Testing. . .Testing. . . .

I made this appointment about a month ago. A few more tests so that my new doctor will have the fullest (internal) picture of me, my heart, and I, as well as to determine whether I am in danger of breaking any bones during those recent games of racketball I have been playing. I am at that age where the level of calcium in the bones determines whether osteoporosis will render me eligible to replace Sally Field as the spokesperson for Boniva. This morning it occurred to me that it might be better to blow off the appointment and remain in blissful ignorance regarding the state of my carotid artery and the transport of oxygen to the brain. I am certain I have before expressed my regret that I compelled my late father to see his doctor about some trouble he was having, when he'd have rather waited. The cure was worse than the disease. My father did not die at 90 of either a heart attack (he had his first at 51) or of the bladder cancer he was diagnosed with (and he had bladder issues his whole mid-life as well), but of sepsis caused by stents to his kidneys for a condition he did not realize he had in the first place. I am not that trusting of doctors or their tests, and so the idea was compelling indeed to save our soon to be extant health system from the cost of this preventative testing.

But they had confirmed my appointment on Friday, so the idea of standing even the technicians up today seemed, untoward. So dutifully I sallied forth. Got my three hour parking courtesy of the City of Beverly Hills for three dollars. Advised the desk staff of my presence and appointment time of 12:15-filled in some paperwork advising that either my insurance would pay or I would. And then, I waited. For over an hour as the first shift in the room became the second. There are 17 doctors in this group and remembering how much of a nudge I sensed I had become at my internist of many years previously, from whom I have removed myself save for his name on the insurance card (I have the ability to go out of network), because I would inquire and then complain about the inevitable wait, I said nothing despite my increasing anger. Seeing Debbie Reynolds coming out after her appointment distracted me for a few moments, and then I sat, and prayed for humility. Watching the interactions of the desk staff and the incoming elderly patients (the doctor is a heart specialist), I saw my father standing there announcing his presence and the time of his appointment to the inevitable indifferent response, "Take a seat". By the way, doctors make out like bandits at this holiday time of year, with shopping bag after shopping bag of gifts pouring in from grateful patients. My pessimistic sense as the girls at the desk (they were all girls; this is not sexism) collected them is that the doctors won't remember the gift givers from the non-gift givers and that the gesture is largely unappreciated given the number of faces and other parts of bodies these people are forced to see over time. But then, I was not feeling festive at this point in my experience of my "new" doctor's office. True, it wouldn't be him I'd be seeing since this was all laboratory like stuff. Could I really blame him? I was considering my next action, more money in the three hour meter, leaving in a huff, leaving silently, when I was finally called to the next waiting room downstairs. Not too long this time and as Janet the technician (whom I liked very much) put goo on my feet and my neck (alternately) to check the old pumping of blood form head to toe, she let it slip that they knew I had been waiting a long time. Why? I had come at the lunch hour (that was when the appointment was made) and they, well, forgot about me. She said this was unusual for them, and the next time, I should wait only about ten minutes and then check at the desk.

It is amazing to me how things that do not usually happen when it comes to the doctoring world, seem to happen to me. Ok. I am being dramatic. Basically, I haven't had much need for doctoring, so I have been pretty blessed. And they got to me finally, and as it turned out, though I was eleven minutes past my three hours, I did not have a ticket!

The hardest of the several tests (the bone density test was merely me being passed in and out of a donut, and apparently also included my heart for good measure), was the echocardiogram stress test. I came in and saw what appeared to be a portion of a bicycle on the examining table. First thought, "I can't climb up there!". Idiot. Of course you lie on the table and spin until you hit the heart rate appropriate for your age and weight (in my case, past middle age and fat). They take a resting echo and then one while you are well, stressed, by the exercise. You do sign a little form just before, just in case. Stroke. Death. But the good news is that along with the technician, there was a physician assistant there watching the computer, and taking the blood pressure regularly. Since my blood pressure when I finally was called to my testing was high, I am guessing that was an issue for my taking the test today and yet, though I do not know the results structurally, (I peeked a little; there was no danger, happily, of ischemic attack, but I do show whatever it is that indicates I have hypertension), I recovered quickly and I felt quite fine. I suppose the approximately month and a half at the gym (which I hope to continue) helped a little bit to prepare me for the pushing I'd have to do at one point). I do know that I have a small window of opportunity to get in better shape before my shape becomes such that it is too late, inside and out. There is a certain irony in the good possibility that what they are testing me for is not what will ultimately kill me. Still, at least I can say I have taken some steps toward my potential longevity. I am kind of a crap shoot, my mother having died at 48 and my father at 90. You do what you can.