I was naked from the waist up with a man I didn’t even know. He was putting little wires and pads on my chest. I figured he normally did this to old guys with similarly saggy boobs. All I could think to say was “Can you tell they’re fake?” He laughed.Sorta. Inappropriate things fly out of my mouth all the time, especially when my chesticles are hanging out. After the devastating four months I’d had I thought I might as well keep things light. My heart had been obliterated. And I was at the hospital to see if I was having a heart attack. At age 42. It was a sign: God hates me.
I knew getting divorced was not supposed to be fun. But I thought finding Mr. Right would be, like, totally fun. And easy. I had a sign, on my head, “Hot to trot divorcee looking for true love after a shitball of a marriage.
Well, I met him innocently enough through one of my kids’ activities. It was such an exciting time. Our kids got along, he was smart, good looking, and seemed to be damaged just enough by his evil ex-wives. And he talked. He revealed. He told me things that made me feel special; you know, it was a sign – he liked me. I was special.
I liked that things were going slowly. We spent a few months hanging out. At the start I thought we were taking things slowly because of his history; two divorces. But months of soul bearing and fancy glances led to nothing but lingering hugs. He still hadn’t stuck his tongue down my throat. Was it a sign? Bad breath? Didn’t he like my butt?
After months of wondering, one night I gathered my courage and said “I’ve decided I can’t ever kiss you.” He replied, “Oh yeah?” So I said – “Yeah, cause if I do I’ll want to strip you, lick you, and ride you like a mechanical bull.”
His reply: He kissed me…. on the cheek. Looking back, it WAS a sign. I never heard from him again.
I can only explain the four months after he quit coming around as annihilating. I felt sick to my stomach which meant I couldn’t eat. I lost weight. I looked nasty. I also cried constantly. I cried. And I cried. And I cried. It was a sign – something was coming. The loss I felt was the first thing that hit me when I woke up and it sat on me all day. Why did he leave?
I managed to hold it together when I had to, which is, most of the time – but I used to sit through doctor’s appointments and just cry to the nurses. I also cried through sessions with a counselor once a week. I didn’t care about anything. Nothing made me happy. I went on with life, but only because I had to. I had three kids and I had to keep going to grad school classes.
So, four months of crying later, it was the end of the semester – early December. I was going out to jog. Well, jog is a strong word. Flounder around with legs in motion like Olive Oyl is more like it. I started my jog and noticed my left arm and hand hurt. I thought it was weird, so I just quit jogging and walked. The pain stopped. I jogged again. The pain came back. It was a sign!
I walked for a few miles then went home and stretched. My son got off the school bus and I got on my computer to finish writing a big paper that was due the next day. One of my girlfriends called and I noticed the pain was back. So, I told my friend, Heidi, I was probably having a heart attack. Great. Fucking great. Next thing you know it’s two housefraus in a minivan headed to Mt. Nittany medical center.
So fast forward to the pads and wires on my chest. Not long after that, a nice, female ER doc came in very casually so I could give her the blow-by-blow. Fast forward to the lifeflight helicopter that was already on its way to haul me out of there. Before she came in she’d read the EKG – it was a sign! This chick is screwed!
One lifeflight, an angioplasty, and two stents later, I was in a hospital about an hour from home. I stayed for two nights, had the worst migraine of my life, and managed to scare the living shit out of my ex. Even though we weren’t together, we are still family. The best part of being a 42-year-old cardiac patient was the odd looks from doctors. I was in shape, had low cholesterol, a low resting pulse, and normal blood pressure. It always seemed to make them feel better when I told them my dad died at 57 from heart disease and that I used to smoke. “Good good good! Makes sense…thanks.”
But wait. I didn’t have a heart attack because of family history or prior smoking. No. I had a heart attack because some fucktard broke it. Crying every day for four months is not normal. Neither is not sleeping and not eating. Stupid fuck bag. But I couldn’t tell the doctors any of that. I already felt like an idiot. And they were all men. They would roll their eyes. Poor girl with a broken heart. Boo frickin’ hoo. They would’ve put me on anti-depressants; I already knew they didn’t help. They would’ve told me to see a different counselor for my delusions. How do you fall for someone after two months of no kissing? Idiot! It was a sign – I was a nincompoop!
Six days after the heart attack I was back in class. What else was there to do? Plus, I had a semester to finish.
About two months after the heart attack I got a call from the cardiologist’s office. They asked if I would talk about my ordeal for something called “Go Red for Women” day. Apparently, it’s a heart health awareness thing that comes around once a year. I said I would, so I went to a couple of radio stations and talked about my heart attack. A few days later one of the stations offered me a job on a morning show. I even ended up on a country music morning show. Words cannot tell you how much I hated country music. It was a sign – God still hates me!
But – it was a sign! I ended up writing my Master’s thesis about country music and advertising. And now – 10 years later, I still happily and joyfully work in country music radio. I even taught at Penn State for a few years and I used to brutalize my students by teaching with country music lyrics.
And as far as the “sign” I got – the heart attack – the sign that God hates me? Well, that actually saved me. I found out months later that Mr. Wonderful was actually Mr. Massive Piece of Shit – he did this and this and this and I was saved from him. And the heart attack got me off the track of thinking about him. I had to re-focus and worry about recovery. God Bless my cardiologists and country music.