The Scowler's readers write, "Mr. Scowler, sir, you have informed us about the brutality of the Mohs surgeon, regaled us with the account of the obligatory (for a man of your age) colonoscopy and let us eavesdrop on your visit to your friendly neighborhood neurologist but never a word about the Scowler heart. We are sure that you have a heart or you would not be so concerned about our political and shobiz personalities.
Fair enough. In the interest of full disclosure, the Scowler is pleased to report that one day, a year or so ago, I made an appointment to see my friendly internist for a consultation. It's not easy to make an appointment with him. You have to claim to be at death's door but not so far gone that you can't still be treated. We'll call our internist Dr. Arpeggio. I pointed out that the old Scowler ticker had been skipping a beat of late and I wondered if this was significant. "If it's a case of having just so many beats left in one's lifetime and my heart is conserving for an even older age, well, that is O.K. with me." Arpeggio said it doesn't work that way.
Arpeggio then took his stethoscope (that had been given to him by his parents when he graduated from Med school in 1947) and applied it to the hirsute Scowler chest. "Doesn't seem to be skipping now." "Of course not Doc, it's just like bringing your car into the shop because of a squeak that's driving you nuts." "I've asked you many times not to call me Doc."
Anyway he sent me to his Medical Group colleague, the cardiologist, for a stress test. Prior to the stress test there was a dispute, first with Nurse Ratchet, then with the cardiologist himself, Dr. Alex Aorta. The problem was they both wanted to shave my aforementioned chest. "No shaving, baby, I've had that experience in the past and it was weeks before I stopped itching,," I said to Nurse Ratchet. Then she paged the exalted one himself, to convince me that the shaving was necessary. I listened politely but was not convinced. "If you can't proceed without the shaving, we can forget the whole thing." Since Aorta had budgeted the cost of the test into his revenue stream for that month, he decided to proceed and I could see from the monitor that they were able to get good readings on my pulse rate and blood pressure which had been the cause of the dispute in the first place.
Back to Arpeggio. "We're going to monitor your heart rate over a 24 hour period with a Halter Monitor." "Wait a second. You're asking me to walk around wearing a halter for 24 hours? I don't think so." "No, no, it's an electronic device developed by a Dr. Halter some years ago." I thought O.K., picturing one of those tiny hidden mikes you see used in all those police movies. "We will also want you to go back to Dr. Aorta for an echo cardiogram." Since I had not hit it off too well with Aorta, I selected another heart man, Dr. Dwight Dylan, who came highly recommended by a good friend, now deceased.
The echo cardiogram was administered by a nurse who had served in the Israeli army and who regaled me with stories of skirmishes with Palestinians. She and I got along fine and she never mentioned a thing about wanting to shave the Scowler chest. Dr. Dylan was quite personable perhaps because he was trying hard to get me to subscribe to his cardiac newsletter.
The Halter Monitor was not a product of electronic age miniaturization but a large klunky device. It was affixed to my belly and I looked like a pregnant older woman in drag when I left Dr. Dylan's office. I returned the next day to have the thing removed and Dr. Dylan assured me there was nothing wrong with my heart and that my cholesterol ratio was, in fact, quite good. "It must be the drinking", I said. "Possibly", he sort of agreed.
"Even though your heart is in good shape, you should follow a healthy regimen in your diet and exercise and it would be a really good idea for you to subscribe to our newsletter. It's filled with excellent information every issue."
"What were the results of the Halter Monitor", I queried. "We haven't gotten them back from the lab yet. I'm sure I'll get them tomorrow and I'll call you promptly and go over them with you."
That was in February, 2000. I suppose I'll hear from Dr. Dylan any day now.
This is a true story, only the names have been changed to protect the quacks.