Echoes

I had my routine echocardiogram today. From the moment I scheduled it, I've been anxious.

I used to find the test reassuring and soothing; I'd had routine echocardiography done since I was 12, and I likened the sound of my own heartbeat to the feeling of being back in the womb. I enjoyed chatting with the technicians, and I sometimes even fell asleep.

All that changed in 2008. The echo itself was more stressful than usual because the technician was oddly defensive and contentious; it was the first time I haven't bonded with an echo tech. And unlike the reports I'd grown used to receiving ("It's continuing to progress, but you're fine for now."), this echo was followed by a phone call from my new cardiologist, who started the conversation with the words, "It's time." Time for what? Open-heart surgery.

Since then, I'm a little nervous about having an echo. Will I get the tech I don't like? Will it show that my valve has worsened? Will I once again feel completely out of control of my own body? I did breathing exercises this morning to calm the jitters I felt. I did lovingkindness meditation to prepare myself to be openminded about the technician. I reminded myself that I have a different cardiologist, one that I like and respect, and that he told me last year that he doesn't expect to see any change in my new valve for at least a decade. The plan is to have just this one more echo to see how my heart is doing three years after surgery, and then probably not have another one for five years.

The last echo I had was two years ago. In the meantime, grief has been hard on my body, I know, and so was a year of fear and caregiving. Neither period of stress was in the original plan. But then, my valve should be able to handle whatever life dishes up, so maybe it'll be fine.

I was relieved to get a tech I've liked in the past. Our conversation ranged across a variety of topics, many of them very personal, and we acknowledged the real, positive connection we felt before I left. Honestly, the echo was worth it just for that 45-minute conversation. She also said a few different times that my valve looked good. Techs aren't supposed to give much information, since the cardiologist hasn't actually looked at the data yet. I was reassured, though, because I know she sees a lot of ultrasounds, and she knows exactly what's going on with me. I'm still a little nervous, but I'm feeling pretty good about what I'll likely hear from the cardiologist when I meet with him in a couple of weeks. Certainly there wasn't anything urgent.

Sandy had an odd combination of belief in the
doctors' ability to heal and despair that anyone
could help her, no matter what the medical
problem was. But she never seemed to have
the anxiety or learned dread about medical facilities
that I did. They were no more traumatizing
to her than anyplace else she went.

Once again I was at Group Health, adding to the memories I have of that facility. Each time I go in for my own care, it's a little easier to set foot on the campus. The sense of doom and despair is lightening, as I have positive experiences to counteract the memories from visits at the end of Sandy's life. One of these days, I hope to have the courage and strength to go upstairs to visit with and thank the oncology infusion nurses who cared for us while Sandy had chemo. Before she died, they asked me to remember to come see them, but I've not wanted to embark on a sobfest amidst patients who need hope.

I'm more aware than ever just how much past experiences influence the present. We are not naive actors in the world, unencumbered by assumptions and prejudice. But when we're more aware of those influences, it's easier to integrate them into the fabric of life, making them a part of — but not the overwhelming sum of — the whole. Today's echo joined the set of echocardiograms I've had there and elsewhere, the larger set of experiences I've had at that facility, the even larger set of memories I have from all medical settings, and even the huge set of experiences I've had in conversation and connection with other human beings. It changes the expectations I have for the next echo, medical appointment, or conversation — this time for the better. That's kind of cool.