I am happy to report that I have a strong, healthy heart.
Which is good, because my Kryptonian blood wants to make it beat really fast, all the time now, so I’m glad I’m built to handle the extra work.
My increased pulse is a symptom of myelofibrosis, and it frustrates me, as I have faithfully banked 4-6 cardio workouts per week for the past 15 years. My resting heart rate in recent months has been an acceptable (though rapid) 100 – 115 beats per minute, but at my appointment last week it was 130. My doctor sent me to a cardiologist, just to ensure that we don’t have anything new to worry about. He set me up for some tests, all the while reassuring me that it was all precautionary; not to worry, blah blah blah (“You haven’t satisfied your 2011 deductible yet, so that will be $1,078.41, please. Will you be writing a check?”)
This morning, I went in for an EKO (see price tag, above) without really knowing what to expect, until I saw the ultrasound machine. I smiled, remembering several screens similar to this one, that, back in the late ’90’s, revealed first glimpses of babies sucking their thumbs and kicking tiny feet back at the ultrasound waves. Back then, my only medical visits were related to my chronic status as a baby factory. When Richard, my tech, turned up the sound of my own heartbeat this morning, I fought back tears as I tried to process the stark contrast between my current medical situation and the visceral memory of burgeoning maternal joy that came along with that same audio track, first heard clearly at Week 11 of Pregnancy #1. That moment, 16 years ago, was surreal and overwhelming. That tiny, steady gallop provided the first undeniable evidence that Sam was really in there.
Today, my heartbeat made virtually the same “woosh, gallop, woosh,” that I remember from prenatal ultrasounds. I realized that over three pregnancies I must have developed a kind of Pavlovian response to that sound; one of gratitude for life, health and unlimited potential. I was unprepared for how much the same pattern, heard in such a different context, would jar me emotionally. What a difference a diagnosis makes.
Richard was kind, but didn’t say much as he moved the transducer around, assessing and measuring chambers and valves and ventricles. While I don’t know the specifics of which structure is what, I couldn’t help but wonder how it is that we depend so completely on the proper function of something that delicate, with its impossibly thin walls and fluttery valves. I thought about how hard I have pushed my heart in the gym over the years, never once worrying about its ability to rise to the challenge. But there it was in front of me, revealing itself for the mortal structure that it is, capable of so much despite its impossibly fragile appearance.
The line between health and illness is fuzzy and tenuous, far more so than I ever realized. I’m grateful for the fitness I had going into this disease, because I’m sure that all of those years of sweat and effort will make the difference in my ability to come out healthy on the other side.
My heart is fine, but I’m going caffeine-free to help bring my pulse down, a prescription that would have left me whimpering in a closet a few months back. But it seems a small price to pay to help keep things running at full strength.