healthy and have been cleared by Western Medicine and by myself...without the help of a surgical-scrubbed doctor, I have been able to
rule out all diseases and conditions that require fever, rash, sweating,
weakness, fatigue, blood, phlegm, incontinence, foul smelling urine, diarrhea, constipation, weight gain, weight loss, recent trip to a third world country, loss of appetite, feminine itching, coughing, involuntary movements, distended belly, hair loss, hair growth, eye crossing, gas, hallucinations, voting for Republicans, anal pressure, rectal burning and/or swelling of any body part. Scurvy, syphilis and dandruff have been 100% ruled out.
It was quite surprising. About ten days ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the stairs at work, when the unidentified pain started. I didn't know how to decipher this pain. As I didn't feel like something was squeezing the piss out of my chest and I didn't have any pain radiating into my left arm, jaw or back, I decided to rule out a heart attack. Still, it was rather disturbing--I stopped walking and grabbed my chest in wonder...
Instead of plain old hysterical panic, I quickly thought about my underwear and arm pit hair--if I'm having a heart attack or other bodily emergency, I need to have on clean underwear. I winced with regret upon the realization that I did not shave my armpits early in the day. (Heck, I did not shave my armpits earlier in the month.) My mother always stressed the importance of clean underwear but I don't remember her saying much about armpit hair. I took a gander and checked that yes, I had on a pair of my brand new undies, very much fresh and pretty. Good for me. Despite the clean, new undies, I couldn't fix the armpit thing. Sigh.
(I'm not kidding. I lifted my shirt and took a gander down my pants to see what underwear I had on. Didn't care that I was standing on the stairs at work. One must have priorities.)
I come from a family full of clean underwear and heart disease. My father, a man who I am sure ALWAYS had on fresh tidy whities, had bypass surgery when in his 40's. That does nothing to soothe the soul of a 50 year old person experiencing the advent chest pain, clean underwear or not. A glimmer of histrionic, distorted thinking began to ooze to the surface, which of course did nothing to abate the mounting anxiety....
Ah, anxiety! I'm not sure I've ever been happy to have anxiety but I have to say that I am all good with anxiety when comparing it to other potential medical issues. After removing myself from the stairwell, I tried out some of the coping skills I teach my clients. I used all that self talk I profess. I challenged my thoughts. I slowed my breathing. I went to a safe place in my mind. I was one in the moment. I reassured myself and tried not to think about how ineffective these skills seemed to be....
Yeah, that didn't work. What a crock of shit! (Remind self to apologize to clients.)
...As I contemplated my certain doom, I wondered if hormones could play a factor here--after all, everything is in flux in my body. I may still be able to shoot out a baby but I'm guessing I'm shooting out all sort of other nonsense instead of bouncing babies. As many of us know, hormones can do just about anything to rational women, turning them into psychotic freaks, which in turn fuels anxiety, which in turn could cause just about anything (well, except scurvy--I don't think changing hormones can cause scurvy).
Thoughts turned to Gertrude Goiter, my beloved thyroid. Now, you might think this is a weird train of thought, but it's really not. Have you ever thought about what it's like in my brain? This is a clearer train of thought than usual. I have the thyroid from hell. God only knows what the hell Gertie Goiter is up to. I haven't had her checked out for awhile. She could probably the cause of just about anything, bitch that she is....
I quickly diss Gertrude and wondered what if it IS the return of pleurisy? That'd suck but it would still be better than other options. (I'm still happy about the clean underwear while considering all this. Big points for my love of new, clean underwear.) I tried to remember what pleurisy was really like. I have to admit that in my blog came in handy--I was able to go back and read about it. Huh. Same kind of thing I'm having but it seems different somehow. Maybe it's my armpit hair multiplying the feeling.
Fast forward to eight days later. The stupid chest pain has gotten worse, coming and going with no rhyme or reason. Seriously--I go for a two mile jog with MJagger and I'm no worse for the wear. I sit down to enjoy some brain-cell-losing television and it starts again. Everyone who is in the know believes it is anxiety and I don't argue with them. Oh yes, people know--I didn't want people to know but you can't walk around work clutching your chest while sporting a weird look on your face. These people know me and my drama-soaked brain well. The wife stares at me and indicates she isn't worried.
Now, it's last night. (That's kind of a weird sentence. NOW it's LAST night. I'm leaving it. I have no time to edit in the Addiverse.) I barely slept at all, stupid pain that it was. I tossed and turned, flipped and flopped, unable to get comfortable. I went to the couch and realized that my left arm was bothering me and that my heart was pounding and that my neck was tight. Imagine how comforting all that was. I listened to music, played video games and tried to ignore my predicament. I sat up, I laid down, I rolled on my side, I stood up. Had I any anti-anxiety meds, I would have taken them. (Note to self: get some good drugs and keep them on hand. Mark them: for emergency use only. Do not become addicted or sell on the black market.) I thought about taking Benadryl, Norco (leftover from the wife's hysterectomy four years ago--she didn't use them), aspirin, muscle relaxers (left over from the wife's back surgery--again, she didn't use them, what a trooper), ibuprofen, Ex-Lax or stool softeners (they were the only other things left to try in the "medicine bucket") but figured none of these would solve the problem. I got about two hours of sleep and that's being generous.
