By Jerry Zezima
When you’re scheduled to have heart surgery, nothing tests your heart more than pre-surgical testing.
I have had more tests than I ever had in school. Fortunately, I have passed them all, which is more than I can say for the tests I took during my ignominious academic career, when I regularly made the dishonor roll.
My worst subject was math, followed closely by all the others, so I may not be exactly correct in stating that I have had 27 pre-surgical tests.
“How come I have to take all these tests?” I asked Paige, a nice staffer in the office of my cardiac surgeon.
“So the doctor can have the information he needs to perform your surgery,” she explained.
Paige has scheduled some of the tests while the nice staffers in my cardiologist’s office have scheduled others.
To complicate matters, they have been done in different places, such as labs, imagining centers, doctor’s offices and hospitals. Most of the time, I don’t know which is which or whether I’m coming or going.
Also, I had to get a letter of clearance from my dentist, saying that I have no oral infections that would prevent surgery from being performed.
“I do this all the time,” he said after he examined the cave that passes for my mouth. “And not just for heart patients. It’s for people who need knee replacements, hip replacements, eye surgery and operations for practically everything except hangnails.”
This has all had to be coordinated with my primary care physician.
“I know it’s a lot,” said Debbie, the physician’s assistant.
“All these tests are taking a toll on my heart,” I told her.
The tests have included two rounds of bloodwork, an X-ray, an MRI, a couple of CAT scans, a urinalysis, an abdominal sonogram, a carotid ultrasound, an echocardiogram, an electrocardiogram and a physical. Some of the tests have required me to fast (I don’t know why it’s called a fast when it’s so slow) and some haven’t.
The worst was when I mistakenly fasted for a test.
“You mean I could have had breakfast?” I whimpered as my tummy rumbled.
“Yes,” a phlebotomist answered sympathetically.
“I don’t know what’s worse, heart failure or starvation,” I moaned.
One day I had two tests back to back.
For the first one, I was sent into a tube to get an image of my chest. A female voice from outside the room said, “Breathe and hold it.” A few seconds later, she said, “Exhale.”
This was repeated three times.
“How did I do?” I asked a technician named Joseph when the test was over.
“Very good,” he responded.
“I practiced breathing before I got here,” I said.
“That’s the first time I ever heard anybody say that,” he told me. “You’re a great patient.”
In the next test, a technician named Othniella checked blood flow in my neck.
“People tell me I’m a pain in the neck,” I said.
She chuckled and said, “You’re not supposed to talk.”
“People tell me that, too,” I said.
The most interesting test was a catheterization, which was performed in a hospital.
This required me a strip down to my birthday suit and don a johnny coat.
“Don’t tie it in the back,” a nurse instructed.
“I hope I don’t bottom out,” I said.
I was placed on a gurney and wheeled into a room that looked like the command center at NASA. Surrounding me were several big screens, lots of sophisticated equipment and a team of medical professionals, including my cardiologist.
“You’ve got this,” one of the nurses said reassuringly.
“If I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t need this,” I said.
She smiled and said, “Now I’m going to shave you.”
By that she meant areas of my anatomy, one very sensitive, where needles might be stuck.
“I don’t want to go to Vienna,” I said.
“For treatment?” the nurse asked.
“To join the Boys Choir,” I responded.
Mercifully, that was unnecessary. In fact, I aced the test.
“I hope this is the last one,” I told my cardiologist. “I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait for the surgery.”
Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima
