I Heart Huckabees

The palpitations began last January. Sometimes they felt like a moth trapped beneath my breastbone, fluttering to get free. Other times there was a sudden whooshing sensation as though my heart had taken in and disgorged an inordinate amount of blood in a very short time. On a few occasions it felt as though someone had stuck a finger into a deep bruise in my chest. They could appear anytime, anywhere. They rarely lasted more than a few seconds. Nor did I experience any other symptoms (dizziness, breathlessness, chest pains). And yet I came to dread these flutters, which only made them worse and gave my imagination license to fly off to some dark and unhappy places.

Google didn’t help matters. If you’ve never tried to look up medical information on the Internet, here’s some advice: Don’t. Especially if you’re like me and take the Woody Allen approach to self-diagnosis, which states, “If you noticed it, it’s probably fatal.” Based on my Web research I could have been suffering from any number of heart ailments. Many require lifelong medication or surgery. A few are incurable.

On the other hand – and it’s a big hand – palpitations are often indicative of nothing. They just happen. Lack of sleep, excessive caffeine or alcohol and anxiety are possible culprits. Sometimes the heart’s complex electrical system fires off a few extra sparks now and then just to make sure you’re paying attention. Or maybe, not unlike the main character in Ray Bradbury’s short story “Skeleton,” I finally became aware at the age of 40 that there’s an honest-to-God, flesh-and-blood heart pumping inside my chest and that my continued existence depends on its regularity.

The doctor didn’t come right out and call me a hypochondriac. But after checking my family history (a grandmother and several uncles with heart disease), my exercise regimen and my general health, and even giving me an EKG, he suggested that I probably had nothing to worry about.

Probably.

I hate that word. Leaves the door open just a teensy, weensy crack. Zip, there goes my imagination again.

For the next few months I did what the doc suggested. Cut back on the java. Upped my running time. Tried to get to bed earlier. Tried not to worry. And gradually the palpitations subsided, and then vanished. Didn’t have a single one all spring, summer or early fall. Then about three weeks ago they came back.

The doctor still thinks its nothing to worry about. Probably. Still, I went ahead and got fitted for a Holter monitor this morning. Not a halter monitor, as the perky but linguistically challenged hospital receptionist called it when she buzzed the clinic to tell them I was coming by. I may not be in the best shape, but I do not have man breasts.

For the next 48 hours the device will record my heart beat in much the same way an EKG does. I can exercise with it on. Sleep. Anything. I just need to be careful not to pull out any of the five electrodes taped to my chest. I’m also supposed to stay away from electric razors and electric blankets, which can apparently interfere with the device’s circuitry. Nor am I allowed to bathe or shower until the monitor comes off Friday morning. I don’t see this as an inconvenience, though my family and coworkers might by week’s end. And then, in a week or two, I should know whether I’m going to live, or whether I should start making arrangements with the funeral home.

I sure hope it turns out OK. Then I can turn my attention to that weird rash that’s cropped up on the back of my legs.