The Echo

Not sure if I ever mentioned this, but they never found anything from the little surgery I had last fall. And while I'm happy to report that my muscle tissue is as healthy as it could possibly be, this still means that whatever neuro-muscular condition I have has yet to be diagnosed. At this point, my specialists have me coming in every year for exams as well as any tests they think might be useful. It's sort of a glorified form of grasping at straws. This year they focused in on my heart, since it can be a problem area for people with the muscle symptoms that I have, and this involved a lovely little procedure called an echocardiogram. Also known as a boob show.

It wasn't the chest exposure that bothered me. I mean, if they're comfortable with it then I suppose I am too, but the procedure was relatively painful. They really jab that ultra sound gadget into your ribs. Thinking the technician might not realize she was killing me, I thought I'd better raise a flag. "Is it supposed to hurt this much?" She simply said, "Yeah, it hurts everyone." OK then. She further explained that the images they need necessitate getting in between the "rib space." Whatever that is. They also bark orders at you throughout the procedure, such that what I heard was about a half hour of this: "Turn toward me. Breathe. Breathe harder. Hold your breath. Lean back.Take a breath. Let it out. Take a breath. Let a little bit out. A little more. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Turn toward me. Don't breathe. You can breathe. Hold your breath. Let a little out. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. You can breathe. Sniff. Sniff harder. Lean back. Let all your air out. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Turn toward me. You can breathe."

All output and valves and measurements being deemed normal, I rewarded myself with a dinner of fried chicken. Which made me happy. Down to my rib spaces.

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