Cardiologist convinced it’s NOT my heart – YAY?
According to the cardiologist and am in near-perfect heart health. The chances of me having a heart attack within the next 5 years are almost nil!! HURRAY!!! HURRAY!!! According to him, my 5-year history of chest pain is not related to my cardiac health.
“So Doc, what is causing my chest pain?”
“I have no idea.”
“Any idea who might?”
“Maybe you could try a GI specialist.”
“I’ve been to one, it’s not GI.”
“Then I’m not sure what I can tell you…”
This is where, in my mind, I grab the dude by his oxford shirt collar, pull him to within inches of my now-crazed eyes.
“Then who can? WHO?!? ‘Cause it’s not like I can ignore heart attack symptoms. I’d try, except that every piece of medical advice says that you shouldn’t ignore heart attack symptoms. So tell me Doc… Tell me who I can see. Tell me who will clear up this medical mystery. TELL ME WHO WILL GIVE ME ANSWERS!!!”
Out loud I say, “Who would you recommend I go to then?” I am calm. I am not frothing at the mouth.
“Maybe a physiatrist?”
“A… phy… whatnow??“
“A physiatrist – deals with musculoskeletal issues and chronic pain.”
Excellent, I shall see another “ist.” “So could you give me a referral to a physiatrist?”
“You’d have to get that from your GP.”
I leave the office, determined not to cry. This is good news. I have just heard good news. It’s good news. Right? I still have NO FREAKING CLUE what’s wrong with me, but this is good news. I get in the car. U2’s Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For plays on the radio. I start laughing hysterically. Driving home, I sing along at the top of my lungs… laughing… crying… While stopped at a light, some of the singing morphs into primal screaming with accompanying rhythmic pounding on the steering wheel. By the time the light is green I have my shit together and logic has re-entered my cranium. I square off my shoulders and take a deep breath. Alright. What’s next?
