AFTER SEVERAL EXPENSIVE and bothersome tests, modern medical science has determined that I do, in fact, have a heart. Figuring out what went wrong with it is another matter. About two months ago, as the deadline flies, the old ticker came out of the gates without a warning shot and pounded hard and fast for hours. On medical dramas, they’d call this tachycardia and order “15 cc’s” of some medication, “stat!” Concentrated, deep breathing finally brought the beats back to something approaching the normal pace, but there was a problem: For days and then weeks after, the rhythm was all wrong. It would catch and skip in my chest, and it seemed like it might be good to determine what was going on in there.
That’s easier said than diagnosed. It turns out that medical matters of the heart can be almost as mysterious as the metaphorical variety. So far: Blood has been drawn and analyzed, an EKG has tested the body’s wiring, a treadmill has induced stress, and more electrodes have been attached to my body than Dr. Frankenstein attached to his makeshift monster. My chest looks a bit like Steve Carell’s in The 40-Year-Old Virgin after that botched wax hair removal attempt. All of this has been mostly for naught from a diagnostic perspective.
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