Her eyes rose, head still bent over the paper — “Mr. Patel. We don’t even know how many blockages there are yet. Are they minor or major.”
“But how do you know thereareany blockages? Dr. Rajiv mentioned that the blockage may have cleared on its own if the episode was mild and I went back to normal immediately. There is a high chance that it has cleared.”
“Possible. But the fact that a failure happened is a testament to the fact that there was a blockage in the first place. I sense multiple blockages, even if minor.”
He hated her. Couldn’t she say there was nothing wrong? He was taking BP medicine, his pressure was going down slowly, he had gotten all these tests done. Couldn’t she ask him to control his stress and make this ok?
“An angiography is a minimally invasive procedure. Through a small incision in your wrist or thigh, a thin tube is inserted into your artery. Ink is injected into it to see how freely blood circulates through your heart. It’s just a test.”
“And then you will find half a blockage and ask to put in a stent or something and then it would be an angioplasty and then more than one ‘blockages’ would push me into a CABG at 40,” he scoffed. “I have heard the horror stories.”
She sat back. Stared at him. Again, the pity, but wrapped in scrutiny.
He hated her even more.
“Who is your GP again?”
“Dr. Rajiv Kashyap.”
“And he has been taking your BP thrice a day,” she pointed to the prescription and the covering letter attached for Dr. Shravan.
“He is also my neighbour.”
She thought for a moment, then capped her pen. “Angiography is the standard recommendation in your case. I wouldn’t take the risk of not finding out. But since you are so averse to the procedure itself, let’s try another way. Get a CT coronary angiogram. It’s non-invasive, and accurate. A scan.”
“Then why don’t they recommend that instead of cutting me open?”
“Because if there are blockages, an angiography can be immediately turned into an angioplasty by inserting stents. Recommended for high-risk patients.”
“I am not high risk.”
It was a question, disguised as a statement. She did not answer, and he hated her even more.
Her pen met paper again and she listed down more tests — “Follow up with these reports. If they come back low-to-moderate risk, then an alternate plan can be chalked out. Lifestyle, diet, regular check-ups. Six weeks. If your stress tests, lipid markers and plaque activity markers improve, we continue. If not, you will have to book for an angiography and possibly need an angioplasty.”
His thumping heart came to rest. Good. Lifestyle, diet, regular check-ups he could control. He just had to get this CT report to come out well.
“That’s fine.”
She continued to write, this time long names with time charts for medicine intake. “I am changing your current BP medication. I am also putting you on a blood thinner. Your bad cholesterol markers are high, good cholesterol is as good as nonexistent. Cut red meat,occasionalalcohol, and late nights completely. No caffeine after noon. Walk every day…”
“Walk? I gym…”
“Not for the muscles. For the good cholesterol,” she cut him off. “Don’t gym for the next month. Walk instead. 60 minutes daily, non-negotiable. Replace your regular cooking oil with extra virgin olive oil. Cut salt intake to less than 1 teaspoon per day. Cut sugar and sugary foods. Add soluble fibre to your diet. Oats, barley, vegetables, fruits. Heavily. Start eating olives, rinsed off their cured salt, 5-7 a day…”
He winced inwardly. She capped her pen, gathered the sheets and slipped them all into their respective folders before pushing them back to him, her prescription on top. He eyed it. It was written on the back of his old report. No letterhead. Just a sign at the bottom that could mean anything fromRaitatoKDrama.
Good handwriting, pathetic signature. And no letterhead.
“If you are a doctor,” he gathered the documents back. “Where is your letterhead?”
“Your GP will build out your prescription from this. Any other questions?”
“And who should I say wrote this?” He held the paper up, squinting. “Raita, KDrama or Dr. Kaapadia.”
“Kapadia.”
“Kaapadia,kaapadmeans cotton in Gujarati, Kaapadia are those who deal in cottons,” he corrected, because he wasthatpetty, and had just been given the good news that he was not about to get an invasive procedure.Andhe had control to wrest from her.