So, the wife gets up at 5:30 AM and asks me what I'm doing and why I'm on the couch. I give her the "oh-my-god-what-if-this-is-a-heart-attack" look and softly announce, "I need to go the ER. The pain kept me up all night." She stares at me, alerting me that she has seen "THIS LOOK" on my face before and that although she is sure I am fine, she knows that I must do what I must do. I mumble something about my left arm bothering me and she gets a fleeting look of terror. She agrees to take me to the ER. I remind myself how it is much better to be embarrassed by being wrong than being dead from a heart attack.
Now, most people would just get up and go to the ER. Not me. This time I am going to have shaved arm pits! So, I took my time and took a shower and shaved my arm pits. I also shaved my legs for good measure. I washed and scrubbed and put on newly purchased, clean undies, all the while having low-grade chest pain.
If you want immediate service when going to an ER, just say the words, "I'm having chest pain" when you walk up to the receptionist. Geez, it was a blur from the moment those words came out of my mouth. Electrodes flying, buzzers buzzing, IVs inserted, blood samples taken, questions blurting out from here and there, the doctor in the room immediately instead of like three hours later, in the "real" ER world. EKG, blood work, chest x-ray, quick physical. The whole time I am telling everyone I see, "I have a history of anxiety. This might just be anxiety." They smile and nod but pay no heed. I have uttered the word "chest pain" and that is all that is needed to be heard.
Oh, the questions--the questions are enough to give you more anxiety. Yes, my left arm is bothering me. No, there is no rhyme or reason. Yes, I just jogged two miles yesterday without incident. Mostly "no" answers to the questions, which I take as a good sign. The poor wife looked green and had to leave the room several times as she does not "do" blood. I tell the nurse that I am embarrassed to be there. I also tell him that I think my counseling ideas are a crock of shit. He laughed.
Guess what I was diagnosed with? I bet a whole bunch of you are going to say, "anxiety."
You are wrong. I was diagnosed with "chest pain" and given a prescription for Norco.
WTF???? Norco? A pain killer? I'm not in "that kind" of pain. I think most people would be giddy with delight to score some Norco. Not me. I've got a vat of that at home and I don't ever want to take that if I can help it. I am left with "chest pain." Duh. I knew that.
The great news is, no surprise to the wife (or, to MJagger, I am sure), that I "have a text book EKG" and that all the tests came back negative. I'm fit as a fiddle. I am told that I should follow up with my primary care physician in case he wants to do a stress test, although being able to go two miles without issue suggests I don't need one of those. He asks if I get heartburn often. Oh brother. I am rather insulted by this. I would know what heartburn is. No, no I do not get heartburn--I can eat anything and I never get heartburn. (Knock on wood.) Off come the monitors and out comes the IV. I am sent home with papers that say I have chest pain.
I can't complain too loudly about my diagnosis: after all, the wife's birthday is in three days and the Madonna concert is in four days. I have no time for heart transplants or other dramatic medical interventions. I have to buy a present and figure out an outfit for the concert. MJagger and I have to memorize the set list and try to figure out traffic so we are not late. I have to take the wife out for dinner.
I have to shave my armpits for Madonna.
I will probably go see my PCP for shits and giggles (and maybe a prescription for some more appropriate drugs) and he'll give me that concerned doctor look, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will nod in a consoling way and say reassuring things, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will write "anxiety" in my chart. He'll patronize me and ooze support. He'll tell me to come back if the pain doesn't decrease and he'll send me for a stress test. He will write this in the chart but he'll be thinking "anxiety." Mental illness always trumps potential medical issues.
It will be up to me to take true action. While I'm not ready to give up coffee or Dove Dark Chocolate, I am willing to make concessions. I will eat one pound less of sugar per day. I'll keep exercising. I'll eat something green every other day. I'll eat seven less scoops of ice cream a week. (That one is going to be very hard.) I'll remember that my thoughts are prayers and we are always praying. I'll make fun of my thoughts and focus on the positive. I will hang out with friends more and with work less. I will work with the wife on lower our cholesterol (might as well drag her along for the ride). I will continue to maintain my sense of humor and commend myself for being insightful enough that I have quite the flair for the dramatic. I will honor my pain and ask it what it needs, wondering what I need to get off my chest. I will balance my chakras and envision a big green ball spinning brightly in my chest. I will stop telling my clients to envision a happy place--I'm going to tell them to take medication and go out and have fun. I'm going to make sure my clients know they need to wear clean underwear every day and, if women, shave their armpits at least once a week.
Okay, once a month. It's all good if you shave your armpits once a month as long as you are always wearing clean underwear and are agreeable to medication.
Madonna or bust, clean underwear here I come.
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