Page 27 of Broken Secrets
“Olivia? I’m Dr. Kasey.” A woman in her fifties enters, wearing a white coat over black pants and a reassuring smile. She’s smaller than I expected, with short dark hair and the kind of presence that immediately makes you feel like you’re in capable hands.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I say, though I’m not sure thanking someone for potentially delivering bad news makes sense.
“Dr. Jensen’s referral mentioned you’ve been having some symptoms.” She settles onto the rolling stool and opens my chart. “Tell me what’s been going on.”
So I do. I tell her about the racing heart that feels like it’s trying to escape my chest, the dizziness that comes out of nowhere, shortness of breath. I tell her about soccer practice, about missing shots because I can’t concentrate when my heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Dr. Kasey listens without interrupting, occasionally making notes. When I finish, she looks up from the chart.
“I see you’ve recently obtained your paternal family history. That’s helpful information to have.”
“Seems you have family history of heart problems. Heart failure in multiple relatives, early bypass surgery, irregular rhythms. These conditions can have genetic components.”
“Does that mean I have them too?”
“Not necessarily. But it does mean we need to be thorough in our evaluation.” She sets the note aside and picks up her stethoscope. “Let’s start with listening to your heart.”
The metal is cold against my chest, even through my T-shirt. She moves it around, listening intently while I try to breathe normally and not think about all the ways my heart might be broken.
“Take a deep breath,” she says. “Now let it out slowly.”
I follow her instructions, acutely aware of every beat, every pause between beats. Is it beating too fast? Too irregularly? Are there murmurs or extra sounds that shouldn’t be there?
“Hmm,” Dr. Kasey says, which is exactly the kind of noncommittal sound that makes your anxiety spike.
“Hmm good or hmm bad?”
“No. Nothing immediately alarming, but combined with your symptoms and family history, I’d like to run some tests.” She hangs the stethoscope around her neck. “An EKG to look at your heart’s electrical activity, and an echocardiogram to see the structure and function.”
“How long do the tests take?”
“The EKG is quick, just a few minutes. The echo takes about thirty to forty-five minutes. We can do both today if you’d like, or schedule them for another time.”
“Today,” I say quickly. “I want to know what’s going on.”
Dr. Kasey smiles. “I thought you might say that. Let me get the technician set up.”
She steps out of the room, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the anatomical heart poster. I text Derek.
Me
Having tests done now. EKG and echocardiogram. Should know more soon.
Derek
You’ve got this. I’m right here when you’re ready.
The technician who comes in is younger than Dr. Kasey, maybe early thirties, with a cheerful demeanor that feels forced. She wheels in a machine that looks like something from a science fiction movie.
“I’m Sarah, and I’ll be doing your EKG today. This is completely painless, just some sticky electrodes on your chest and we’ll get a reading of your heart’s electrical activity.”
She has me lie back on the examination table and lifts my shirt to place the electrodes. The sticky patches are cold against my skin, and wires snake from each one back to the machine. I feel like I’m being prepped for some kind of experiment.
“Just try to relax and breathe normally,” Sarah says, pressing buttons on the machine. “This will only take a few minutes.”
Easy for her to say. I stare at the ceiling tiles and try not to think about all the ways this test could go wrong. The machine starts printing out a long strip of paper covered in jagged lines that supposedly represent my heart’s rhythm.
“All done,” Sarah says, peeling off the electrodes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
