Today I have an all-kinds-of-fun-sounding stress test. As far as I know, it’s the simple version where they’ll hook up a bunch of sensors and have me walk and run on a treadmill for half an hour. If everything goes as expected (and hoped), this’ll be the final, once-and-for-all, yeah-we-know-everything’s-probably-fine-but-we-still-wanted-to-do-this-last-test confirmation that my ticker’s OK. More later.
11:36 AM: All hooked up to the monitor, ready to go, aaaand… the doctor gets called away to the emergency room.
2:14 PM: I sat half-nekkid with ten sensors attached to me for nearly an hour before the doctor showed up, with just one old issue of SI and the EKG to entertain me. Stupid emergencies.
The treadmill test itself took maybe 15 or 20 minutes. You start walking, and every three minutes they speed it up and increase the incline to try and get you up to your target rate. Loads of fun. It was fine, aside from incinerating my calves and that lingering sensation of moving forward. Lying down and feeling like you’re still moving for another minute or so is bizarre.
The results looked fine, and the cardiologist is going to write me a letter saying that whatever the problem was, it wasn’t my heart. “That’s a good thing;” the techie said, “we like it when we can’t figure out what caused your symptoms.” I must’ve had a look on my face, because she continued, “I mean when we can’t figure it out because we know it’s not your heart.” Thanks. I’ll sleep plenty fine tonight.