Despite my misgivings with the sadistic treadmill technician at the cardiologist's office, I received notice today that my tests are back and I'm...are you ready?...NORMAL! What does that mean? Normal for an old man who will fall over graveyard dead the first time he picks up a snow shovel?
I was also informed that I have uniform radiotracer uptake in all myocardial segments, wherever they are, and my calculated ejection fraction is 64%. Oh Joy. I can't tell you the nights I've lain awake worrying about my ejection fraction. Go ahead make your dirty jokes. But sixty four percent mind you! Does that mean the old ticker is pumping out blood at a rate of only 64%? What's happening with the other 36? Is it pooling up somewhere? Possibly in my stomach? Cruel people would point to my waist size, snicker, and say yes, that's obviously where it's going.
The report continues with there was no evidence of stress induced ischemia. Well, that's a relief. I could have sworn I felt some ischemia just the other day. Or was that what I had for dinner the other night?
Lastly, there was no prior evidence of myocardial infarcation. I think that's a good thing. It sounds a little like when the heart passes gas.
All in all, it was good news. Thing is, now, when the Missus shoves that vacuum cleaner my way and nods toward the carpet, I can no longer grab my chest and loudly proclaim, "I think this is the big one!"