Testing the Stress

The other day, I had a stress test. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I had been having some teeny little twinges and such and the doctor just wanted to be sure and so he sent me to the local “heart group.” (Today’s medicine no longer involves going to doctor’s offices. Now you visit “groups.” It’s like kindergarten, but a lot less fun.)

It was an interesting experience, to say the least. When I walked in, I felt very much out of place for several reasons: 1) I was younger than every other patient by at least 30 years; 2) I didn’t have a walker; and 3) I didn’t have a baseball cap with the name of the battleship or fighter jet I fought in during the war. It was one of the few times when feeling out of place was a good thing.

If you’ve ever had a stress test you know that this can be a maddening experience. For one thing, you can’t have caffeine for 24 hours prior to the test. 24 freakin’ hours! Not even decaf anything, because decaf doesn’t mean decaf to the “heart group.” Then, when you finally get there, they make you wait a long time and the only things they offer you to read are Prevention Magazine, or pamphlets that say: “Angina feels like indigestion, gas, or an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.” So then, you are certain that every major artery to your heart must be completely blocked. To make matters worse, if you choose not to read, you can look around at the other patients who seem to be hovering at or near death’s door.

Anyway, once I made it past the waiting room, I was brought into an exam room by a nurse who must have recently had her personality surgically removed. She asked me a series of questions in a tone that implied that maybe I wasn’t as out of place as I thought. She then took out a Sharpie and put black dots all over my chest. I’d like to point out that I spend a fair amount of time lately telling my daughter to stop writing on herself during school. Apparently, in the “heart group,” this is perfectly acceptable behavior. Then, the personality-challenged nurse attached receptors to my chest that must have been coated with black Crazy Glue because I am still washing it off, four days later.

I was then directed to waiting room number two which had a TV and was filled with people that were getting the nuclear stress test. Yes, the people sitting next to me were filled with nuclear liquid that would allow the “heart group” to pinpoint their blockage. At this point, I couldn’t help but be a little concerned. I watch “24.” Should I be sitting next to people that are currently radioactive? It seemed a little counterproductive.

While in Waiting Room Number Two, a man my age walked in all glowing with radioactivity. (Not really.) But he was a loud talker and as he chatted with the man next to him, I found out that he has six children and a family history of heart disease. When he was initially seen for his chest pains, the doctor asked him what part of his life causes him the most stress. He said that he really loves his job, so it must be his home life. At that moment, I wanted to stand up and shout: “Yeah, duh! Did you think that having six kids was going to be a walk in the park?! Your wife should probably be in here too!”

Finally I was called into the treadmill room by personality-challenged nurse who was assisted by a physician’s assistant with a bit more personality. They hooked me and my receptors up to the heart monitor and put me on the treadmill. At first, it was pretty easy. Then every three minutes, they would take my blood pressure, speed up the treadmill and raise the incline. After about 9 minutes, I felt like Spider Man trying to scale the Empire State building. All I could think was: "Do they really make 80 year olds do this, because I can barely stand up straight, let alone walk at the same time." Nevertheless, I tried to remain cool, calm, collected and NOT stressed. When they finally slowed and lowered “the beast,” (my pet name for that treadmill) the physician’s assistant said that everything looked normal. Hallelujah.

As I collected my belongings, I had only one thought: I gotta get me one of those hats.