My stress test results were “normal.” I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but my doctor seems happy.

And so begins the hunt to find out what’s causing my chest pain.

While I didn’t have a full-on treadmill stress test, the doctor at the hospital multi-test area took one look at me and asked, “Can you walk at all?” When I said, “Yes,” he ordered, “Get on the treadmill.”

That probably made the test less unpleasant, really, but four minutes at 1 mph crippled me, and five days later, I still can’t put all my weight on Stupid Hip. This would seem to indicate that it’s deteriorated more than I thought, and it prompted The Husband to go into Neanderthal mode: “Me take woman to see orthopedist NOW!”

So yeah, now I have an appointment with my surgeon, a small woman with a big ego who has a history of climbing onto the exam table with me to wrench my leg around. “Does this hurt?” Aaaaaah!

More fun in the offing.

Meanwhile, I write. The Fall hasn’t come back to me from the editor yet, so I’m working on Farryn’s War, chipping away at the difficult bit in the middle.

What are you working on?