Doctor, Doctor, give me the news

Lately I’ve had a strange sensation in my left arm.  I say ‘lately’ but it’s been around for awhile.  Like months.  Maybe even longer.  It comes and goes.  Generally when I’m feeling particularly moody about it I make the Husband take my pulse, whining plaintively that it feels as though the pulse is weak and thready.  Because he’s such a tolerant person, he indulgently takes my pulse then provides his expert prognosis.  It’s not weak and thready, he tells me authoritatively, it’s strong and pulsing.  It is, in fact, behaving exactly as a pulse should.  And then he goes back to watching the tele.

I’m not satisfied. 

Convinced I am dying of some sort of rare form of heart disease which afflicts only the very fit and healthy (what? It could happen) and encouraged by the Husband who is becoming less tolerant with every pulse check, I make an appointment to see my local doctor. 

Between you and me, I’m not good in waiting rooms.  Partly because I’m impatient (so I’m told – I know, I find it hard to believe too) I’m uncomfortable sitting around waiting for anything at the best of times but a doctor’s surgery has its own special vibe.  These waiting rooms are deathly quiet, the walls are usually painted in an old-fashioned, pallid colour, the uncomfortable upright chairs are placed way too close together (if you weren’t sick before, you will be now), and there is usually, without fail, a messy pile of outdated magazines on a communal centre table.  To alleviate anxiety you may be tempted to look at one, but that means touching a germ-coated magazine.  Less than ideal.

In contrast to the other waiting patients, I appear to be glowing with good health.  And dressed inappropriately in my bright gym gear.  The other patients are dressed in dreary greys and blacks and most of them have scarves wrapped around their necks.  It’s quite disconcerting.  Particularly because it is spring and it is sunny and warm outside.  Who are these strange people who insist on dressing as though they have just taken shelter from a surprise assault of Arctic conditions?  Shrinking down a little lower into my seat, I wait quietly until my name is called, then jump up and dart with lightening speed into the consultation room.  It’s fair to say I don’t much like being around sick people.  They make me uneasy.

Before you start, I say, holding up my hand to silence the doctor (not that she’s made any solid attempts to speak or even diagnose me yet), I know what you’re going to say.  But my problem is not muscular.  I teach fitness classes.  I know what muscular pain and discomfort feels like.  And this isn’t it.  This is my heart, I tell her sadly, my right hand cradling the left side of my chest.  Or even (ominous pause) maybe a brain tumour.  Google tells me I’m having a heart attack though, so I think we ought to start there.  I sit down and sigh heavily.

She hides a small, knowing smirk but takes my pulse (like I haven’t already gone down that road a thousand times) and then my blood pressure with a rectangular, boxy little machine.  Gone are the days of manually pumping up the little rubber ball by hand and waiting for the air to expel from the material Velcro cuff they wrap around your arm.  Now they have a machine to do that for them.  Of course they do.  Pumping up that little rubber ball can be very taxing if you do it a few times in one day.

She snorts.  Resting heart rate – 51.  So low.  SO low (she raises her eyes heaven-ward).  Perfect blood pressure.  Couldn’t be more perfect.  Retrieving April’s recent cholesterol test she all but rolls her eyes (she might not have actually rolled them but I could feel her rolling them).  Lowest cholesterol I’ve ever seen.  SO low.  She likes to emphasise the “so” a lot.  She’s South African.  I’ve noticed they do that quite a bit.  Or else use the word “hectic” in places where it shouldn’t be used (and elongate the ‘e’ so it drags out sounding like this: “heeeeectic”).  I’m surprised she didn’t say ‘you have a heeeeectically low resting heart rate’.  That’s the kind of inappropriate use I mean.  It’s unique to South Africans I’ve noticed.  No one else manages to insert the word ‘heeeectic’ into every second sentence they utter when talking about things that are not even remotely hectic.

Propping me up on the bed (which is really more like a high bench with an insufficient layer of padding), she makes me close my eyes and performs another very technical test on me.  Taking a needle, she lightly taps me on both arms with the pointy tip.  Feel the same? she inquires.  Yes.  Next, she runs a cotton ball down either arm.  Any difference?  she asks.  Nope.

It’s obvious there’s nothing else for it.  We both agree that referring me to a cardiologist is the next most logical step.  Along with a trip to the leading professor at the Melanoma Unit at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital for a thorough skin check. You may think this is a rather extravagent leap to make but two things could give it probable cause: I am an outdoors girl; if the sun is shining, I like to be out in it (yes, I wear sunscreen).  Plus my father passed away from Melanoma. So all in all, this is not such a bad idea.  Even though I had my last skin check on our most recent Christmas eve – well planned, I know – it is never too soon to check again. 

