No Improvement

The pulmonary function test I underwent yesterday was interesting. I was met in the pulmonary testing lab by Lori, a cheerful, yet sarcastic, middle-aged woman. She was obviously tired from a long day; her hospital lab jacket was unbuttoned, and the white shirt underneath stained from whatever it was she had for lunch. I found out, much to my delighted surprise, that Lori is a genius! Let me explain...

If you have never had a pulmonary function test, this just might interest you. If you have had the pleasure you can stop reading now. Still with me? OK. As with any testing at the hospital, paperwork must be done. "What medications do you take?" "What allergies do you have?" "What blood type is your first born child?" The formalities done, the fun begins.
"What wrist would you like me to use?" Lori asks as she wields a syringe with a 2 inch needle attached to the end.
"What wrist?" I ask apprehensively. I knew what was coming next.
"For the blood gas I have to do. It has to be arterial blood so we draw it from the..."
"Yes, I know where it has to come from. I am a real chicken about this, so I have to ask...how long have you been doing this?" My face must have been ashen. Lori looked at me calmly and said, "24 years. Is that OK?" She smiled and immediately put me at ease. I extended my left hand to her, and she placed it with the inside of my wrist facing up, on the table. I looked away, not having the heart to watch this procedure. I barely felt the needle go in, and I didn't feel her puncture the artery. I looked to my arm and saw the blood, very dark red, slowly filling the syringe. "How did you do that?" I asked her.
"Very slowly," she said. I proceeded to tell her about previous blood gas procedures I had endured where the lab tech, or the nurse, jabbed the needle in and then had to dig for the artery before finally getting the sample they needed. This always left me bruised and full of anxiety. She shook her head and proceeded to explain that the only way to do this blood test was slowly and deliberately to minimize the pain. "Not everything needs to be done quickly, even in the ER," she said. Lori was now my best friend.
Next came the prep work for the test itself. I changed into sweatpants, while Lori gathered the supplies she was going to need to "hook" me up to the computer. I couldn't help but laugh to myself at the thought of me hardwired to some kind of monster computer like out of a sci-fi novel. My bare chest, neck, shoulders and forehead (yes, my forehead) had to be cleaned off with alcohol. Adhesive patches with electrodes attached to the places that had been cleaned...11 in all. Wires seemed to be sprouting from all over me. Just as I was wondering how we were going to keep all of these things on, Lori appeared with a piece of mesh. It was stretchy, like elastic, but soft like gauze dressing. It was in the form of a tube, and she said that she was going to put it over my head. I'm thinking, yeah right you are. You are NEVER going to get that thing over my head and around me. But, she did. She cut holes for my arms to slip through, and frankly, I thought it looked pretty attractive. Over that, was a blue scrub shirt -- now this was great! I love the soft cotton they are made of, and the loose fit was very comfortable. Now, we just had to wait for the doctor to come in.
About 15 minutes later, in walks Dr. C., my pulmonologist. This is the man who treats me for the blood clotting disorder that I suffer from. He, too, looked like he'd had a long, difficult day, but he was still as personable as always. I climbed on the bike (stationary, of course) and Lori hooked me up to the computer. She slipped a white cotton headband over my forehead to hold the electrode in place that would measure the oxygen in my blood. The "Darth Vader" mask was next; a blue neoprene/sponge mask with a breathing tube attached to the front. This covered my nose and mouth, allowed me not only to breathe but to talk, swallow, etc., which was quite comforting. I was dreading having a tube shoved down my throat, drooling and gagging as I pedaled my way into the medical journals. The test began and I pedaled...keeping it at 60 rpms or above...the tension slowly but constantly increasing...5 minutes...6 minutes...Lori checks my blood pressure...8 minutes...10 minutes..."Give me another minute and a half, Cara," cheers Dr. C...12 minutes...Lori checks my blood pressure again...14 minutes...Hello! I'm dying here!...15 minutes...STOP! Lori runs another blood gas. This time I'm so exhausted, I don't notice that she uses the same hole as before. Dr. C. is reading over the information that the computer was spitting out at him. I'm breathing heavily, sweating, but all in all, feeling pretty good. At least, I didn't pass out. Dr. C tells me then that he let me go an extra 4 minutes longer than most because I was "doing so well." Sadist. As Lori gets me unhooked, removes the mask and the headband, Dr. C. comes over to me and says, ever so gently, "You did great. Your oxygen/CO2 transfer was good. I'm concerned that lactic acid built up in your leg muscles very quickly, which isn't quite what we would like to see. Also, your EKG is abnormal." Abnormal? He said, my EKG was "abnormal." He continued to explain that compared with the EKG I had done last year, that there had been significant changes. He is suspecting Pulmonary Arterial Hypertension. What the hell is that? He said that he would order an ultrasound of my heart to look at it further, and then we would talk more about it when I came in to see him on the 20th. Interestingly enough, my mind kept drifting back to that disturbing statement, "...your EKG is abnormal." What does that MEAN exactly? Of course by the time I decided I wanted to ask, he was already gone, and it was just me and Lori. The wires were removed, I unstuck the adhesive patches, and changed into a clean T-Shirt I'd brought along. Two hours from my arrival at the testing center, I walked out of the hospital, knowing only that there was something wrong with my heart.
Thankfully, I had class to divert my thoughts for a little while. There is nothing better than a writing course, taught by a bespectacled, salt and pepper-haired, semi-good looking professor (who is a little obsessive about correct grammar) to take one's mind off of one's abnormal EKG. I found out that I received an A on one assignment and a B+ on the other (I think). Not bad. We laughed as we studied the grammar snafus of previous students, which was a good way to lighten the load on my mind. Then, Professor B. said that he was going to let us out an hour early. Damn. I wasn't ready to face real life yet. Leaving meant going home and fielding questions from my family about my test at the hospital. I wasn't ready to talk about it. If I talked about it out loud, then it would become true. Still, I couldn't stay at school.
At home, Tyler asked me about the test almost right away. We went downstairs to my office, I began explaining what they did to me, and we looked up Pulmonary Hypertension on the computer. The Mayo Clinic has good information, as does the American Heart Association and the Pulmonary Hypertension Association. What I learned was that there is no cure, the symptoms are treatable by nasty medications with horrid side effects, and that it is almost always fatal. I'm not ready to deal with this. Especially since we don't know for sure if that is the problem. I'll have to wait. I have 8 days to think about it, worry about it, panic over it. I called my mother and told her about my test and the abnormal EKG. I shouldn't have called her until I knew more. Now, I have her all worried about it.

I'm going to hope that whatever is causing my symptoms has a name. I'm going to hope that it can be treated. I'm going to hope that I get to see my children grow up, get married, and give me grandchildren. I'm going to hope.