My Heart Was Goin' BOOM BOOM BOOM

DW calls me a furnace. My regular body temperature is normal but I radiate a lot of heat. So much so that I often throw off my bed sheets while I'm sleeping, no matter the time of year.

This condition may be related to my heart rate. While my blood pressure is always at a healthy level, my rate is often higher than it should be, particularly when I'm at rest. My resting heart rate is commonly in the high 80s to the low-to-mid 90s, in beats per minute.

And while that rate is high, it wasn't high enough to make me worried. But then, a month or so ago, my resting heart rate jumped. A lot. So much so that I visited my doctor.

I wouldn't say that I'm a particularly stressed person. But some days, I feel tense and I can literally feel my heart pounding against my chest. And it's not due to any vigorous workouts.

Here's my heart rate from a week ago. DW and I were watching Suits, on Netflix, and I suddenly felt my heart racing. And while seeing Sarah Rafferty can get me a bit excited, she doesn't usually cause me to reach for my smartphone to check my pulse. My phone has a sensor that can read my pulse, and it's dead-accurate.

It was 123 beats per minute.

It wasn't the first time that my heart rate has soared while sitting still. And, while I'm used to seeing a resting heart rate in the 90s, I'm now often finding it above 100, with a rate in the 100 and teens not unusual.

Scratch that: it is unusual.

At my doctor's, I was asked about my coffee intake. She said it was high, but I reminded her that I've consumed this much coffee for decades. She asked me how much beer I drink, I admitted that I consume between seven and 10 pints each week. When she said that that number was too high, I reminded her that I told her the same thing on two separate occasions, and at those times, she said that wasn't a ridiculous amount.

Since my last visit to her, I've reduced my brew intake to three or four pints a week.

My doctor ordered a blood test, but I haven't heard about the results. And considering that she once phoned me on a Saturday afternoon to tell me that she had findings about my foot, I'm sure that I would have heard by now if something came up in the blood test.

My doctor also ordered a heart stress test, but because I can't run or do anything strenuous with my feet, the test would have to be done through drugs.

Last Thursday, I took the first of a two-process, chemical-driven stress test. Part one involved being injected with a radioactive chemical, which made its way to my heart. A huge machine, similar to an MRI scanner, read my resting heart rate.

Throughout the scan, I couldn't get the Spider-Man theme song out of my head: "Is he strong? Listen, bud: he's got radioactive blood." My own spidey senses didn't tingle once.

After the scan, the technicians wouldn't tell me what my rate is. I guess they can't.

Today—perhaps even while you're reading this—I undergo part two of the test, which involves being injected with chemicals that will place my heart under stress, much like a vigorous workout. Except, a cardio doctor will be by my side throughout the test, to make sure my heart doesn't explode or I have a real heart attack.

The antidote to the chemicals, ironically, is caffeine.

With any luck, we'll be able to see why my heart races the way it does, why it often knocks against my chest.

But hey, at least it makes me think less about my feet.