-Groucho
Marx
I don't believe in an afterlife,
although I am bringing a change of underwear.
-Woody
Allen
A few days
before our wedding I was dying.
Really. Laugh away. I was convinced I would never set foot on
Italian soil for our business trip/honeymoon.
I would undoubtedly clutch my chest and crumble to the ground, all the
while watching the wedding ring roll across the floor in a grainy,
black-and-white, slow-motion like a scene from an Orson Wells movie before I
could croak out, “I do.”
The phone
call to future wife went something like this. Or at least how I choose to
remember it.
Bonnie:
Hi, Babe. What’s up?
Ken:
We need to talk.
Bonnie: What?
Ken:
I’m dying. I won’t live to see
Milan.
Bonnie: (Crickets)
Ken:
Don’t weep for me. Just start a
home for abandoned hamsters in my name.
Well, it
went something like that. Bonnie agreed
to meet me after work, (so much for compassion), picked me up and we went to
the doctor. Luckily, I was still alive
by the time we arrived at the office.
After
checking my blood pressure and pulse, I was weighed and measured (for
undertaker’s purposes, I surmised) and invited to spend some time alone in a
cold drawer… er…room, waiting for the doctor.
Side Note: Doctor’s visits are like Disneyland,
where you’re convinced you're near the ride until you reach the corner and
discover something constructed by the same sadists that designed rat
mazes. Only at the doctor’s office they
shuttle you from room to room and you don’t get cheese.
After a wait
that seemed no shorter than showing up at DMV without an appointment, a female
doctor (who could have played Gidget if they rebooted it today) entered.
Doctor Gidget:
What seems to be the problem?
Ken:
Holy minestrone, I’m dying. (All
right, the Gidget quote wasn’t in there, but I wanted to say it.)
Bonnie:
He’s not dying. We’re getting
married.
Ken:
She’s an optimist, not a doctor.
Let’s cut to
the chase. She checked my heart and
lungs (both still there) and then pronounced me fit, and free to get married.
Ken:
It’s not that I don’t believe you, but is there anything else you can
check?
Bonnie:
Stop. You’re not dying. We already paid for the trip.
Ken:
You can carry me in one of those urns, but not a fancy one. Something plain, in blue… I’ve always looked good in blue.
Bonnie looks
at the doctor and shakes her head.
Doctor Gidget:
We can do an EKG (My first thought was Electrocute Kenneth Goorabian,
but that’s how my mind works) if you like.
Ken:
How much will that cost?
Okay, I was
in for $80 so far and dying or not, I am a freelancer.
Doctor Gidget:
$60
Ken:
Let’s do it. If I’m dying who cares about the bill.
Bonnie: (Gives me a look that would scare a
terrorist off a plane.)
After a few
minutes, the doctor came back with the results.
Ken:
How much time do I have?
Bonnie:
Oh, my gosh.
Ken:
I just bought these shoes. I want
to get some wear out of them.
Funny how
the mind works. Apparently, it was a
simple panic attack due to my already-existing generalized anxiety, the
wedding, the trip abroad, moving, yada, yada, yada. The doctor presented me with my first Xanax
prescription.
Lesson I learned:
I’ve seen my
share of doctor shows, so I knew what an EKG was, but was not so happy when I
came out looking like a dog with mange after they hacked away my chest hairs to
attach the electrodes. My chest looked
like a smiley face. If I had to do it
all over again, I would visit both a tanning and waxing salon before submitting
myself to this procedure. I really want
to look better as a corpse.
Kenneth
Goorabian
