I got home early from work today to a message on my phone from Dr. Sneakers' receptionist about my "upcoming July 6 appointment." As far as I knew, there was no such thing, and when I called back it turned out that, indeed, they were only just getting round to booking it for me now. Thanks for the advance notice.
I'm having something called a MIBI scan ("a what?" I said about four times before she spelled it for me); radioactive dye is injected into my heart and pictures are taken. Fasting, no caffeine for 24 hours, and comfortable shoes so I can hop on the treadmill and they can all be blown away by my athletic prowess.
I don't know why I'm doing this, but fine, whatever. It's another day off work, more parking to pay for, more IVs, more lying around thinking about the food I'm not allowed to eat. It's old news by now, but for some reason, today it was enough to cue a total meltdown. Tears, a bit of stomping around, pajamas at 4:30.
I know my doctors are doing their best to give me as many answers as possible. I guess I'm just sick of feeling like a sick person. Especially a sick person who doesn't get told about things in advance.