Whomp whomp whompidy domp. Whomp whomp whompidy domp.
I hear my slightly syncopated heart on the loud speakers. Like some aimless wonky bassline that lurches from side to side, I’m enthralled by the sound my own body makes.
As I sit on the exam bench in the cardiologist’s office, my legs sway from side to side awkwardly to catch the beat. But I jerk to a stop when the doctor comes back in the room.
He smiles. Pulling off the electrode patches from my front and back, I look down at the 10 inch scar that runs right down the middle of my chest.
It’s been itchy, red and swollen a lot lately, as is the muscle inside wants to burst out of the seams and say “surprise!”. I’ve taken it as a sign of something greater – maybe my heart feels caged in and wants to explore the big wide world. All signs point to yes. If I stay still, I fear that it may just turn to glass.
“You have trivial mid-systolic murmurs but your heart is crisp and your scar is normal, if a little irritated. We won’t require further investigation into the arrhythmia. If there’s anything more, you’ll need to come back in 6 months.”
With that, I spring off the bench, forgetting momentarily that I’m in still only wrapped in the flimsy hospital gown. No ooops to say as my butt wiggles out for a peek. So nothing is wrong, but why do I still feel so bad?
I dwell on it mere moments and before I have even left the room, my mind is made up. Do not take it lightly, I tell myself. The heart is good and strong, respect this offbeat rhythm and do not let it come to glass.