Yesterday I went to the cardiologist here. Once again, I was caught off guard when the doctor came out to the waiting room to call me in—no receptionist, no nurse. I didn’t realize she was the doctor because she looked a bit like an aging hippie—someone who might have a stand that sells organic vegetable, herbs, native honey, and hand-thrown pottery. She looked to be about 50, with long dark hair parted in the middle and pulled into a low ponytail that trailed down her back. She wore a long Indian skirt decorated with mini-mirrors, a plain cotton t-shirt, and pale green clogs with blue swirls on them. No socks, no hose, no makeup, no lab coat. (Hey Granola-Grrrl, she’s your type!). She had a warm smile and friendly manner and spoke pretty good English, but I sometimes struggled to understand her because of her accent.

One of the disarming aspects of medical exams in Belgium is that there is no sense of modesty. Because the doctor’s examining room and office space are one and the same, I had to undress while the doctor sat at her desk. I had to strip all the way down to socks and panties—if I’d known I could have made sure they matched. : ) I tried to imagine I looked like a French woman ready to sunbathe on the Riviera, except I wasn’t tan, thin, or wearing giant sunglasses. OK, so I actually looked more like Helga the Hearty than Francoise the Fabulous but I was trying to enlist some happy visualization to get me through this experience. In Belgium you can forget about covering up with a paper or cloth gown or even having the benefit of some sort of drape. No, here the patients let it all hang out, just as they do at the beach. Suddenly I felt very white, spongy and exposed.

The large window in the office clad only with sheer curtains made me self conscious. Having my thighs, breast, and stomach squirted with clear gel (to use in the EKG) made me feel like a porn star. Thank God there weren’t any mirrors on the walls. I didn’t think I could feel more uncomfortable, but then the doctor decided to do a stress test, and I had to mount an enormous exercise bike--topless, in my underwear, wearing my socks and my clogs.

Y’all, this was too absurd. I felt utterly overexposed and ridiculous. White legs, blue veins, black socks, chunky clogs, panties and naked from the waist up. (Did any of y’all see the movie “Waking Ned Devine”—remember the scene with the naked old man on the bicycle? An absolute spectacle. C’est moi!) How Eric kept from laughing, I don’t know. He didn’t even smirk. He wisely buried his face in a book.

So there I am propped on the bike, getting sprayed with adhesive (ewww) and having wires hooked up to my chest with mini suction cups. I start pedaling. I’m supposed to keep up a rate of 50-60 rpms and yet sit very still from the waist up. To this end, I’m bracing myself on the handle bars, trying not to look down at my boobs or my stomach because gosh, your boobs are supposed to be bigger than your stomach, and I wasn’t sure that was the case at this moment, in this position. I really DID NOT want to go there visually. It was hard enough going there mentally. I’m relieved my doctor isn’t skinny. If she were built like a stick insect, I’d feel even worse.

A nurse, who has been called in to assist with the test, hovers near the bike and keeps adjusting the bike’s resistance, making it more and more difficult to pedal. I start to feel the burn in my thighs and wish I could stop. I think I would do much better on a treadmill. When my pace begins to slack off, Nurse Nancy the Nazi says in a deep guttural voice “You must keep 50-60” Oh God, she suddenly seems like a brutal personal trainer. Nancy the Nazi is tan and blonde, and I’m convinced she finds my pallor revolting. She’s probably thinking, “Where are her tan lines? Her whole body is the color of her butt!” (Things that make her go “yech”)

I’m relieved when I can stop pedaling, but I still have to stay seated on the bike until my heart rate drops. It seems entirely unfair that everyone in the room gets to wear clothes but me. I’m dying to grab my bra and sweater and slide my legs into my pants.

Despite my unease, the news is good on all fronts--my heart is holding its own, my medication level seems OK, and maybe, just maybe, I may one day say goodbye to atrial fibrillation. No one can say for sure. What I do know for sure is that next time I come here I’m bringing a robe—the satin one with pink and white hearts on it would be perfect for a cardiology visit. Hmmm, I’ll also need something to wear in the ob/gyn’s office, but you can bet it won’t be satin and covered with hearts…

September 27, 2005