Drop the Beat

“You may breathe now.”

I came sliding out of the CT scanner like an overcooked pizza and resumed taking in oxygen just as the android voice commanded.

My cardiologist has suggested that I get this test—a CT coronary angiogram—and I happily complied, though I wish they’d find a way to take the word “coronary” out of the title.

I hadn’t eaten all day, as per doctor’s orders, but I wasn’t even remotely hungry, due to a particularly vicious stomach bug that had invaded my innards the night before and played merry hell with my digestive system.

This old heart of mine got quite a workout as I staggered through a crappy week marked by frustration on so many levels, personally and professionally and even on the national level thanks to the Supreme Court and a certain orange-hued scumbag who shall remain nameless.

The hospital emailed the test results to me within hours and while it was packed with medical terms that I didn’t begin to understand, I couldn’t help noticing one line that read “Important findings have been revealed and will be addressed accordingly.”

Important findings? Addressed accordingly? Is there a medical term for WTF?

I took this news in my usual manner, which, of course, was to freak out, call my doctor’s office and whine hysterically.

He assured me that it wasn’t as horrible as it sounded and suggested I take a nuclear stress test to give him a better view of my ticker.

Nuke Machine

A nuclear stress test, I googled, is an imaging test that shows how blood goes to the heart at rest and during exercise, although it could be the title of a Fifties science fiction movie or the name of an Eighties punk band.

And when they say “nuclear” that’s just what they mean. The attendant who injected me recommended I stay clear of little children and pregnant women for the next 24 hours.

“I feel like Godzilla,” I said. “Only I think I’m better looking.”

They made me wait 45 minutes and then hooked me up to a treadmill, which kept moving faster and tilting higher.

I later learned that this was the Bruce Protocol treadmill test, which was designed by cardiologist Robert A. Bruce in 1963 as a non-invasive test to assess heart health.

“You’re doing so well,” the attendant told me at one point. “We’re going to put up your picture to inspire other people.”

"I feel like Steve Austin from 'The Six Million Dollar Man,'" I wheezed, only the joke tanked and reminded me of just what a fossil I am.

I finally got my heart rate up to the necessary beats, got another body scan, and got the hell out of there.

My doctor said he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he suggested yet another procedure to get an even better picture of my heart.

We’re supposed to speak on Monday and I’ve decided that I'm going to do it. I just like to take a few breaths first.