About two years ago, my doctor thought he heard a murmur in my heart. I wasn’t surprised, because on a bad day, I can murmur and complain enough to cause Moses himself heartache; however, my doctor wanted me to see a cardiologist. In the past I had a couple of incidences with irregular heartbeats when I was running on the treadmill, and it is imperially important that a heart beat, murmuring and complaining or not.
My one little visit to the heart doctor turned into a series of tests that caused my wallet to tremble. I got to see my heart pumping away on a monitor and I even had my aorta checked. They thought it was enlarged. I fear my bottom has become enlarged, but thankfully nobody’s ever suggested photo imaging of my backside.
Then I took the test where they try to kill you on a treadmill. Don’t ever let the technician in charge of all the wires coming off your chest know that you do any form of regular exercise. In fact, pretend you can’t walk on one leg for this test. If they see even the tiniest hint that you’ve used a treadmill in your lifetime, they defy gravity with the incline and up your speed until you are running faster than the traffic speeding outside the window. They make you stay on until your heart explodes or they decide you’ll live for another six months.
They nearly killed me, but left me with just enough spark to come back two days later and do it all over again. Only this time they decided to inject me with nuclear waste. It was my first time dripping drops of glowing sweat.
The best part is when they decided I was done. Instead of dropping the incline and decreasing the speed, they just pressed stop and I nearly fell over the front of the treadmill and flew out the window. The nurse caught me just short of breaking glass and threw me onto a table to see how my heart would react. I am convinced if you don’t die during one of those tests, you’ll live until you’re ninety.
It was during my last appointment that the doctor was to give me a prognosis and tell me whether I had a happy heart or murmuring heart. My husband was a little nervous and decided to come along, but he only came as far as the parking lot. I think he was scared that they’d put him on a treadmill.
By the time I came out to the car, my husband thought I was about to undergo the knife or worse. After the routine waiting room stint, I spent about forty minutes in the doctor’s office, ten of which we discussed my heart. We talked about Burt’s Bees, make-up, and Maine for the other thirty minutes. I walked out wishing he, his wife, and kids would come over for dinner.
On that cool Spring day, I realized that I was growing up. No longer are my doctors old men in scary white lab coats; they are people with whom I would choose to spend time. It finally dawned on me that my friends are doctors, lawyers, teachers, bankers, police officers, writers, clergy, and business owners. We are running our communities. We are the grown-ups.
My heart is fine. It just beats to an unusual rhythm, but I am still mystified with adulthood. It sneaked up me unawares. I can’t define a time when I transitioned from carefree youth into responsible adult, but it happened. I am all grown-up.
When did you realize that you were all grown up?
This post is linked to Flashback Friday hosted by Mylestones and Friday Photo hosted by More Than Words. Go visit by clicking on the photos below and read more stories with the theme ALL GROWN UP and see some great old photos.