Wired

"Formerly, when religion was strong and science weak, men mistook magic for medicine; now, when science is strong and religion weak, men mistake medicine for magic. " - Thomas Szasz

My annual check-up a couple of weeks ago has me spiraling into the depths of medical hell.  I have had  nine tests in the past two weeks including being wired to a two week Holter monitor and I'm scheduled for three more.  This 60 thing is hard.

As I have had lifelong issues with heart disease, some of these tests are routine for me.  My every year includes at least an ECG and Cardiac Echo.  They're not much of a big deal.  But I'm aging and like all the parts of my old body, things are slowing down.  My normal resting heart rate is now below 40, a number which sends most doctors and technologists into a tizzy but my wonky heart has always been more of a theoretical problem than a practical one.  Nonetheless, my doctor wants to figure out if it is time for the pacemaker I've been trying to avoid for the past thirty years.  In an attempt to figure it out, he ordered a two week Holter Monitor.  Essentially it is a small machine that is attached to my chest with three electrodes which I carry around in a pouch slung across my shoulder.  I've had it for nine days now and though I move the electrodes every day, my skin is breaking down from the stickers and tape that are part of the process.  I have big purple patches that aren't vanishing.  I suppose I will figure out how to deal with the skin damage when I finally take the machine back.  

A couple of days ago, my cardiologist added a perfusion cardiac stress test to the list of coming events.  I had this test a couple of years ago and hoped I would never have to do it again.  The requirement of living without caffeine for a few days before the test is hard enough but it is the other parts I most dread - an IV into my tiny, fragile veins which never recovered from chemo and running on a treadmill until I'm ready to faint while technicians berate me for not trying hard enough because they can't see the evidence of a sufficiently rising heart rate.  Usually it is beyond their understanding that my heart rate is never going to get there.  They want to see it reach 95.  I've never even been in the 70s.  

It is not that I am ungrateful that my doctors are taking care of me in the way they know best.  I wonder though if they understand how hard it is to go through all this testing.  Is there some magic to a two week Holter Monitor?  Could the same results not be achieved in a week?  When the technician gave me the monitor and instructions for its use, she gave me a small piece of sandpaper and advised that I should sand down three patches of my skin each day to ensure a good connection of the electrodes.  Seriously?  I didn't do it and the monitor shows the connection of the electrodes has been strong.  The machine itself is a bit bigger than an I-Pod but the back of it is not smooth and in the flimsy and coarse pouch they provided, it managed to abrade the skin underneath where it hangs resulting in a large and painful blister.  The wires of the machine are taped together in several places, the edges of the tape scratch and mark the fragile skin of my chest and abdomen.  There has to be a better way.

I think though that it is the constant reminder of my mortality that I am struggling with the most.  I am so not ready for another test of my endurance.  I don't want more surgery.  I don't want more pain.  I don't want new limitations.  And yet, I know I will face it all if I must.  When I was diagnosed with cancer ten years ago, I decided denial was a great strategy for getting through it.  I will have to find a new strategy this time as I'm finding it hard to retreat to denial with wires across my chest.