Tuesday, October 16, 2007

In Which We Realize We Would Be a Really Crappy Cancer Patient

Or any other acute condition patient, for that matter. Fuckfuckfuckityfuckfuck.

Boltgirl's new constant reminder that she is certifiably old.

So I turned the corner around forty and ran smack into the crap-ass genetics that were waiting for me in the alley. Both my grandmothers have really lousy hearts, not in the metaphorical sense--they've both been dandy in the hugs-and-cookies department--but in the here, have a pacemaker sense, so it shouldn't really come as a huge surprise that I have some cardiac issues brewing.

I started almost-blacking out while sprinting during games late this summer and chalked it up to the heat (thirteen years in the desert and my body still insists it's in Chicago and would like to know where this fucking oven came from, please), but when the wooziness-upon-exertion followed me into the air conditioned racquetball courts and weight room at the gym, I figured I couldn't ignore it. So now I'm in week three of the no-strenuous-activities order from my doctor, and just starting week one of the next four under scrutiny from a cardiologist.

A girl cardiologist, I might add, which strikes me as a bit unusual, but very cool.

Anyway. Every time I feel arrhythmia kick in, I get to punch the button on the very stylish portable Looping Event Monitor pictured above, which is connected to electrodes stuck to my chest with disturbingly skin-like patches of damp sticky stuff. After five episodes are recorded I stick the monitor against the phone and send in the readings. This lasts two weeks. Next week, an echocardiogram to make sure there's no myocardial hypertrophy that might make me keel over on a treadmill. The week after that, the treadmill. After that, who knows.

It's probably nothing major. But the enforced lack of activity is gettin' me down, man. Screw the five stages of whatever--I moved directly from "huh?" to pissed off and am staying there. Can't play. Can't work my weekend job. Can't go to the gym. Can't move big rocks around the yard. Still drawing breath is a big upside, but fuck.

This is really cutting into my earning potential, although some people would argue I would referee just as well from a chair on the sideline as from the actual field, so...

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