my heart, the watchdog

You’ve been panting with wild anticipation to hear of my experiences with the heart Holter Monitor, no?  To refresh your memory, I was supposed to wear this contraption for 48 hours.

The monitor was supposed to record the hoofbeats of the proud, wild mustangs inside my chest cavity.  It would allow the cardiologist to discern what planet the alien hailed from that was freeing itself from the jail of my breast.  I was pumped (har! cardiac humor)…this was gonna be some kinda FUN.

The helpful nurse at the cardiologist’s office hooked me up.  She gave the monitor a hard slap with the butt of her palm and said under her breath,

‘What’s wrong with this unit?  Maybe it’s on the fritz!’
She then smiled and wished me well and I skipped out exuding confidence.  As was my fear, the first night I awoke in my usual sweatbath and two of the electrodes slid off my chest.  The nurse had assured me,

 ‘If they come off at night, just stick them back on with some tape.  The monitor will resume working.’ 
I stuck them back on, but the readout on the monitor kept reading ‘data not analyzed’.  In the morning, my chest was a mess o’ medical tape as I futiley struggled to get a readout.  Called the dr’s office and a very annoyed nurse told me to come back in to let her look at the unit.
‘What’s the matter with this thing?  We may have to mark it as not usable.  OK.  You’re good to go.  Good luck!” 

I was ecstatic I had the privilege of paying the doctor a bucketload of cash to hook me up to his broken Holter monitor.
The NADIR (that means the worstest) of the heart monitor experience came about one hour later.  I hear a beep from the monitor (located in my pocket) while I am driving my car.  I take the box out of my pocket and it reads….I kid you not…..WATCHDOG ALERT! (with an exclamation).  I slammed on the brakes cuz I didn’t know if I had already died of a heart attack, or if I had committed a crime and was being hotly pursued by the local dogcatcher.  My call to the doctor’s office was a comedy of

‘We’ve never heard of WATCHDOG ALERT!?  Are you SURE it says WATCHDOG ALERT!?  did I forget to tell you guys I love to play heart monitor jokes??

Posing with the coat
sorry…my obligatory Roxy-Doxy photo


But….I digress.
I guess the cardiologist got enough information from the monitor to see a problem.  He started explaining Mitral Valve Prolapse Syndrome .  What it means.  What I should do.  I couldn’t believe I had an issue with my heart.  He marched me directly into the echocardiogram room where a very nice man looked at my heart with sonogram technology.  Valves busily opening and shutting.  Chambers filling and emptying of blood.  When he turned the sound on, there was lots of watery whooshing and swooshing.  He showed me the mitral valve opening and closing.  A small amount of blood was being allowed to ‘wash back’ into the chamber.  Not a terrible thing, but not the best either.  Lazy, flaccid valve.

I’ve been coming to terms with this (they say common) condition.  At first, I felt kinda bummed.  I’ve been reading about it…I’m understanding it more.  I’m taking my meds and trying to make changes in how I react to stress. 

Here’s where I am today:
Every beat of my heart, before I found out about my MVP, has been because of the grace of the Creator.  I’m content knowing every flawed beat from here on out is in His hands as well. 
Watchdog Alert love to all.

the alien is comin’ out

Maybe I’m judging too harshly.  I’m not sure I like it….it’s not what I expected.  Can I send it back? 

No, I’m not talking about a white elephant Christmas gift.  I’m talking about 2011.  I won’t bore you with too many details, but I’m finding my existence kinda…um…stressful.  Nothing happening many of you haven’t faced, but I’m having issues.  Already had several Serenity Prayer 911’s..

2011 finds me with one of these beauties strapped to my chest.

Not my ACTUAL chest.  Did you honestly think you would be so lucky?
It’s called a Holter Monitor.
´╗┐Your friendly physician slaps one of these on you when you tell him a marching band of ginormous bass drums is using your chest as their practice field.  Or when you complain the alien is finally gonna pop out.  Or when you nickname your heart Secretariat. 
I really am healthy as a horse.  Low cholesterol, low blood pressure, decent weight and good overall fitness.  Maybe my heart knows something I don’t, and it’s suspicious of 2011.  Maybe I’m having a breakdown.  Maybe its the dreaded WHORE-MOANS.  run!! 
Can’t wait to sleep the next 2 nights with the cord-y contraption.  Hope my sweating doesn’t short circuit the mother board.  Hope the Texan doesn’t receive a nasty shock when hoping to get lucky.  Hope Roxy Doxy doesn’t hang herself in it and have to gnaw through one of the electrodes.  Calling Serenity 911!
I’ll keep you posted.  Hope 2011 finds you with no aliens in your chest.
Marching band love to all.