This week–pretty much the only thing I wanted to do was go to the gym, eat candy corn, and be totally done with work.
The beta-blocker drama is close to a resolution but at the end of the day I’m completely DONE with my cardiologist. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy–a smart doctor. A YALE and HARVARD doctor–but he sure isn’t winning any prizes for following up, or listening to patients, or having a competent office staff.
See–I went to him about two weeks ago. Had a great appointment. Told him all the trouble I was having with trying to catch my breath and wanting to go back to cardiac rehab and breakthrough tachycardia episodes and a steady pulse of 121-130 resting.
He gave me a prescription for Atenolol and wanted me to do a holter monitor and a stress-echocardiogram.
I did the 24-hour holter monitor and had a hell of a time getting my results. In the meantime I was scheduled to take that stress echocardiogram.I moved my GGP schedule around so I could go in the middle of the day and had a nice tech who hooked me up to about ten LARGE gelpads with electrodes. Then there was a weird ultrasound of my heart-after which, the tech explained, I was supposed to jog on a treadmill and then have another ultrasound.
And the whole thing was scheduled around my doctor being there to observe the test. But guess who wasn’t there?
So after ripping off all the gelpeds–which burned and left giant red welts all over my chest, I miserably de-gowned and marched out of the hospital. I was so angry! What a waste of an afternoon and the whole thing just felt stupid and violating, having to wear a wide-open hospital gown while a tech moved what felt like a rock around my ribcage. Most days tests like this wouldn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’ve had so many procedures this one was probably relatively tame–but this one….
With no results and looking like I had dinosaur-pox on my chest I continued to feel like epic shit, pulse racing, out of breath, and having moderately less confidence in the competence of everyone around me…
I kept calling the cardiologist, but his staff kept refusing to put him in touch with me. I didn’t want to repeat the test because of the allergic reaction to the pads and I just wanted to get a new game plan. But there seemed to be a brick wall between me and the doctor. I started getting calls from India saying that the doctor had prescribed me a 30-day heart monitor.
And I was like…what…the…fuck? Nobody told me about this. And also NO. I don’t want to do a 30-day monitor. There’s no reason for me to do a 30-day monitor. If he would just listen to what I was saying instead of running more and more pointless tests…urgh. So I told the guy in India not to send me anything and quickly began searching for a new cardiologist.
At the same time, I was still in crisis mode with my heart.
I was still weaning off the Xyrem at the time and going through a hell storm of weird mood swings because of it. So I took a week to detox before trying the first Atenolol.
Immediately, I got relief. I went shopping. I bent down without blacking out. I had much less trouble breathing. I’ve had a few problems getting the dosage right–and even though my symptoms seem less severe (having been on it a few days now) My resting pulse is still in the 110′s-120′s.
But I was like fuck it–after a few days. I’M GOING TO THE GYM.
This was my starting heart rate–110, which compared to the last few days wasn’t bad at all!
I decided to start with the basics just like I did in cardiac rehab:
Alright, so I wasn’t exactly feeling the burn, but at least I was moving.
Other than that, I’ve had a few other things happen this week.
Finished my second article for IGliving.com, realized none of my dresses work for the engagement party, had a fantastic meeting with the new executive director of GGP about some fun ideas I had for campaigns. Barely slept. Slept too much.
Went to T.J Max and picked up these chalkboard frames to write silly things on for our engagement photos.
Then scoped out some possible locations for our engagement photo shoot.
This cat kept following me around in my neighborhood.
Happy was not a fan.
But eventually I felt awful for the poor kitty and started feeding it and giving it water when I realized it didn’t seem to have an owner. (I’m allergic, otherwise I’d have gotten closer!)
But guess what? After knocking on all the doors on my street turns out it’s true. The cat doesn’t have AN owner. But she does have at least of six of my other neighbors feeding her regularly. Cats can be so manipulative.
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