And inevitably, without fail, as I'd half suspected it would--it's stopped. I had one in the doctor's office, and haven't had one since.
I was averaging close to twenty episodes of this a DAY. For five days. I tried to take a nap, and it was "daDUM...daDUM...da--THUMP!daDumdaDum..d
It's as if the world is conspiring to make it appear that I'm a hypochondriac.
However, because I am intimately acquainted with the Imp of the Perverse, I asked the doctor on the way out--"What if it clears up over the weekend?" "Go anyway," she told me. "Your insurance pays for it and I want to know WHY this happened." Wise lady.
I won't swear it wasn't stress, since the other event today was Finally Getting The Hell Out of My Rental Place, but I confess, it's a little galling. I am no martyr, my life is undeservedly fabulous, but I have nevertheless lived through some fairly stressful shit over the years. That fear of my landlady flipping out over the condition of the carpets would drive my heart over the edge is just so...so...undignified.
If my health is going to be wrecked, at least let it be over something worthwhile! I mean, if I'm being held hostage by a deranged madman from the Platypus Liberation Front for six weeks, develop Stockholm Syndrome, and begin screaming whenever I see an omelet--okay, then I will accept and condone the heart palpitations. These things happen. Got off lightly, all in all. But over the landlady? For shame!
So, uh, if anybody ever asks, I first noticed the heart problems while wrangling cassowaries, okay?