The issue
Occasionally I'd get this weird feeling in my chest similar to how the crackheads or PCP fiends on cops must feel when officer friendly plants his knee on their back to get the bracelets on--a little short of breath and lots of pressure.
My sister, Nancy, works with cardiologists all day so I asked her what I should do. As I expected, she instructed me to make an appointment right away which I did reluctantly.
When I arrived at the doctor's office for my appointment I was clearly an atypical patient. Out of eight patients waiting, I was the only one without white hair and an oxygen tank.
The fact that I was able to walk back to the appointment room under my own power without the aide of a wheelchair or walking device must have been a real shock to the 21ish nurse, Candi. As she called my name to signify it was my turn she was noticibly shy but I didn't realize why until she asked me to strip down to my underwear. When I laughed and said, "It's a good thing I remembered to put them on this morning.". She blushed and replied, "I'm not kidding...The doctor requires it of all the patients".
"Ahhh yes, the doctor requires it", I thought to myself egotistically. And, of course the first thing the doctor said was, "Sorry about the disrobing thing, it's our policy and we ask it of all of our patients."
Ego = deflated.
The doctor, Dr. Iaffaldano, proceeded to ask me questions like: Is there a history of heart disease in your family? No
Do you smoke? No
Do you drink? Nope
Do you think this jacket makes me look fat? WTF?!?
The list went on and on as did my negative answers. He then asked me to describe my symptoms to which he replied, "But it never happens while you are playing hockey, mowing the lawn or carrying around your big ego?"
"Nope."
That stumped him so he ordered a stress test and an echocardiogram.
The echo was performed by a way way way too enthusiastic man who I'll call Dim Bobby. It was a safe bet that Dim Bobby's first even second language was something other than English. However, that didn't stop him from chit chatting about his daughters and how he was the only person that performed the "echoes" at this facility.
I didn't really understand a word he said but his constant need for my approval at the end of his sentences left me nodding and nervously laughing right along. Seriously, he could have been saying, "You have the aorta of a 98 year-old pudding pop", but my response still would have been a nod or a giggle.
I escaped the paper-lined table of Dim Bobby's world just in time to begin the stress test.
The stress test
The stress test began with a radioactive isotope injection then continued with a scan under some machine that looked a lot like a cat scan device. Evidently, they take pictures of your heart with this gizmo and map the radioactive diffusion in your heart.
The stress test continued with me on a treadmill for a bit of fast walking. Since I am 31 years old 5'11" and weigh 185 my target heart rate was determined to be 160 beats per minute. A nurse punched a few doo dads on the treadmill, hooked me up to some sort of monitor and the started me on my own personal marathon.
The treadmill started on level 1 and moved up to level 6 (each level is an increased combination of speed and incline). It took 15 minutes to get my heart rate up to 160 and I felt like I could run for another hour. But instead, they injected me with another radioactive dose and told me to stop.
I went under the camera for another picture. And I was rewarded for my efforts with a package of Ritz penut butter sandwich crackers...Yummy. I got out of there quickly in search of some real food.
The results
I took the next day off work to help a friend with some projects around his new house. I spent all day there and by the time I got home I had four messages from the doctor's office. As I listned to the messages the most apparent fact was the increase in urgency from one to the next.
Message 1: "Paul this is Cathy from Dr. Iafalldano's office please give us a call regarding your stress test results."
Message 2: "Hi Paul, it's Cathy again at Dr. Iaffaldano's office...We need to talk to you about your stress test results. Please give us a call."
Message 3: "Paul, I tried you at work and I didn't have any luck...I hope you are okay...I have your stress test results and we REALLY need to talk to you today about it. Please call us as soon as you get this message."
Message 4: (5:00pm) "Okay Paul, we're going home so it looks like we aren't going to be able to talk to you today. Don't do anything this weekend. Stay in, don't do any lifting and don't by any means play hockey. Call us at 8am Monday and whatever you do, don't do anything!"
Great! Not only could I not find out the results until Monday which was enough to give me a heart attack anyway, but I wasn't sure if I could play with Jake, climb the stairs or wipe my own ass.
In order to allieviate any abnormal stress I chose to forget about it entirely and go about business as usual until Monday. I golfed, mowed the lawn, ate like a trucker, and lifted several heavy objects clear above my head. All while what could have been a time bomb ticked in my chest.
Monday
I called the doctor's office around 9am. A cheery woman answered the phone after nine rings, "Doctor's office."
"Yes, this is Paul Apos"
I was cut off by, "Paul, we've been waiting for your call, we tried to reach you several times Friday. Let me get some who is better at talking about these things."
These things?!? WTF!
"Hi Paul its Cathy", the fresh voice on the phone said as if we were first cousins.
"Uhhhh, Hi. What's up?"
"Well your stress came back abnormal. It showed a defect and we need to have you see the doctor right away. Also, we'd like to start you on Toprol and Asprin immediately."
Defect? Asprin? And that was just the beginning.
Stay tuned...Part two coming soon.