Me And My Cardiologist
HIM: I’m looking at your strips (from the heart monitor)
HIM: You have been in consistent AFIB… No sinus rhythm
ME: Gee Wally, What do you want to do?
HIM: I want to strangle you with my stethoscope, so MAYBE you’ll get the hint. I HATE being called Wally.
ME: Okay, Wally, I’ll think about it. So what should we do?
HIM: We could cardiovert you.
ME: The electrical shock thing—NO! You just want to play with my moobs…
HIM: I’d rather play spin the bottle in a leper colony.
ME: Okay so how long do I have?
HIM: For what?
ME: Before I die.
HIM: Hard to predict. I don’t think you’ll die suddenly.
ME: Why not?
HIM: Cause I know you. It will be long, drawn out and operatic… you’re a drama queen.
ME: On my death bed… you insult me?
HIM: You’re not on your death bed Camille. You’re in the first act. But we need to fix this AFIB, although I have never seen a heart that manages AFIB as well as yours does… your rate fluctuates between 60 and 85. Amazing how your body adjusts to anything…
ME: I’ll just drink some water… I can fix this… I’m dehydrated.
HIM: Fix it with water? You wanna bet?
HIM: What do you want to bet? What do you have that’s valuable?
HIM: Nah, he won’t do it.
ME: We could ask him.
HIM: No I mean he doesn’t do it for me. I’m straight.
ME: I know, and he’s a twat.
HIM: True, but I need one with ovaries.