Prunes and Prism

RULES FOR YOUNG LADIES: Some arch advice on snagging a husband. Exercising the mouth into a pretty shape through repetition of certain words seems to have been an indoor sport for young nineteenth-century girls; in Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens' overly bred girl repeats, "papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism." (

Monday, May 15, 2006

Hurricane Season

I have a Park Avenue cardiologist* now, which makes me feel a little like a 52-year-old Master of the Universe. Without the cigars or the American Express black card.

I wasn't sure what to expect and was afraid they'd have me on a treadmill, Steve Austin-style, with electrodes under my brassiere. Can they rebuild me? I was so nervous I dropped one of the doctor's ArtForums on my foot.

As it happened, he only wanted to do an ultrasound, so I was smeared with goo by a technician who simultaneously related her mother's theory about this year's killer allergy season: a government conspiracy surrounding last year's flu-shot shortage. She seemed not to dismiss the possibility entirely, which surprised me since she was the one with the probe, and I had therefore thought her to be a handmaiden of science.

If you've ever had one of these, you know that when they turn the volume up, you can hear your own blood pumping, and it sounds a lot like scrap metal blowing back and forth in hurricane winds. Every one of us is walking around in our own little storm.

* Don't be alarmed. My GP just heard a little murmur in my heart. I don't think of it as a murmur so much as a kvetch and kvell.**

**And I don't know why the mere mention of cardiology makes me want to trot out the Yiddish. One thing I do know is that I won't be marrying mine -- he is notably handsome and certainly gay.


Blogger Michael said...

Glad to hear you're doing ok : -)

4:44 PM  

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