I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear. -Woody Allen

A few days before our wedding I was dying. Really. Laugh away. I was convinced I would never set foot on Italian soil for our business trip/honeymoon. I would undoubtedly clutch my chest and crumble to the ground, all the while watching the wedding ring roll across the floor in a grainy, black-and -white, slow-motion like a scene from an Orson Wells movie before I could croak out, “I do.”

The phone call to future wife went something like this. Or at least how I choose to remember it.

Bonnie: Hi, Babe. What’s up?
Kenny: We need to talk.
Bonnie: What?
Kenny: I’m dying. I won’t live to see Milan.
Bonnie: (Crickets)
Kenny: Don’t weep for me. Just start a home for abandoned hamsters in my name.

Well, it went something like that. Bonnie agreed to meet me after work, (so much for compassion), picked me up and we went to the doctor. Luckily, I was still alive by the time we arrived at the office.
After checking my blood pressure and pulse, I was weighed and measured (for undertaker’s purposes, I surmised) and invited to spend some time alone in a cold drawer… er…room, waiting for the doctor.

After a wait that seemed no shorter than showing up at the DMV without an appointment, a female doctor (who could have played Gidget if they rebooted it today) entered.

Dr. Gidget: What seems to be the problem?
Kenny: Holy minestrone, I’m dying. (All right, the Gidget quote wasn’t in there, but I wanted to say it.)
Bonnie: He’s not dying. We’re getting married.
Kenny: She’s an optimist, not a doctor.

Let’s cut to the chase. Dr. Gidget checked my heart and lungs (both still there) and then pronounced me fit and free to get married.

Kenny: It’s not that I don’t believe you, but is there anything else you can check?
Bonnie: Stop. You’re not dying. We already paid for the trip.
Kenny: You can carry me in one of those urns, but not a fancy one. Something plain, in blue… I’ve always looked good in blue.

Bonnie looks at the doctor and rolls her eyes.

Dr. Gidget: We can do an EKG (my first thought was Electrocute Kenneth Goorabian, but that’s how my mind works) if you like.
Kenny: How much will that cost?

Okay, I was in for $85 so far and dying or not, I am a freelancer.

Dr. Gidget: $60
Kenny: Let’s do it. If I’m dying who cares about the bill.
Bonnie: (Gives me a look that would scare a terrorist off a plane.)

After a few minutes, the doctor came back with the results.

Kenny: How much time do I have?
Bonnie: Oh. My. Gosh.
Kenny: I just bought these shoes. I want to get some wear out of them.

Funny how the mind works. Apparently, it was a simple panic attack due to my already existing generalized anxiety, the wedding, the trip abroad, moving, yada, yada, yada. The doctor presented me with my first Xanax prescription.

Lesson learned:

I’ve seen my share of doctor shows, so I knew what an EKG was, but was not so happy when I came out looking like a dog with mange after they hacked my chest hairs to attach the electrodes. My chest and belly looked like a smiley face. If I had to do it all over again, I would visit both a tanning/waxing salon before submitting myself to this procedure. I really want to look better as a corpse.

“I think music in itself is healing. It’s an explosive expression of humanity. It’s something we are all touched by. No matter what culture we’re from, everyone loves music.”



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