The MRI followup of my Echocardiogram was scheduled for February 2nd. Given we live an hour and a half away, and it would take a minimum of two hours plus prep time, Jen and I figured it would be an all-day affair. It actually ended up taking closer to three hours, and we started late because the patient ahead of me also needed a bit more time than they expected. We ended up getting home around 6pm as a result, so it was a good call to take the day off.
Pretty much ever since my heart surgery in 1984, I’ve resigned myself to a kind of semi-permanent suspense. Would I need another surgery? Am I “fixed” now? What would life be like now that I could play outside and have a reasonable expectation of not passing out? How long would that last?
Well, after my MRI on Monday, I resigned myself to a waiting game while the radiologist perused the incomprehensible slices of my foot before distilling them into a written report for my esteemed podiatrist. Today, I ventured once more to my Podiatrist’s office to receive, hopefully, good news. Sadly I, like a horny teenager trapped in an nudist colony composed entirely of ponderously obese men, was destined for frustration and disappointment. I’d gone prepared to hear two kinds of diagnosis: that I mysteriously acquired a bad sprain, or that I’d horribly disfigured the contents of the fleshy attachment at the end of my leg and needed surgery.
Appointment at the cardiologist was pretty uneventful. Dr. Mendelson seemed surprised I’m doing so well with such a diverse and staggering quantity of heart defects. She asked me a couple times who referred me, and why I was there, but my answer never wavered: I want a Cardiologist familiar with, and who has seen many other adult congenital heart patients. And here’s the funny part: she more than proved my point.