Electrophysiologist

 Remember my recent post regarding the Cardiology department? Well, I’ve just returned from the sequel. This time, I sat down with an Electrophysiologist.

For those of you not fluent in Medical-Speak, the difference between a Cardiologist and an Electrophysiologist is roughly the difference between a plumber and an electrician.

The Cardiologist is the plumber. He’s worried about the pipes, the water pressure, and whether the main pump is rusted through.

The Electrophysiologist is the guy who shows up when the lights are flickering and the microwave starts screaming for no reason. He doesn’t care about the pipes; he’s there to find out why the wiring in the walls is sending "disco mode" signals to your atrium.

To become an Electrophysiologist, you have to survive two additional years of training after finishing a four-year cardiology residency. In other words, these people have spent so much time in school that they’ve forgotten what sunlight looks like, all to ensure your heart doesn't decide to improvise a drum solo at 3:00 AM.

We sat down to discuss my history of ablations—which is a term for "intentionally scarring the inside of one’s heart with a tiny soldering iron."

My heart occasionally likes to engage in "atrial flutter," a condition where the electrical impulses get bored and decide to do donuts in the parking lot of my upper chambers. I learned that my next step up the ladder isn’t just a "tweak." It’s the nuclear option: a radical ablation that would permanently sever the connection between my heart’s upper and lower chambers.

My heart would essentially be "unplugged." To keep the motor running, they’d have to install a permanent pacemaker.

Since I currently have zero chest pain and no symptoms of heart failure, I decided that turning my chest into a high-tech battery housing unit felt a bit like installing a commercial security system on a garden shed. If it’s not broken, why try to rewire the whole neighborhood?

I asked the good doctor about my QTc interval—an electrical measurement that sounds like a premium cable channel—and he gave me the classic "no worries."

Then, we got to the scheduling:

Me: “So, should I keep coming in for an EKG every six months?”

Doctor: “Goodness, no. Once every three years is plenty.”

Me: (Calculating the math of mortality) “Every three years? Exactly how many ‘three-year periods’ do you think I have left on the lease?”

Doctor: (With the breezy optimism of a man in his thirties) “Oh, you’re not that old!”

I had to level with him.

“Doctor, we are operating on two very different timelines. When you go digging through your desk for documents, you’re looking for your birth certificate to renew a passport. When I go digging through my desk, I’m looking for our marriage certificate to make sure my wife and I have a confirmed reservation at the National Cemetery.”

He chuckled. I think he realized that while he sees a "stable patient," I see a guy who doesn't want to buy green bananas if the EKG is only happening once every presidential term.

In the end, we shook hands and agreed on the golden rule of both plumbing and electrical work: If the lights are on and the toilets are flushing, leave the toolbox in the truck. I’m officially staying "un-rewired" for the time being. I’ll see him in three years—provided I can remember where I put my keys by then.