One last thing, she says just before I leave.  If you could just humour me.  Here’s the name of an excellent Physiotherapist.  Won’t you go and see him?  Just to rule out that it’s nothing muscular?

*   *   *   *   *

Marching home, I immediately make the all-important calls.  The cardiologist schedules me in for the following week.  The physiotherapist slots me in the very next day.  The Melanoma Unit at RPA however does not seem to realise that Melanoma is actually somewhat life-threatening, if indeed you happen to have it.  With the nonchalance of those who deal with critical and grave circumstances daily, they tell me there’s an opening for February next year.  Over four months away.  February?  I could be dead by then, I wail.  You know melanoma is very aggressive, don’t you? I demand huffily.  If I have to wait four months and I’ve got melanoma now, I might not even make it to the appointment.  I know, they say, unmoved.

This system does not sound terribly fair.

Eventually, after a second phone call accompanied by near-teary complaints of almost certain and immediate death, they manage to slot me in for the following Wednesday.  One week away.  One week compared with four months is a much quicker turnaround.  Hopefully I’ll live until then.  I’ll take that, I sniffle, as I hang up.

For the next week I implore the Husband to make the most of our time together because, you know, there might not be much of it left.  One evening, while sprawled on the couch I despondently give him my verbal (and apparently last) Will & Testament, grandly telling him that he can “have everything that is mine”, although what he’s going to do with eight pairs of very colourful Nike LunarGlides in female size US6.5 remains a mystery.  I know he’ll steal my Nike gym bag without a moment’s hesitation though; I’ve caught him eyeing it off on many occasions. 

I’m yet to still write down my Will on actual paper though.  I blame the whole 'necessity for a witness’ thing; it brings me undone every time.  Two witnesses are required and to avoid any complications, it is best that you and your two witnesses all sign in the presence of each other.  It is important to all sign using the same pen or else it could cast doubt as to whether the Will was signed on the same occasion.  Neither witness should be a beneficiary of the Will (not hard since I’ve magnanimously offered all my worldly goods to the Husband anyway) but these witnesses should be able to be easily traceable and found.  So tiresome.  SO tiresome.  Heeeectically tiresome, as a South African might be tempted to say.

I did send a Will to the Husband by email once a few years ago, after I took one look at the tiny 8-seater aeroplane I was about to board during a trip to a health retreat in Thailand.  The plane’s appearance and the pilot’s indifference were both cause for great alarm.  Back in Sydney, the Husband (who is not a lawyer) claimed at the time that my hastily compiled and emailed Will was unlikely to hold up in court.  Even though I’m quite sure he’s lost the email by now, I reckon it might have been enough to get him over the probate line although I’m yet to find a case where an emailed, unwitnessed Will, drafted within moments of boarding a tiny aircraft three hours south of Bangkok, has been tested under New South Wales law. 

The Will may not be a pressing requirement right now anyway because the cheery Physiotherapist thinks the problem is muscular as well as some sort of vague misalignment issue.  Here are some very uncomfortable stretches to do, he says cheerily, handing me a photocopy of instructions and diagrams, and I’ll see you on Friday.  Agreeably I make an appointment for Friday which I end up cancelling because on reflection I figure that muscular and misalignment issues are not life threatening but potential heart problems and cancer are.  Once we rule those out, we can spend money on physiotherapy with gay abandon.  One must prioritise after all.

Being a cardiologist and therefore higher up in the medical food chain, I was expecting the cardiologist’s waiting room to be an improvement on the waiting room decor of a normal GP’s.  Sadly not.  What struck me as odd was that there seemed to be an awful lot of chairs in the waiting area.  What felt like hundreds.  At least 18 anyway.  How many people was the cardiologist expecting to arrive at once? 

I’ve never had an ECG[1] before so that turned out to be quite an experience.  A chatty nurse led me into a room, asking me to strip down to my underwear and lie down on the bed.  Again, confusion surrounds ‘bed’ and ‘high, narrow bench with minimal cushioning’.  Because I had a suspicion there’d be a request to strip off, I made sure I wore a nice matching set of underwear, which in reality looks a lot like a bikini, and because I’m fond of bikinis I felt quite at home.  The chatty nurse then placed circular plastic things (akin to grey toy handcuffs) around my wrists and ankles.  Because it now looked as though I was hooked up to some sort of electrocution device, I nervously enquire as to whether this will hurt?  Oh no, the chatty nurse laughs gaily, we don’t hurt people here. 

