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The test -- a nuclear resonance test -- sucks. I mean, it's horrible. It's not the needles. I'm way used to needles, and they never bothered me to begin with. In a way, it's even funny. They draw a vial of blood from you, and then they irradiate it. Thorium, if I remember correctly. You can tell it's been irradiated because they store your blood in a lead box. I guess to protect the medical personnel from the radiation. It's certainly not you they're protecting from it, because they take the irradiated blood out of the box and inject it back into your veins.
So, this is how you begin. You get bitten by a radioactive needle. I now have the proportional strength, speed, and reflexes of three inches of flimsy hollow aluminum.
This is no big deal, actually. You get to make jokes about glowing in the dark or gaining X-Ray vision which the medical techs have heard twelve thousand times each.
No, the problem is, you're then put onto a narrow board, which is then slid into a chamber, where hot metal plates are moved next to your body. Then, various sensors track the flow of radiation through your heart, seeing how much blood enters your heart and how much is squeezed out every time your heart beats. This is the Ejection Fraction -- a normal ejection fraction is around 50%, which means every time the heart squeezes, half the blood is pushed out of it.
Back in the beginning of my diagnosis, when I was in congestive heart failure and the cardiomyopathy was at its worst, my ejection fraction was below 20%. It had to beat very very fast to get enough blood out to my body, and since the heart was enlarged already, that fast beat wasn't very good for it. The reduced blood flow made my kidneys think I was dehydrated, so I retained water to the point that I was in danger of drowning because of fluid in my lungs. Also, I was at very high risk for Sudden Cardiac Death. I wouldn't have lasted much longer.
So, they put me on powerful medications, which have saved my life. Make no mistake, I'm typing this today because of the medicine I've been on, and because I've had excellent doctors advising me. But the medicine had side effects, including powerful fatigue and nausea. On my recent trip to San Jose, there were two days I could barely get out of bed because of them, for example. I had more problems with them yesterday. I hate the medicine feeling. Hate it.
Which is why I was having this test done. And it hurts. Look, at my weight, I never, ever sleep on my back. My back can't take the pressure of the load. I sleep on my side, so that a majority of the fat can rest without straining me. Even with that, I get backaches and other assorted problems.
Well, to do this test, I have to lie perfectly still, perfect flat, on about a foot and a half wide board. Within two minutes, the pain in my lower back is excruciating. Breathing is hard, because I have a couple of hundred pounds pressing on my abdomen. It is terrible.
The test takes about twenty five minutes. Without moving. By the time we were done, I needed the technicians help to sit up, and even then I couldn't move for ten minutes. I still hurt from it, two days later. I had nightmares about it last night.
And what's worse is the embarrassment. Lying down, even on an uncomfortable board, shouldn't be crippling. It just shouldn't. How pathetic am I that I can't successfully lie down?
This was Monday. Yesterday I had medicine issues, as always. Today, I heard about the test.
My Ejection Fraction is 52%. Normal.
As a result, we are going to reduce my medicine levels by half. Which may mean a near complete reduction of side effects. It will definitely improve fatigue, improve nausea, let me be more alert, give me my mornings back, improve my capacity for effective exercise and in generally make me more human. In six months, we'll test again to make sure I'm not backsliding.
I'm getting my life back. I made it. I did it. I'm not only going to live, but I'm going to start becoming a normal person again. Now, if I can get on the other side of my surgery, everything will be taken care of.
This is astoundingly good. This is almost shockingly positive. I can barely get my brain around it.
I'd lie on a board for hours for news like I got today. Life is good.
So, this is how you begin. You get bitten by a radioactive needle. I now have the proportional strength, speed, and reflexes of three inches of flimsy hollow aluminum.
This is no big deal, actually. You get to make jokes about glowing in the dark or gaining X-Ray vision which the medical techs have heard twelve thousand times each.
No, the problem is, you're then put onto a narrow board, which is then slid into a chamber, where hot metal plates are moved next to your body. Then, various sensors track the flow of radiation through your heart, seeing how much blood enters your heart and how much is squeezed out every time your heart beats. This is the Ejection Fraction -- a normal ejection fraction is around 50%, which means every time the heart squeezes, half the blood is pushed out of it.
Back in the beginning of my diagnosis, when I was in congestive heart failure and the cardiomyopathy was at its worst, my ejection fraction was below 20%. It had to beat very very fast to get enough blood out to my body, and since the heart was enlarged already, that fast beat wasn't very good for it. The reduced blood flow made my kidneys think I was dehydrated, so I retained water to the point that I was in danger of drowning because of fluid in my lungs. Also, I was at very high risk for Sudden Cardiac Death. I wouldn't have lasted much longer.
So, they put me on powerful medications, which have saved my life. Make no mistake, I'm typing this today because of the medicine I've been on, and because I've had excellent doctors advising me. But the medicine had side effects, including powerful fatigue and nausea. On my recent trip to San Jose, there were two days I could barely get out of bed because of them, for example. I had more problems with them yesterday. I hate the medicine feeling. Hate it.
Which is why I was having this test done. And it hurts. Look, at my weight, I never, ever sleep on my back. My back can't take the pressure of the load. I sleep on my side, so that a majority of the fat can rest without straining me. Even with that, I get backaches and other assorted problems.
Well, to do this test, I have to lie perfectly still, perfect flat, on about a foot and a half wide board. Within two minutes, the pain in my lower back is excruciating. Breathing is hard, because I have a couple of hundred pounds pressing on my abdomen. It is terrible.
The test takes about twenty five minutes. Without moving. By the time we were done, I needed the technicians help to sit up, and even then I couldn't move for ten minutes. I still hurt from it, two days later. I had nightmares about it last night.
And what's worse is the embarrassment. Lying down, even on an uncomfortable board, shouldn't be crippling. It just shouldn't. How pathetic am I that I can't successfully lie down?
This was Monday. Yesterday I had medicine issues, as always. Today, I heard about the test.
My Ejection Fraction is 52%. Normal.
As a result, we are going to reduce my medicine levels by half. Which may mean a near complete reduction of side effects. It will definitely improve fatigue, improve nausea, let me be more alert, give me my mornings back, improve my capacity for effective exercise and in generally make me more human. In six months, we'll test again to make sure I'm not backsliding.
I'm getting my life back. I made it. I did it. I'm not only going to live, but I'm going to start becoming a normal person again. Now, if I can get on the other side of my surgery, everything will be taken care of.
This is astoundingly good. This is almost shockingly positive. I can barely get my brain around it.
I'd lie on a board for hours for news like I got today. Life is good.