The Feisty Fontan

I grew up in the Midwest and currently live in the South; two areas that are known for their politeness. In the Midwest we barely bump into someone and out comes “Ope! Excuse me” without pause. In the South, it’s a constant parade of “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir.”

So, I don’t understand how I have spent my life supposedly surrounded by polite people and still manage to encounter, on a regular basis, people who ask the rudest questions.

Let me explain…

Because of my Fontan, the circulation in my body works totally different than it does in an average person. One the highlights of my wonky circulation is craptastic blood return from my lower extremities. This causes blood to pool in my feet causing them to be the loveliest shade of deep purple. Gangrene Grape, Putrid Periwinkle, Mortification Mauve…regardless of what clever Crayola-esque name you want to call the color of my feet, it’s ugly.

And I have scars. Several of them. My pacemaker scar has been cut open and sewn back up a half dozen times, so y’all can imagine how Frankenstein that one looks.

I obviously don’t mind sharing information about my condition (as I literally type my innermost thoughts about my health struggles to put on the internet).  But what I do mind is when people make an assumption about me and/or what they think is wrong with me first.

Here are three humorous assumptions people have made and the resulting stupid questions, along with my snappy comebacks:

When I was in college, I spent six weeks in the hospital for atrial fibrillation. On the cardiac floor they give patients two IV’s and they change out the IV’s every three days to prevent infection. So, after almost thirty different IV stabs, my arms looked pretty rough. When I returned home to Chicago, where I went to college, I was riding the bus to class one day. This lady sitting across from me kept giving me the dirtiest looks. As the bus approached her stop, she turned around to look at me and said, “You are going to break your poor mother’s heart when you kill yourself with an overdose.”

Snappy Comeback: “Oh, you mean these bruises? No, these are actually from rough sex.”

When I lived in southern Illinois, on a sweltering summer day when I was wearing a tank top, a Kroger cashier pointed to my pacemaker scar and asked “Aww, honey, did you get stabbed?”

Snappy Comeback: “Yes. In prison.” (Maintained a straight face and intense eye contact with cashier while swiping debit card.)

Just last week, I was wearing a cute dress and my new Birks and was feeling totes adorbs. A lady next to me in Target taps me on the shoulder and asks “Honey, what did you do to your feet? How did you manage to hurt them both at the same time? Are they painful?’

Snappy Comeback: “My foot got stuck up the ass of the last person to ask me that question.”

Sadly, these are not the only examples, just the funniest ones, and in all these scenarios, the person asking me the question made an assumption about me first.  I know they say, “you know what you get when you assume…you make an ass out of you and me.” I honestly think anyone who makes an unfounded assumption of someone and says something or asks something based solely on that assumption, only makes an ass of themselves.  And maybe my snappy comebacks make me an ass in return, but as a person who has spent her life constantly explaining, defending, and qualifying my symptoms and condition to people that maybe do actually need to know, (and more often than not, still don’t understand), all I have left for the rude questions from nosy Target shoppers and big-mouthed Kroger cashiers are smart ass answers.  I wish I had the ability to correct all the wrong assumptions and miseducation about congenital heart defects; but just like there is no cure for CHD’s, there is also no cure for stupid.