When all this mess started, I pointed out that my sitting around pulse should be in the low 50s, not 70ish, and certainly not 100 as it initially was. The nurse practitioner at the regular doc's accepted that statement, and worked from it. She is smart. Every-freakin-where else, the docs went on to the next question, dismissing without comment my statement. How could a 60 year-old old fart have a sitting around heart rate in the low 50s? You could hear that question echo in the silence.
So here we go with the condition in abeyance. 52. Fifty-fuckin-two, bitches. Just like I said. Well, guess what? This morning's conversation was about sleeping heart rates, mine in particular. It's normally about 35ish depending on the hot dude in my dreams. (I didn't mention the hot dude part this morning.) And so they had to recalibrate the dosage, what with wanting me to be more likely to wake up and all.
You might think that'd teach the fuckers to listen once in a while. Don't count on it.
Note: When I finally checked out of the hell hole, my heart rate was 45. I don't know if that's conditioning or drugs, but I'll take it.