Cardiac Rehab & Spirituality

Cardiac rehab clinic exercise stress test was today. I had hoped the program would start with logrolling, sprints, power chest flexing (to show off our scars) and then move smoothly onto pole vaulting and the oil wrestling championships. But sadly I think my expectations might be off. I saw no such equipment anywhere. I plan to put in a suggestion for thumb wrestling with hand-sanitizer, goodness knows that shit is everywhere in the hospital and who doesn’t bring their own thumbs? (sorry, amputee department)

I marveled yet again at the amazing, inclusive system we have here in Canada. There was pretty much a category for everything. Also with the options of OTHER, PREFER NOT TO ANSWER and DO NOT KNOW, all bases are covered!
Well played UHN, well played.

Every category, ever!

This flyer gave info on how to sign up for “Mall Walking” otherwise known as “My Own Personal Hell On Earth”

Otherwise known as shopping…

Holly, our intake coordinator, reviewed my case history and outlined the expectations of what the program entails. I am to attend the exercise clinic twice a week for the next four months.
“FOUR MONTHS” I balked at the duration of the commitment – like I have anything better to do.
I asked if I could “do it fast” she laughed and said given my case history that I would possibly graduate earlier than other participants. She probably just said that incase I went on some sort of convalescing protest rampage and flopped around her office.
I asked if we got a certificate in the end and she said yes. So I was placated by the dangling carrot of a graduation class and the promise of a certificate. I mean who doesn’t want a piece of paper with words printed on it? I already plan to get one of those black flat top hats with a piece of hanging, tasseled string made to blind you, for the ceremony.

I signed up for weekly Monday and Wednesday sessions. There is apparently a special weekly session for women only; the difference being that at the end they have a discussion on female cardiac related topics. It took all of my self-control to not interject and say “At the end they talk about boobs?” Instead I kept silent and likely saved myself the wrath of Claudine giving me the most murderous of looks and having the coordinator note that I have brain damage.
I politely declined the women only classes; that shit sounded like it could turn into a knitting club.

The actual exercise assessment was humbling and thoroughly exhausting. They hooked me up to an ECG and I walked on a treadmill with increasing speed and incline in successive variables. By the 6 minute mark my legs spoke only of my lethargy over the last month and as an act of spite they sent direct signals to my arse cheeks to throb and jiggle in sore fits of agony filled tantrums.

My body was tired but my heart aced it. The pig valve rocked it like a Goddamn champ; my other muscles simply have to catch up.

The tests done today set my functional baseline for exercise tolerance in the hospital gym. I managed to stay on the Tread-butt-jiggling-leg-wobbling-mill for 10 minutes, the technician said the average was 8 minutes, but the guy prior had done 12 before he fell off the back of the machine. I asked when his surgery had been and she said he hadn’t had surgery.
So I winked at her in a slightly creepy, self-congratulating way. We would have high-fived except I might have been vaulted off of the treadmill if I let go my vice grip on the handles.
I also did this wearing only a hospital gown with black shoes and socks. I think that deserves extra points.

On the way out I took a moment to reflect on my spirituality; conveniently located next to a CODE RESPONSE KIT, just incase you haven’t been a good person.
Ahhhhh hospitals, always thinking about your spiritual fulfillment alongside easy access to hypodermic needles, just incase your vitals fail.

Ommmm

I can’t wait for my first session in the official gym on Monday.
I hope spandex and leggings are mandatory. Puce will be my trademark colour.