Oh FFS.

In the off chance you don’t know, the middle F in the title there is that particular f word. I might use those today, in print, here. I thought I’d forewarn if you’re the type who that bothers. If you are, you probably don’t really know me or talk to me much. Mwahaha.

So, yeah. First, we had tornadoes! Um, well, we had rotations over our town, but being so close to the coast and at the tail end, nothing touched down, which is good. We got some bad ass lightning though. And I am stunned we didn’t have more than a few flickers in power, much earlier in the evening.

Also, Mr. Shoe and I are celebrating (whooooppieee! Our house is so much goddamned fun thanks to me lately!) our fifteenth anniversary on Tuesday. That man is a saint, except he’s not dead, and I’m glad. He did, however, throw a bag of Penny poop at me yesterday. He didn’t seem to get that I can’t stand in the door way, keep the door open, and remain steady and catch the incoming bag. Heh. We needed the poo flinging laugh yesterday.

So yesterday I also had my pulmonary function tests. Um, all right. I am not unhappy, and I am not happy, and that is exactly why I hate this shit. The good news is (and I figured this would be the case…) I have the most motherfucking awesome lungs known to man ever in all of history. No, for real. My spirometry was awesome. My lung volume, as documented on many of my imaging studies, is low, and I apparently can’t get all my air out, but it’s still well within the normal limits… Because no one is a well oiled machine.

All righty, then. So, six minute walk to test oxygen saturation. Let’s say this: I started with my normal resting heart rate, which is too damn high. No one knows why. I was told by a very angry anesthesiologist that I should know what caused the little hole in my heart because that can cause desaturation once back in November. I told him that the people who spotted it said they didn’t know why it was there, but it didn’t seem to cause my problems so all I needed to know was that I needed to let him know. He can fucking figure it out… Anyway, no one knows why my heart does this. It just does. The lowest resting rate I’ve spotted in the past year is 93 beats per minute. It was 105 yesterday. My oxygen saturation at start, fine.

I walk with the Brawny towel model looking respiratory tech (the plaid shirt didn’t help, and he was a cutie) for six minutes. He has me walk with my hand over my heart, like I had a Napoleon complex. I think this is key. Not the Napoleon complex, the hand elevation. My saturation was steady, my shortness of breath pretty unchanged (got a little worse) and my rate of respiration — while still too fast, wasn’t terribly different than I am normally, and my heart rate was up to 120 or so. Okay, not that big a deal.

Then came the four flights of stairs. See, I’m an idiot. No, I am. He’s telling me I can stop at any point, and I won’t. Let’s put it this way: I should have. Let’s also have it be known, my oxygen saturation was fine. But halfway up the second flight, my foot turned to lead and I said, “Yeah, you know, this is getting harder.” And away went my heart. Well, not away. (Code Red on the fire escape! Stupid woman can’t admit she’s had enough.)

He said, “You can rest if you  need to.”

I said, “Fuck that talk.” No, I didn’t. I thought it, somewhere deep inside, and this is why I am a problem. I said, “No, I’m okay!”

And the third flight, and the fourth flight… halfway through the fourth flight I was wondering if maybe he was just going to keep me going up until we ran out of building or until I keeled over. We stopped at the fourth flight. My oxygen saturation never dropped below 96%. My heart rate was 153 beats per minute when we stopped. Okay, at least for the exertion, my heart is responding in a somewhat relational manner? It is too damned high, but… relational? I don’t know.

He also was concerned because there was no question I had to stop and hang on to the railings (I should have sat down) on the way down because I couldn’t talk. And then I turned purple. Well, my knuckles and things. My skin was a nice frozen bratwurst veiny meat color. This is livedo reticularis. I was told by a jackass once that this happens (oh, Dr. Jackass, sorry) if you drink caffeine. Or if you have weird heart, circulation or odd immune disorders. Naturally, with my history, we blame the one frigging Diet Coke I had that week. I have had the immune disorders ruled out for this, actually.

Ooo, it’s happening now. It’s gross. Anyway, Brawny Tech says that while my lungs seem awesome, my discomfort, difficulty breathing and obvious, um… outward signs of this seem to tie to heart rate increases. Since I’m racing constantly… Go figure. I mean, I know this isn’t unusual, per se. It’s hard to tell heart and lung and kidney problem side effects from each other. Nothing is ever, ever easy. He asked when I last had an EKG. Pfft. I don’t know.

So I am off to a pulmonologist anyway. Dr. J figured it could possibly clearly put to bed direct lung damage/issues and might be a logical window to what else effects things that way (I know there are many… heart, vascular, kidney, muscle, neurological… and yeah, they can be caused by blood disorders and tumors and stupid disorders that won’t clarify themselves.) I was hoping that there’d be something that arose that could at least be a band aid on my bad self till we can figure out a better band aid. Not this time.

Now my chest hurts. My lungs are okay though. Oh for fuck’s sake.

 

 

This entry was posted in Getting to the Point, Langerhans Cell Histiocytosis, Living with, The Bad, The Good, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Oh FFS.

  1. Momshoe says:

    Sorry to hear about your heart rate, purple extremities, etc., but what most concerns me is the dog poop. Don’t ever get a Great Dane!

    • shoe says:

      I don’t know… Penny is at least a lab in terms of what she can do in a squatting (hahahaha! Dog people rock!) But one thing I do know about Great Danes (besides their horse muffin sized output) is that they’re real prone to gimpy legs. Pugs are too, but hey, it is a lot easier to get an 18 lb football shaped dog up or down 3 or 4 back steps than a 170 lb exceptionally tall Shetland pony sized dog. Heh.

Leave a Reply to Momshoe Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>