By FoundWanting


As a so called man unfortunately one of the punji traps in life is to carelessly inform a woman that you feel or have felt unwell. They feel it their duty, care, love, whatever, to pry into a man’s bespoke discomfort and his wish for a quiet life, his raison d'être for being a “man”.

Last Thursday I was telling a supposed confidant (female) in quiet confidence that I had experienced a recent episode of some tightness in my chest, radiating down my left arm with shortness of breath, forgetting that Miss Bat-Ears was in the same apartment.

“Chest pain … where was it radiating … down your left arm?!!?”

Quickly retreating into the bathroom and closing the flimsy non lockable door behind me did not stall the interrogation for one peaceful split second.

“I’m having a poo,” I reasoned would stall her until I thought of a more cunning way to escape this situation. Maybe the drop out the window from the third floor wouldn’t be too bad after all, and I believe Tierra del Fuego is nice this time of year. “I may be some time, probably a couple of days.”

“Out of there now!”

“I’m having a … oooh, alright then.” I knew I couldn’t outlast a siege after remembering that my emergency safe room snack, normally hidden in the cistern, had already been eaten the last time I tried to escape from being questioned.

Two words before the end of my fumbled explanation regarding said symptoms my appointment was booked with the first cardiologist, who promptly sent me across town to another cardiologist, who then booked me in for “further investigations”.

So here I am waiting for the angiogram that I fearfully did not want. This, especially after happily dragging many suffering souls into the John Radcliffe CathLab, watching with fascination the procedure through the lab window and following the fluoroscopic details on the screens in the control room.

“Does it hurt?” I was asked many times on the 45 minuteish blue light drive from here to there.

“I understand it’s only slightly uncomfortable” was the anecdotally fed parry, sugar dusted with the ambulance person’s stock mollifying smile.

Karma is a bitch.

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