Stroke Me Tender

Disclaimer:  I have a fucked up sense of humor. In no way am I mocking people who suffer from heart disease. I am mocking my own hypochondria. Lovingly.

I don't want to alarm you, but Oprah and I are having some issues. For example, I was enjoying the October O (the magazine, not a monthly orgasm, you perverts), learning about enhancing my bliss, when I came across some jarring news. Apparently, if you have migraines with auras, you are more likely to have a stroke and absolutely everything, including hiccups, is a warning sign, so you may as well go to the Emergency Room, fill out a toe tag and wait. The bright side of this is that you don't have to worry about your IRA. Or anything else for that matter.

So the bad news for me is that I've been having migraines with auras for approximately forever. It's a really weird thing where suddenly I will have trouble seeing out of one eye, and the things that I see will look like they've been painted by Dali. In other words, you probably shouldn't get too attached to me although you may consider advancing my next 20 birthday gifts.

So, when I read that, I put the magazine down and shared this news with Husbandrinka.  Or maybe I didn't put the magazine down, who can remember this crap?

"I think I'm dying," I told him. "We need to make preparations."

"I will not remarry until a respectable period of time has passed," he answered automatically.

For the first few years after I trapped him, I was obsessed that if I died in childbirth or by overdosing on Haagen Dasz Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream, he'd marry someone before the autopsy report was filed.   His new bride would be prettier and younger and more alive.  Which would be mortifying to me in the afterlife, as I tried to blend in with all the cool corpses.  But that was years ago, and I am much more secure now. I don't give a shit what those postmortems will think. Although the fact that he appears to be so accepting of my death is very troubling and is making me think that I've been too lax in paranoia relationship maintenance.

"I may be having a stroke," I told him. "I get those headaches and Oprah says that if I also start hiccuping, I should present myself to medical authorities. Since I assume I'll be busy having the stroke, you will have to do it for me."

"O.K."

"O.K. So what's our plan? Because we work in different places, so how will you know if I am stroking?"

"Stroking what?"

"Stroking. I'm pretty sure that's ER talk for having a stroke. Because they probably won't have the time to say, 'Marinka is having a stroke', they'll just say 'Stroking. Code blue!' to save time."

"Is this like the other time when you thought that you were having a heart attack?" he asks, and I suspect that he is considering laughing.

It's true in the summer of 2007, I was convinced that I was having a heart attack.

This flashback is brought to you by Enchanted Memories of a Hypochondriac:

"I'm dying!" I told Husbandrinka from the couch. "My chest hurts and I am convinced that I'm having a heart attack.  Boy, it sure is hot this summer of 2007."

"Should we go to the hospital?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Do you think that there will be a long wait?"

"It's Saturday night in Manhattan, you get your standard gun shot wounds, bar fights-" Suddenly he's Sipowitz.

"I don't really feel like waiting." I readjust myself on the couch. "Could you maybe call St. Vincent's and NYU to see who has the shorter wait? Or maybe ask them what time we could come in that won't be so crowded?"

"Are you insane? You don't call the emergency room to make a reservation. If you're having a heart attack, we should go now."

"Ok, ok. Burp. Oh. Hm, I seem to be feeling better.  Can you take the ice cream out so that it can soften?"

(By the way, the line of the night went to my father who was consulting with me over the phone and asked, "When the pain stopped, did you by any chance see the image of the Virgin Mary?" and when I said that I didn't, commented, "that's too bad. We could have made a fortune.")

But this whole thing got me thinking.  

I think that if you're going to break the news to someone that they are candidate number one for a stroke, you should do it in a way that won't give them a fucking stroke.  Like gently.  With some images of waves gently tossing a sea shell on the sandy beach in the background, instead of the opening scenes of Natural Born Killers.  And I really think that as the owner and queen of the magazine, Oprah could have done a better job of preparing me for this news.  She could have invited me over to her house, given me a few of her favorite things or a million and then, as we called Gayle to let her know that she's been replaced as Oprah's best friend, she could have whispered it in my ear. 

I hope that we both can learn from this experience.