Raw.

Had to submit another piece today for uni. It had to be a piece that we had taken notes on previously but hadn't completed yet. The instructions were to make it as raw as possible (no edits! and no polishing, as if it were written as the situation were unfolding) and try to recall an uncomfortable conversation, but focusing on the words and the inner dialogue, not the emotions. (Does that even make sense the way I wrote it?)

Not happy at all with this piece, but given the criteria I'm not surprised. I tend to write a hundred drafts and then submit with this sort of thing. But on yet another dare from my lecturer here is the piece. (apparently I need to get comfortable with sharing all my writing... Something about increasing self-awareness...)

It’s Not Broken, Just Dodgy.

I have a dodgy heart. Ha ha. No, really, I have a leaking valve in my heart and as a result my heart doesn’t work properly. Information provided to me earlier this year via an interesting conversation with my newly appointed cardiologist. My normal doctor had decided that a normal heart would not sit at 180bpm when a regular person was jogging. Given that mine had been doing that for sometime, he had decided it was time to get a second opinion before I dropped dead during an aerobics class.

He’s a very interesting man my cardiologist. He’s Asian, short, looks incredibly fit, does not have an ounce of fat on his body and, I am convinced, has a heart that is not dodgy in anyway whatsoever. Lucky guy.

Anyway, after a thorough examination that involved putting incredibly cold substances onto exposed parts of my body, he determined that there was indeed a faulty heart within my chest. I think I took it reasonably well given the circumstances. While he then assured me that I shouldn’t worry, this is often difficult when someone informs you that your condition is actually particularly rare in females and in people of the same age. He’s a funny man my cardiologist.

There are so many questions.

“So what does that mean for me? Does this mean I’ll need surgery” I ask, feeling my dodgy heart beat faster in my chest and then a light sweat break out on my face once I realize that my dodgy heart is beating faster and I have no idea what implications this may have for my health.

“No, no, we should be able to manage it but you’ll need to do a few things…” The pause at the end of that sentence has me a little concerned.

I try prompting. “Such as?”

“Well…” He looks me up and down, a very slow, deliberate look that when paired with the frown on his face lets me know that this is not him checking me out in case he wants to date me later. He hesitates again as if searching for the right words.

I hate it when men make me work this hard.

“Like…?”

“Well. Let’s see. Perhaps I’ll just tell you. It may be a good idea if you lost a few kilos. Actually a few kilos may not be enough, try for closer to ten. You need to eat healthier as well. You need to be at a more suitable weight if we’re going to look after your heart. Definitely lose weight. Got a bit too much fat there don’t you?”

WTF.

Did my cardiologist just call me fat? Jaw on the ground I sit stunned.

He replies with a look that clearly says ‘you know as well as I do, fatty, that you need to lay off the pies’.

“Uh huh. A few kilos”, I reply, barely audible. Awkward pause. “I’m sure I could do that.”

The worn, brown Haivanas on my feet are suddenly fascinating. A flush is spreading through my cheeks, but for some unknown reason I continue talking.

“Is there anything else? How will this affect my ability to exercise?” After spending the last 6years getting qualified and finally starting to make a decent income, this is really not the best time for a career change.

He breaks into a huge my-heart-works-just-fine-thank-you grin, “Oh exercise won’t be a problem for your heart. You should definitely exercise more. Lots more. Maybe you could exercise everyday?” He looks down at his papers in an attempt, I’m sure, to hide the fact that he is quite visibly chuckling to himself.

“So running will be ok then?” I polite ask, struggling with the polite part and trying to ignore how smug and condescending he looks.

A chuckle escapes from his lips, at least that’s what it sounds like. His eyes stay down and more for my own well being than his, I give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a serious medical professional, he was probably clearing his throat.

He pauses again. There is a smile still plastered firmly across his face. “Yes, you should definitely run. You should run everyday, for an hour. You should try and build it up, get some of that fat off. Have you ever thought about running a marathon? That would be a really good idea for someone like you. A girl like you would definitely benefit from that.”

A girl like me? Exactly how fat is this guy suggesting I am?

At this point I give up trying to work out whether he’s serious or not and instead start to panic, in that ‘my self-esteem just got ripped from my body and is lying shredded on the floor in front of me’ kind of way. I’m not that fat.

Am I? Am I really that fat? Am I so fat that this skinny dude is well within his right to be laughing at the idea of me running a marathon when at the same time he really thinks I should because it’s the only way I’ll ever stop being fat. Is that what he’s saying? That I need to run a marathon to get rid of my fat arse?

Shut up brain.

Exactly how fat am I?

Now my dodgy heart is definitely beating harder in my chest as I take a few breaths and try to calm that little voice in my head that is screaming at me to either run for the door or smack this guy over the head with the perfect model heart that is conveniently close to my right hand and berating me with it’s fully functioning valves. Focusing on breathing, I attempt to gather myself.

I will not hit the cardiologist over the head with his model heart. The mantra is playing over and over in my head but it may take a little more than positive thought to prevent an incident.

Perhaps exiting the room would be the best thing now. Reaching for my handbag a finger or two may have accidentally brushed past the bright red model.

The perfect heart is now lying in pieces at my feet. God I love irony.

“Whoops. Sorry. Thanks doctor, I don’t have any further questions.” I race for the door, accidentally slamming myself into it in my haste.

“No problems,” he responds watching me struggle with the handle.

His voice carries down the hall after me. “Now let’s just try and get some of that fat off. Best thing for your heart.”

Slowly lifting my gaze, taking in the crowded waiting room, seeing every single one of the faces looking at me, I can feel my face burning hot as I lower my gaze and trip over my own feet as I will them to carry me to the front desk.

The nurse behind the counter smiles at me. I wonder if she overheard the doctor’s suggestion and hope desperately that she hasn’t.

“Don’t worry love,” she smiles sympathetically loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear, “he calls everyone fat”.

And in that moment I feel my dodgy heart leap into my throat.