So I went to the Cardiologist's office a couple of weeks ago, less to see my doctor and more to get some tests done. I was slated for an exam called an echocardiogram. This relatively painless test is my favorite kind: no needles.
I entered the office and, after signing in, was asked to take a seat. It was one of those typical doctor's waiting rooms: clone chairs lined up against the walls like a prison with outdated magazines waiting tiredly in wall racks. A sprinkling of elderly patients quietly shuffled newspapers or stared directly ahead, all of us obeying the unspoken rule to avoid eye contact. I had the urge to lean over and poke the old lady next to me just to see if she was breathing but I restrained myself.
After several minutes (during which I wondered why I made an appointment if I was going to be called in late for it anyway) I heard my name. Now, please understand that part of my job is to deal with people. It's something most of us do on a daily basis. Because of this, most of us have learned to cultivate at least some semblance of courtesy when dealing with strangers. I learned long ago that first impressions go a long way. As I stood and turned the corner to greet the technician who was to perform my test, I was immediately hit with one of my pet peevs: if you're not going to act professional, get out of the people business. This tech greeted me with neither a handshake nor eye contact, but instead turned her back on me and started to walk down the narrow hallway hoping, no doubt, that I would follow her. I hate that. Huge loss of cool points with me.
She led me to a small room containing nothing but a bed, a cabinet, and a large machine with a monitor on top. This machine, used for ultrasound, had about 3 million keys, levers, switches, and buttons that no doubt could have brought the USS Enterprise home, washed dishes, and connected to satellite TV if it needed too. I was asked to take off my shirt (a little uncomfortable. Remember I'm not GQ material) and told to lay on my left side. I sucked in my stomach (always hopeless. Why do guys do that anyway?) and climbed onto the paper-covered bed. The tech, with a strong Russian accent that sounded like she was out of a 1950's cold war movie, stood behind me and applied a probe to my chest covered with gel that is obviously designed to be used at temperatures hovering around absolute zero. Despite her initially stand-offish welcome, she proved to be quite adept at her job. She pressed and pushed the probe around my chest, getting ultrasound pictures of my heart from several different views. Toward the end of the test I was asked to lay flat on my back as she looked at my heart from the bottom. Strange swishing sounds filled the air as she listened to the blood flowing past my heart valves.
All in all, it was by no means an unpleasant or painful experience. Though initially cold, the tech soon warmed up as we made light conversation during the approximately 30 minute exam. By the end, she was smiling and I was sticky with goo. She eagerly provided me a towel with which to clean. I quickly slipped on my shirt, bid her dasvedanya, and made my way out, none the worse for wear.
The echocardiogram provides the cardiologist some great information about how big the heart is, how well it beats, how well it relaxes, and the health of my four heart valves. It sure beats getting a needle jabbed in your arm. Reflecting on my experience, overall I'd have to give it 4 out of 5 stars. Hopefully, in the future, the Russian tech will be a little more civil to strangers and, hopefully, I'll be a little less critical of first impressions.
The next test I was slated for was a nuclear stress test. This one involved needles, running, and a radioactive dye. Oy vey . . . .
