Echo Cardio Stress

Talk about divine providence. I drew the master cardiologist of the Rochester area who just happened to be on call in the crisis clinic for cardiology. He is a wonderful gentleman whom I immediately trust. Somehow he reminds me of Einstein and a Swiss clockmaker all in one body. Yet when he speaks, his intelligence is immediately apparent, though he never makes you feel dumb. He sits with me and together we pour over my medical history now entered in the new and improved database online, examining the chemo and radiation I have had to see whether there is potential for heart damage from the drugs. There is some small indication of heart issues, but the risk is low.

More risk from family history. I describe the symptoms. He is concerned that I might be having some congestive heart trouble. He schedules an echo cardiogram with stress inducing meds to be done asap, and sends me home with water pills. I head to the lab for the chest xray and call the infusion center to make an appointment for the bloodwork. I refuse to mess up my arms with bruises and puncture wounds when I have a perfectly good port. My veins are still paper from all the treatments I have had.

Sigh. I guess I hadn't thought about all the necessary tests to find out what is going on. I hate all this medical poking and prodding. I have already had so much of that. But if they can fix some of these constant revolving symptoms, I suppose it might be worth the effort.

So now I am lying on my side hooked up to machines and watching my heart beat in living color on the monitor in front of me. How fascinating to see the floppy valve flutter back and forth in perfect rhythm. It always looks like it is confused, unsure of what it is expected to do. Maybe it will miss the mark and not close off the valve. Yet somehow it always manages at the last possible split second to land exactly where it must to cover the opening. So flexible yet so sturdy. Imagine how many times in your life that little flap of skin flexes and apparently with extreme efficiency and the least amount of energy. Without it working properly - even if there is a pinhole leak - you die. God sure makes a dependable tight design. Experts calculate that a reasonable number of heartbeats in a lifetime is somewhere in the neighborhood of 3 billion!

They begin giving me the medicine that will cause my heart to work harder and faster. What an odd sensation, to be lying perfectly still, yet you are panting and huffing because your heart is working up a lather. Last time I had one of these tests, I had to run on a treadmill for a certain length of time until my heart reached a certain rate. While this seems easier (at least I won't fall on my face!) its also weird. I feel like a car in park with someone's foot on my accelerator! Man, am I humming.

The technician whirls her little ball to get just the right angle and shot of my active heart, clicking now and again, stretching little arrows across the still shot to measure, saving, moving to the next heart section. I am like a little kid. How much longer before we reach point goal? Can I move yet? The technician drops a little panel in the table so she can get new angles. Just a little bit more, then the meds can stop and you can rest. Twenty minutes at full tilt feels like a long trek in the desert. Whew! I am happy to hear the nurse tell me she has stopped pushing drugs.

In minutes my heart returns to a normal pace and my breathing slows until I no longer hear loud gasps for air sliding past my vocal cords. They let me rest until they are confident that I am OK. I get a glass of water and sit up slowly. The nurse winks at me and says that while she cannot officially read the results of the test, I can be sure that if anything untoward had shown up, they would have called the cardiologist in right away. Unofficially of course. I thank her, gather my things and wobble out to the car. Good to know. If I can survive that, then the likelihood of congestive heart failure is pretty slim.