This morning I went to Royal Columbian Hospital to have an echo test (more formally, an echocardiogram) done. This is due to my doctor detecting a slight murmur in my heart and wanting to get it checked out now as it could become an issue down the road. The booking was made in August so that gives you an idea of a) how backlogged the system is and b) how urgent the concern is.
I was still nervous, even though I knew the procedure is simple, non-invasive and doesn’t even require donning a hospital gown and exposing your backside to one and all.
I arrived early as requested and was proud of myself for successfully navigating my way to the registration counter. After a minute or so of waiting, the clerk took my card, looked me up and told me I was in the wrong place. I needed Cardiology. I was apparently not there. She gave me directions, which I asked her to repeat just to be sure.
I set off down the hall, turning right, turning left, following just as directed. I rounded the corner and approached the registration counter.
The same registration counter.
If I was in the Labyrinth, the Minotaur would be giggling somewhere around the corner about now.
The woman took pity on me and actually escorted me far enough to insure I could not get lost again. I told her I was a total guy when it came to directions, hoping that would give me a pass at the expense of my gender and approximately half the population of the planet.
I arrived at the correct registration counter, took a seat, expected things to run late and they did, but only a little. A short woman with a thick accent escorted me to the room where the test would be done. Several times we passed patients being wheeled around on gurneys with tubes and bottles and looking frail and sick and it all reminded me of how hospitals are built on a foundation of depression.
The test room had low lighting, either to facilitate the test or to put me in the mood. The mood for stripping from the waist up and laying on my side on a gurney, with multiple electrodes stuck to my hairy flesh. Although this proved surprisingly uncomfortable because I had nowhere to put my left arm except kind of over and behind my head, the test itself was unremarkable. I had gel smeared strategically on my chest and a small ultrasound probe was pressed into the gel and moved around while the Philips Heart-o-Matic™ mapped out the organ that helpfully keeps me alive. Several times I was asked to hold my breath. This was as complicated as it got, which suited me fine. At the end I had to lay on my back and two more checks were done, one near my stomach, one near my throat.
Every few minutes some audio played. It sounded like water sloshing around and was presumably my flowing blood. It was disturbing because I imagine the sound of my pumping blood as being gentle and reassuring, not like water sloshing around a basin. Maybe this is what ultrasound sounds like, water sloshing around a basin.
I was done, she handed me a towel, I wiped down and left.
Actually, she walked me to the nearest exit and then I left. In my short time at the hospital I had already developed a reputation for getting hopelessly lost.
Now I wait to discuss the results with my doctor. My dad died of a massive heart attack at 58–I’m 51 now–so I’m a wee bit concerned about genetic shenanigans. On the other hand, my dad did not jog thousands of kilometers in his 40s and 50s, either. On the other other hand, Jim Fixx, world famous jogger, died while running–because of a bad heart. On the other other other hand (this is more an octopus now) the person doing the test did not gasp in horror at any point or mutter “Poor bastard” under her breath. On the fifth hand/tentacle, maybe she is just a consummate professional and expertly conceals such observations from the emotionally fragile patient.
I’ll know soon enough.
NOTE: The machine used for the test is not actually called a Philips Heart-o-Matic™. I did notice it was made by Philips, though, and had lots of dials, all of them thoughtfully labeled in plain English to better terrify anyone not familiar with its operation.
