I recently went to the doctor for the euphemistically called stress test. The test is designed to give you a heart attack so doctors can decide how likely me are to have another heart attack. It would be more accurate to call it a stress adventure, something akin to scaling El Capitan or swimming the English Channel.
Since doctors originally developed the concept of over-booking (before licensing it to the airlines) I arrived for my 11am Thursday appointment on Monday morning, complete with reading material, back pack, sleeping bag, tent, iodine tablets, camp stove, and rations. Unfortunately a man much too old to still drive rolled right over my tent, camp stove, and portable game system when he misread the “Patient Drop-Off” sign, thinking it was “Patient Drive-Thru” so I was forced to really rough it.
On Friday afternoon they finally “prepped” me. The test requires 50 little electrical lines to be attached to sticky pads placed on my chest. The pads are designed to fall off if even one chest hair touches them, but will remain sealed to bare skin for up to two years. This means the prep for most men includes shaving big patches of hair off your chest.
They use really dull single use razors without any moisturizer or shaving cream. My have to wonder why Bic and Gillette spend fortunes developing new razors when there is a big market for single use, very dull, disposable razors. I imagine that somewhere in the world there is a factory dedicating to making these “ultra-dull” razors complete with a foreman shouting, “We’re not Shick! Keep those blades dull!”
After dry shaving large swaths of hair off me, the “prepper” (I, of course, was the “preppie”) found two young ladies to examine the end result. They laughed and giggled, and one mentioned something like “he looks like a dog with mange”.
Shirt off, chest hair removed, I was moved to a closet so cold that Iditarod sled dogs would stay in their tents. Cables were connected to each of the sticky pads, and it all went to a mess of electrical equipment making it impossible to escape. A technician gave me an Echo-cardiogram - sort of a pre-test - which basically means that my get lathered in really cold goo then jabbed in the ribs with a plastic rod. I was then left, without even chest hair to keep me warm.
Four hours later 10 people crammed into the room. All were dressed in Antarctic cold weather gear. The doctor told me -through his muffler - to get on the treadmill and start walking. I hadn’t noticed the treadmill before because I never expected to see a treadmill mounted on a wall.
The nurses helped me onto the treadmill, telling me “it’s okay to hold on to the rails.” Of course I’ll hold on to the railing, how else was I going to stay on this torture machine. They start it up, and there I am, death grip on the railing swinging my legs like crazy. After a couple of minutes one nurse takes my blood pressure, while another cranks up the speed.
For the next ten minutes I flail around as the treadmill keeps getting faster and faster while everyone laughs at me. Periodically the doctor asks, “How are you doing?”
I naturally reply, “Awful, You’re making me run straight up a wall.”
His response is usually “Great! They need to take your blood pressure, so you will have to let go of the ceiling tile. Then we will speed it up, okay?”
My most coherent response was “GAAAAaaa.”
After ten minutes of they ley me down. It's back on the table for a quick rubdown with more ice-cold gel so a technician can get another sonogram. What was the result of all this misery? A couple of really strange, fuzzy sonogram pictures of my heart and 20 feet of butcher paper with some little squiggles - imagine a three-year-old with a pencil and an unlimited supply of paper, a few new bald spots and an appointment to do this again in 6 months. Oh Boy!
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