A few weeks ago, I had my cardiac loop monitor replaced because my old monitor gave up the ghost. Everyone assured me it would be a simple outpatient procedure. But let’s be honest. “Simple,” or “minor” surgery applies to other people. When it comes to me and my body, the word “simple” doesn’t register. Any invasion of MY body is a big deal.

I’d been dreading the procedure for weeks. I even considering cancelling it, as I don’t believe I’ve had any arrhythmias in a long time. But a misguided sense of doing the right thing compelled me to move forward. So, I dutifully showed up at the cardiac cath lab at my appointed time, my heart pounding (ironically, quite normally).

A sweet, perky receptionist greeted me, and when I told her what I was there for, she said, “Wonderful.” Uh, excuse me? Not sure how having a hole cut in my chest—unless she was referring to it happening to someone else—was “wonderful.” Still, I appreciated her friendliness and resisted the urge to say, “You know what? I think I’ll take my chances that I may get hit by a bus before my heart acts up again. See you later.” Then skedaddle out of there.

But before I could act on my impulse, a kind nurse arrived and helped me settle into my room. I immediately asked for a Xanax. She laughingly told me I didn’t need one, as the procedure was quick and simple. Hmm. Don’t care. I WANT a Xanax.

When the representative for the cardiac monitor company came in to talk to me, I repeated my wish for a Xanax. A Valium. Ativan. Versed. At this point, I’d even take a Benadryl—or three. (Did I have any in my purse?) Or a shot of vodka. Or a bullet to bite on. ANYTHING! Nope, she said. I didn’t need anything for this “simple” procedure.

Apparently, my anxiety wasn’t in the budget.

I had to wait a while past my scheduled time for my surgery as the medical staff had gone to lunch. That was fine with me. I didn’t want people doing my surgery who were “hangry” and in a hurry to get finished so they could eat. Worse yet, whose blood sugar dropped during my procedure, and they keeled over on top of my open chest wound.

When the “team” entered the room, I wondered why I needed four people for a “simple” procedure. The nurse wheeled in a surgical cart with enough medical paraphernalia to perform open-heart surgery, a kidney transplant, and possibly, an exorcism. I wondered why all this stuff was necessary for a “simple” surgery. If I’d only gotten the Xanax when requested, I wouldn’t be hyperventilating over being misled into thinking my procedure would be quick and simple and wondering what all this equipment was for.

The prep for my short, simple surgery took thirty minutes. At least I think it did. It’s hard to tell when you’re lying flat, staring at ceiling tiles, and trying to breathe through panic.

The surgical team suited up, as if they were preparing for Hazmat duty, and began opening numerous sterile packs. Again, I wondered why all those packs—when all that was supposed to happen was a small incision, pop out the old recorder, stick in a new recorder, and place a couple of stitches. Plus, I noted four sleeves of gauze. Wait. Was I scheduled for the correct procedure? Just how much bleeding did they expect, anyway? And thinking of the loss of my own blood made me light-headed and woozy and dropped my blood pressure to non-existent. I could sure use that Xanax.

As promised, the procedure was quick. Maybe ten minutes, although I was too busy trying to faint to take note of the time. Recovery took a little longer, primarily for my blood to remember its job to circulate back to my brain. But I finally got to the point where I could sit up. The nice nurse removed all the monitoring probes stuck everywhere on my body, and I was able to get dressed. All that stood between me and freedom (and a very late lunch) was the discharge papers.

The procedure took ten minutes. Waiting for the discharge papers took 1.5 hours. And I still wasn’t given a Xanax.