Two words which every man fears.
Maybe its the neatly boxed quizzes in his mom's Reader's Digest which carelessly sum up the fact that both nature and nurture have combined against him. Perhaps its the half-page articles in the 5-parts-pop-culture-1-part-
health magazines that show some serious
washboard abs next to a bold red font exclaiming their latest
sex secrets. It could be the
collective unconscious spewing forth years of evolutionary guidance touting the fact that
nobody's uncle lives past the age of 40.
Whatever it is that preserves and promotes the constant underlying
phobia streaming through a man's veins, the last place he wants to find himself is lying
closed casket-style on frigid surgical table with leech like tubes crawling into his
chest cavity.
He remembers watching on the
Discovery channel the neatly folded blue surgical drapes that dehumanize the fleshly hole that contains the victim's most important muscle on a documentary praising the most serious of
heart disease treatments. He can't seem to forget the placidly blank expressions emanating from the
narrowed pupils of the manipulators of the latex gloves that moments ago sawed like a butcher through the protective cage surrounding the
weakened vessel. These images haunt him at times unexpected, the anxiety pouring over him in those moments before sleep or in the middle of a quick jog where a small
gas bubble sent a sharp but lasting pain through his rib cage.
It is in those times that those
lost moments of empathy he once felt with his colleague at the office who was suffering the
sudden loss of his father begin to return. He thinks about an argument he had with his wife or how he really doesn't have enough life insurance and how that chocolate-covered-double-fudge cheesecake from Applebee's probably was a little over-the-top considering he still hasn't lost that `spare tire' he picked up a couple of years after college. Then, like all
good men do, he shrugs it off and files it away as a
momentary weakness.
After all, he has tried to stay away from the forbidden
cholesterol-ridden foods to only find that the numbers don't change unless your doctor prescribes
Lipitor and last time he checked he wasn't a member of
AARP. Sure, his blood pressure spikes every now and then but its probably just the '
white coat anxiety' or the '
pointy haired boss' stressing him out. "
Modern medicine is a marvel" and someday he'll be able to
pop a pill and clean his arteries out.
But just in case, he'll drink some
red wine and swallow an
aspirin every now and then. He will eat a few turkey subs from
Subway each week and even hit the gym a few days a month. But this will only subdue his fear short-term, and he will continue to
dread the day where he notices an unusual shortness of breath and a tightness in his chest that mark the beginning of his worst
nightmare.
Because for some, it's
inevitable.