Heart Break

Last night I went to the heart centre to get a once over of the ole ticker. A couple of weeks ago, during the Karachi heat wave, I had a brief episode where my heart decided to shift from its stately rhythm into a funky, Latin salsa beat. This is generally not something to get too worried about, but it lasted long enough that it started getting into my head. Usually I’m a big fan of my overactive imagination, but in this case it was a real irritation. Every twinge of pain in my chest, every errant gas bubble, strained muscle or whathaveyou, sent my mind down a wild and frightening roller coaster of apprehension. "Is my left arm tingling?" my wayward psychosis would ask, adding a reminder that the men in my family have had a poor history concerning matters of the heart. The reasonable, rational side of my brain (what remains of it) would reply, "Yes, your left arm is tingling, because you’ve been sleeping on it for two hours you dumbass." Anyway, after about two weeks of this, I decided enough was enough and I should go pay a cardiologist for some peace of mind.

The heart centre is a private clinic and seems fairly new, so it bears no resemblance to what some of you might be picturing of a hospital in the third world. In fact, it was more or less nicer than some clinics I’ve been to at home. Somehow we arrived at exactly the right time; the doctor had just returned from evening prayers. We had no wait whatsoever and were ushered right in. I could tell from the start that the doctor was amused with my concern. Nevertheless, he understood that I was looking for some reassurance so he ran the stethoscope gauntlet and sent me in for an ECG.

I haven’t had an Electrocardiogram in quite a few years, but for some reason I quite enjoy it. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the process measures the electrical processes of the heart via several diodes connected to wrist, ankles, and all across the chest. Each connection point has to have a conductive gel applied to aid the sensors, which admittedly is slightly uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind it when a stranger smears jelly all over my chest, but usually I try to save that for Friday nights. Nevertheless, soon enough I was wired up like Frankenstein’s monster, pouring my heart out to a fancy computer.

The doctor proclaimed my ECG results to be completely and utterly normal. I have to admit that I felt slightly disappointed. Sometimes, you know, some kind of weird, morbid part of my brain hopes for some kind of exciting result. But that passed quickly with the assuaging influence of a clean bill of health. He gave me my ECG results as a souvenir, which is kind of fun, but generally about as comprehensible as reading a polygraph without knowing the questions. On the way home though, I noticed something strange in the printout. The computer had classified the results as "NORMAL" but stipulated that the results were "NOT OFFICIAL" because the "SEX OF PATIENT" was "UNKNOWN OR INCONCLUSIVE." The attendant had typed in my name and age but apparently was confused as to my gender and left it blank. I was bemused; I had no idea that I was such a tough read. I realize that people here generally have a lot of body hair, but I thought that the beard and chest might give me away. Even the word inconclusive struck me as funny. Do they generally get a lot of Hermaphrodite ECG patients… Eunuchs maybe?

In any case, I have decided that this new phrase will also serve as a prediction of how my weekend will most likely progress……. SEX: UNKNOWN OR INCONCLUSIVE