Been mulling over how to restart the blog.
I named the blog Situation:Terminal as my lame and occasionally effective attempt to terrorize myself with reminders of my eventual demise. This fear is supposed to fuel some sort of inspiration to do something. Not exactly sure what that something is yet.
Of course, if you need real reminding – there is nothing better than a visit to a cardiologist!
And two weeks ago – I got to see real moving images of my beating heart.
It was the first time I had ever had any imaging done on my heart. There was no real health crisis. I had a very minor scare at the gym during my workout where I basically felt like I was about to pass out. There were plenty of other reasons that I had to pass out (lack of sleep, lack of water, lack of a regular exercise routine, lack of common sense). But because I had a few other “minor” health risks (and I suspect the fact that I HAD health insurance), my primary care physician didn’t hesitate to refer me to a cardiologist.
“You won’t get out the office without them putting you on a treadmill.”
I have to admit, I was kind of excited. I secretly WANTED a stress test. It kind of appeals to the geek in me, while simultaneously feeding into my mid-life anxiety!
So a week later, I got to arrive in my cardiologists wearing shorts and sneakers (an odd thing being that it was 59 degrees outside) and got the wonderful opportunity to strip down to my shirt in front the attractive technician. 10 minutes later she is slapping electrodes inches from my nipples and slathering sonogram goop on my “not-as-flattering-as-I-would-like” gut.
All while I mentally try to silence my egotistical fears with self-centered affirmations like “I can’t be the least sexy bare chested man she will have to suffer through today.”
The test itself is basically a sonogram, followed by a treadmill run, followed by a 2nd sonogram that must be done IMMEDIATELY upon getting off the treadmill. So I had a little lesson in how to to swiftly move from the treadmill into “the position” (on my side, with my forearm raised over my head) all while navigating the web of wires glued to my chest.
Despite the awkwardness and strangeness of it all, I was genuinely entranced by the cloudy moving shapes that the medical technician extracted from my chest. She had this magic swiftness – pressing the wand against me at just the right angle and suddenly another dark chamber would appear on the screen. I didn’t know if was an atrium or a ventricle. But each little room she found had a tiny flapping door.
Open, close, open, close, open, close.
(Note – this is NOT my heart!)
It gets a bit hypnotic.
So after the initial set of pictures, I couldn’t start running yet – because my cardiologist was late.
So I had to wait. And wait. And wait.
And there isn’t much to do when you are wired to a machine, but stare at the monitor. No more pretty pictures, but a nice little number… 75 bps… 80 bps.. 90 bps..
I remembered reading about monks who could lower their heart beats just through sheer meditative will power. I was bored. So I sat and stared at this ever changing number – trying to resurrect everything I learned in my “zen meditation years”. Breathe… relax.. let go…
Fuck. EVERY TIME I tried to lower the number – the EXACT OPPOSITE happens. My numbers lift up to 80’s or even 90’s. After the 3rd or 4th attempt it seems scientifically conclusive – all my attempts at meditation only seem to make my heart beat faster!
Stare some more. My blackberry is trapped in my coat and possibly out of reach of my tethered chest and it could effect all these crazy electrodes. I’m bored.
But now it seems like every time I day dream away from the heart monitor and glance back – I can SEE I nice low number 68 or 70 suddenly jump back up to 80 or more. It’s like the very act of staring at my heart beat, made it jump.
Finally, the cardiologist arrives and apologizes and we start the stress test. I’m supposed to keep running until I feel like I have to stop. And I muster all the macho athleticism my geeky frame can muster. I don’t even remember how many times he raised the level. Somewhere around 15 minutes (4th or 5th stress level?) I’m now at nice 16 degree angle and going at some unknown speed and I actually beginning to feel my inner wimp voice (“stop..stop!”) but I take my doctor’s instruction to heart – don’t quit until I have to.
But just as the machine is about to hit the next stress level, my doctor tells me that’s enough and shuts the treadmill down. And before I can complain (or agree) I remember my “training” and with some tiny amount of genuine grace on my part, spiral around into my lying position on the cable, without stumbling or tangling a single wire.
“Nice!” says the cute medical technician. I swallow her tiny morsel of praise even though it feels like such an unpraiseworthy accomplishment. I wanted to keep running. I wanted to be noticed for my athleticism and determination – not for my ability to quit gracefully.
This time she worked even faster. The she quickly grabbed a new set of snap shots, furiously organizing them. Soon they were looking at my before and after photos – placing them all side by side. They added dancing blue and red pixels. She made the little flapping valves move in slow-motion.
And then the doctor told me how my heart was fine, and how I had actually done just fine on the treadmill. Nothing wrong. I’m cleared for any and all sorts of athletic punishment I want.
But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that little tiny flaps of muscle – those little valves in my chest that just keep moving. They seem so disconnected from the clutter in my head – so easy to forget about. But they flap away – without them all this wondrous and
Apparently, it’s already given me about 1.5 to 1.8 billion beats so far. Statistically speaking I’ll get maybe another 1-2 billion more. I’m like to assume I’ll get a tiny amount of boost from brilliant output of people like Aubrey de Grey – and I’ll get a nice 3 billion or so. It’s nice to think things like that – even if it’s just wishful thinking.
41 Christmases, 17+ years of education, 19 years of random time at the office or on the road, two kids, 15 years of “first” marriage, a few failed novels and screenplays, lots of failed projects mixed in with the occasional success, probably not enough sex, drugs and alcohol, but mostly just a lot of time wasted on self centered, egotistical anxiety about doing the right thing. That – plus too much TV and video games.
Meanwhile, my little fist-sized lump of flesh, slaved away – doing it’s simple job.
Since it’s his birthday today – I’ll end with my favorite Neil Gaiman (Happy Birthday Neil!) passage:
In scene where Death is escorting a “god” to the afterlife:
“But I did okay, didn’t I? I mean I got, what, fifteen thousand years. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? I lived a pretty long time.”
“You lived what anybody gets. You got a lifetime. No more. No less.”