The Agony of ECG

The first time it happened was long ago. It was a few weeks before my wedding that I booked in at a city hospital in for a general medical check. With quite an indulgent living, it was wise to have a medical check before pulling another person on board. Besides, the deaths of two people I knew persuaded me to go in for the checkup. One guy died in his late twenties after a cardiac arrest from the blue, and another collapsed a few months after his marriage. Pretty unnerving isn’t it?

Well, so there I was on a balmy morning in Kochi – walked into the hospital and the nurse promptly took me to the physician who was in charge. After checking on me with the regular questionnaires like my history of smoking, alcohol consumption, dietary habits, work out, family history of ailments, etc., I had to do a few tests like x-ray, ECG, treadmill and blood analysis.

I have not ever before gone for such tests as far as I could remember, except once or twice for a basic blood analysis after being down with viral fever. The moment of revelation happened in the ECG room. It was a pretty lass in charge of the ECG. She asked me to take off my shirt and lay on the couch, which I obliged with the least reluctance. But the miserable part came later when she decided that the hair on my chest was a hindrance to an accurate cardiogram. She took out a razor and applied some disinfectant solution and began a deft shaving exercise. Awkward! It was not because a lassie did that, but the cold blade and her adroitness were unleashing goosebumps. It was perhaps the most awkward moment of my life. Still worse was to come. Once she finished the exercise, she applied cold gel on certain points of my torso, arms, and legs where she was to plant the electrodes. The application of the cold gel was dreadful torture. I was desperately trying to avoid goosebumps. I was afraid that such a physical display on the skin and the hair on my body standing up, would offend her and she would heed me as an uncultured and also see me dissipated.

It reminded me of the Hollywood film, “Whose Life is it Anyway”. The misery of the protagonist- the paraplegic sculptor lying helpless in his hospital bed with a buxom, beautiful and gregarious female doctor leaning over him, checking him. Though here it was sheer misery from the cold applications and nothing to do with amorous ideas.

I was yanking, eyes shut, grinding my teeth, biting my tongue in my mouth, clenching my fist. Well, well, it is difficult to explain any convincingly my most miserable and moment of living. The cri de coeur to the nurse to get over with it was silent, and I cursed the unholy hour I thought of the damn medical check. The ECG done, it peeved me at myself and sheepish to look at the woman. As I literally sneaked out timorously from there, I swore no more ECG even if that leads to Armageddon.

The office where I worked those days was almost a stone's throw from the hospital, and that ensured that I ran into the pretty nurse almost every day. I always felt that she recognized me, and I thought her expression told only one thing to me-that she formed a definite opinion that I was gauche and lascivious. I felt awkward to look her in the face and would speed off on my motorbike. I always felt whenever she sees me, she would remember me for the stupid moments of that day.

The pathetic part of my flirtation with ECG was that I have undergone the test quite a few times after that day, during the regular medical checks and the torture was repeated almost all the time. The worst part was when once it was a man who was the technician and to my horror, the goddamn goosebumps did not care to discriminate between female or male nurses. It was the gel that was cold and ticklish and was too much to handle. It was a far greater misery because I feared the fellow might notice the changes on my skin and may get the stupid idea that I was titillated by touch and you know what kind of a man is excited by the touch of another man. Gosh!