Just How Slow is August, Anyway?

For a very minor outpatient procedure, not only have I been poked, prodded, pinched, x-rayed, MRI'd, ultra-sounded, squeezed but anything and everything else you can imagine. Much of this manhandling under other circumstances, the world being context and meaning only determined by what frames the context, I would have considered pleasurable to some degree or other. In another frame. Not in this one.
Does my life start to remind you of "The Perils of Pauline"? Shall I change the name of my blog to "The Reversals, Ravages and Raw Deals of Recidivist Robyn"? Please feel free to comment and I will feel free to ignore, as usual.
In preparation for the latest, I spend part of the day in "pre-op". Pre-op starts with a jaunt down the turnpike, exceeding the speed limit by 5-8 mph. Exiting the traffic-free turnpike, I am most appreciative of the heavy volume of vehicular (rhymes with one of Dubya's favorite words) transportation adding to global warming. As if we'd notice here in Floriduh anyway.
Locating the hospital where I will be sliced, diced and julienned on Wednesday, I gave reception/intake my medical cards, credit cards, ID cards and the passwords to mine and my children's fiduciary accounts. Mi dinero es su dinero. Cuanto? Todo. Todo el mundo es su dinero. Next!
They took blood. LOTS of blood. They took urine. They took blood pressure. FYI 100/45, am I dead or alive? They took resting pulse, 56 bpm. They did an EKG. I'm not sure why they bothered. Anybody that actually knows me would tell the doctors that I am a heartless, soulless cruel little bitch. If they want to know my state of being, they should do an EEG and watch the synaptic connections in my head, which have been compared to Epcot fireworks and various laser light shows.
Finally, a chest x-ray. Still looking for a heart? The tin woodsman is standing in the forest. He has a purple heart. How apropos. A purple heart for the walking wounded. If I had a heart, it would be purple. And broken. Snapped, crushed, shattered. A story for another day perhaps. Only modern fairy tales have happy endings. And Friendly's. I am a traditionalist. The only happy ending is to live another day. Step into the shards. Bleed. Step over them. Heal a bit. Have the chance to wipe your tears. Grow. Learn. Perhaps tell your tale so someone else can benefit from your mistakes. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.