MIBI Test #2

What a day! 

We were up and about before 5:00 am, and Sheba spent a lot of time outdoors alone and then I took her for a walk after I’d lit the fire, fed the pets, showered and done the dishes. My God it was cold, but it felt good to be walking her before I left her alone for much of the day.

It was glorious when the sun came out. It makes the snow look rather pretty, but I’m no fan of snow. There was no one waiting for the ferry, I only had a short wait, and then we were off, and I was again able to park for free (which is a bit of a miracle).

My first test was a stress test. I was worried because I couldn’t see myself lasting on a treadmill for more than 30-45 seconds. But they didn’t put me on a treadmill, instead they injected me with Dipyridamole. That drug is nasty. I was warned that there might be side effects, but there was a doctor and nurses standing by. It causes all my arteries to open just like they do when we exercise strenuously. It made me gasp for air. It was quite scary, so of course, I had a seizure. I had warned them.

Once the drug was in in me, I had to cope for four only minutes, then they injected the radiopharmaceutical tracer that ‘illuminates’ my heart and coronary arteries for the imaging that happens after an hour and a half of sitting around (without a book). Then four more minutes before they inject the antidote to Dipyridamole (Aminophylline). 

I could eat during the hour and a half wait for the gamma scan at 1:00 pm. And the scan was a breeze. I just lay on a table and the camera did all the work. And then I was done. I was out by 1:15 and I made a beeline to the ferry. 

Sheba was over the moon happy to see me when I got home, and I was equally as delighted to be together again. And oh my God it felt good to be home. I lit the fire, had a snack, and drank gallons of orange juice and not diet coke! And then I hit the couch. There was no afternoon walk because Nancy had walked her, and I needed to do nada.

The evening was very gentle. I kept the fire huge to keep us all warm, and I vegged out on movies through the evening. What a day!

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These tests feel like treatment. I feel better due to having had them. At every step along the way today, I asked questions of the technicians. That’s why I can share drug and machine nomenclature. What made me feel good was the treatment from the technicians. They believe me about my weakness, and that felt very, very good. 

No one has not believed me, but communicating with the technicians was an education. The best question I asked was an obvious one: How does the heart make one so weak? Her first answer was obvious too, but I just kept asking “How?” or some other question to get deeper that the pat answers. And they were more than willing to answer my questions. It was a wonderful experience all-in-all. 

The difference between having a MIBI test (the gamma scan) now and in 1990 is immensely impressive. In 1990 it took 45 minutes to inject the dye, and the scan lasted another 45 torturing minutes. In 1990 I lay on a metal beam with a tiny metal oval for my bum, and my wrists and ankles were tethered to the beam, my arms behind my head. In 2025, the injection takes 15 seconds, but now patients must sit idle for an hour before the scan that lasts 10 minutes while you doze on a bed.

Thank feckin’ Christ I warned her about my seizures! Still, she called in the doctor. I didn’t have Dr. Shoja’s letter and I should have had it. Lesson learned.

If I am to be told that the tests revealed nothing to explain my symptoms, I will ask Dr. Chen if he can think of anything else that might cause my breathing difficulties during any form of exertion. It’s clearly tied to exertion; I don’t believe it’s a neurological symptom. There must be an answer.

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One final thing: Last night I chose to drink orange juice, not Diet Coke.

I got started on Diet Coke in the early seventies. I’d just arrived in Ottawa for a conference, but being from BC, I had to arrive a day earlier to be there for nine am meetings on the first day of the arts conclave. 

I’d been feeling poorly on the plane. I wanted to go to pee, but I couldn’t. But I kept trying because I was increasingly uncomfortable. So, I asked a flight attendant for help. I told her how badly I was feeling and that I’d appreciate changing seats to one close to a bathroom. She took me to first class. And then I heard a call for a doctor on the PA system and soon two doctors arrived. When they poked by abdomen, I screamed so hard I hurt my throat and had a coughing spell. They told me to see a doctor right away, but I was in Ottawa and my doctor was in Vancouver.

I disembarked and went to check in at my hotel, and then I went to a reception that the hosts of the conference were throwing for funders, politicians and the pooh bahs of the arts management congregation. I wasn't invited; I went there because I knew my friend Burke would be there. He was, and he called an ambulance instead of his doctor, and I was in the hospital for six of the worst weeks of my life.

I had a kidney stone stuck in my urethra, and I won’t tell you the rest. It’s irrelevant to my point and revolting, my point is that the doctors told me to drink a beer a day to ensure that I would never have to endure pain like that again. But I didn’t like beer. And drinking milk was akin to asking for another stone, and it was love at first taste with Diet Coke.

Next into my life came HIV drugs, and they changed the taste of some things. One of those things was black tea, and Earl Grey tea had become my favourite morning and evening beverage. With HIV came a yeast infection in the corners of my mouth that I could manage, but citrus drinks would make my infection bloom. That’s when Diet Coke and me married. That was thirty years ago. So, choosing orange juice is an improvement. (I can still manage the yeast, but now I have a prescription cream.)