An apparently redundant second nurse was also in the room during this time, not helping her colleague or attending to me at all but instead spending her time casually applying makeup in readiness for the day ahead. As I lay there ostensibly plastic-handcuffed to the ECG machine, they both begin talking to each other about me as if I wasn’t actually there, or perhaps was somewhat deaf, agreeing that I looked “a little bit fit”.  Turning to me, they decide to include me in the conversation.  Do I go to a gym?  What do I do?  What do I eat?  And pointedly - how often do I run on a treadmill? (Treadmill?!  Why not outside?).  My self-confessed peanut M&M addiction was all but ignored.  I’m not sure why.  Thus formed the basis of my very first ever experience of testing my heart for deficiencies.

Out of the ECG testing room and into another room with a treadmill (there is a lot of fascination with treadmills here, I decide) plus a few other large, scary machines, some complete with computer screens.  Again, kit off, lie down, wait for the cardiologist.   The cardiologist turned out to be a 5 foot Asian man who decides to do some sort of ultrasound on my heart.  Sticking circular suction caps to various parts of me, he hooks me up to all sorts of tubes and wires, finally smearing a clear gel all over the place and then rolls a fat piece of equipment over it.  See, there are the four chambers of your heart, he points out with enthusiasm, and those are the valves.  Gross.  I mean, happy that it’s beating and all, but still, I don’t require a visual on that.  Why the clear gel is necessary and how this thing can manage to view my heart at all is a mystery. 

Somehow he measures the size of my heart which turns out it to be “the right size”.  That’s good news, I think to myself.  I suppose too small could be a problem, and who knows what too big might mean?  He tells me my heart appears to be functioning normally (great to hear) and that I have all the good things on my side like low cholesterol, low resting heart rate, low blood pressure, no extra fat on the body.  I'm feeling quite bouyant now, confident even, until he ruins it all by nonchalantly reminding me that people have been known to drop dead without any indicators at all.  Happens all the time.

Oh.

Despite the fact I’m small and fit ("look fit" are his actual words which means he's not entirely convinced I am fit) and not obese, he says, we will nonetheless do all the testing properly.  We like a good, thorough cardiologist, don’t we. 

Promptly he scrawls out an ineligible referral to send me off for chest and neck x-rays and gives me a few tips for a better diet.  Plenty of fresh produce, he instructs.  Lots of leafy greens.  Legumes.  Small amounts of proteins – a handful of meat is all you need, he tells me seriously (he has small hands though and I have grave doubts that the Husband will agree to a steak the size of a cupcake).  A bit of dark chocolate is ok.  No mention of peanut M&Ms though.  Or loaves of sour dough bread with Vegemite.  He is, however, unhappy with sports supplements.  Why is it that people can’t just rely on fresh produce? he laments.  I don’t know, I say, is it bad to take sports supplements?  We don’t know, he shakes his head grimly, there has never been enough testing done on them to know definitively.  For that reason alone, he suggests, it’s better not to take them.  Nuts, he cries happily, and green, leafy vegetables (I think he may have said “wegetables”).  The Asian and Mediterranean farmers – those who live off the land – they all have good diets.  All fresh stuff.  Nothing processed.  It's not until they move to the cities that they all begin dying of heart issues.  Stay away from anything processed (probably like peanut M&Ms) – no good, he wags his finger and shakes his head.

If nothing else it is clear that Online Trainer has been trying to kill me.  The man is a walking supplement shop.  His body is filled to the brim with so many supplements that I forget what they all are.  And in the past he has sent them to me too.  Complete with recipes.  Take this with that, mix those ones together, all washed down with that one over there, at night, in the morning, 45 minutes before your work out, during your work out.  And those ones?  They're for after your workout.  Like, right after.  Mixing all of this together will make you stronger, leaner, faster, fitter, taller, thinner, better looking, increase endurance and alertness, probably make you smarter and happier with longer hair, thicker hair and bluer eyes, along with the sudden ability to speak four languages while bench pressing three times your body weight.  Not to mention those breezy one-handed pushups. 

As I recall, those supplements didn’t too much for my marathon though, did they?

Luckily I’m not as conscientious as he is and more often than not I forget to take them, or mix them, or mix them correctly, if at all.  Being slack may just save my life.

And now I have been instructed to get x-rays, I still have to see the Melanoma Professor, and finally return to the cardiologist for a stress test on the heart. 

Now that, my friends, is what could rightly be described as 'heeeectic'. 

Stay tuned.

[1] An ECG (electrocardiogram) is a medical test that detects cardiac (heart) abnormalities by measuring the electrical activity generated by the heart as it contracts. It can help diagnose a range of conditions including heart arrhythmias, heart enlargement, heart inflammation (pericarditis or myocarditis) and coronary heart disease.