In The Hospital - May 19/20, 2024

The basic problem is my heart is no longer linked to any corporeal standard or necessity, sometimes slowing down and sometime pegging at high speeds, depending on any whim or suggestion it encounters.  My heart has detached, and behaves like the head of the "King of the Moon" here:

 

Moving from Room C in the ER to Room 4214 in the hospital.  I shared the space with someone who had just received his first pacemaker.

Parked just after Room 4214 became available in the hospital.  I was impressed with the bank of phones behind the counter to the left.  Every phone was in use. Modern medicine is based entirely on communication of highly-detailed information.

Rachel brought over this stuffed toy.  It represents Rachel and her son Jack, but it can also represent me and my puppy Jasper.

My bed in Room 4214 as I was checking out late on Monday afternoon.  I stayed longer than I wanted. On Sunday afternoon, cardiologist Dr. Behnamfar approved my departure from the hospital, but the fellow who had to give the actual orders, the hospitalist, was unreachable.  Without orders, the nurses refused to terminate the diltiazem drip and I ended up staying another day.  

By Sunday evening that drip finally slowed my heart to a crawl.

I was interesting talking to one nurse.  He was reading material and trying to quickly summarize video information from a 2018 catheterization of my heart, and said I had "ratty-looking" atria.  I felt self-conscious about my atria.  They're good-looking atria!  I insist!