A new toy, sort of

Today I picked up an incentive to be better behaved. I got given a miniHolter, which for the uninitiated among us, and I was one myself until about an hour after getting it, is meant to monitor your heart.
 
The problems happened a while ago (in November and February, to be precise) but such is the glacial pace at which the health service in Canada is able to work at the present moment, I only took delivery today.
 
I had a couple of issues of what the dramatic among us would call “collapsing” and the less dramatic would call “passing out”. After blah blah blah (I am boring myself with this) the doctor concluded it was vasovagal syncope. I left, happy that the first thing I had heard (vasovaginal syncope) was incorrect and reassured that I had more than 24 hours left to live.
 
Apparently, however, my doctor has either developed a conscientious streak or has moved onto Chapter 2 of his How to be a Canadian General Practitioner course. For now, he has sent me for tests. Or rather, he has sent the tests to me. I am not sure whether to be terrified or reassured.
 
So I am neither. Instead, I am walking around the house with a monitor stuck to my chest wondering how bad it would actually be to have a shower. 

You turn 54 and your life gets turned on its head: colonoscopy; heart monitor; coronavirus… this has been some initiation to the “what it is like to get old” club. I might ask for my money back.