Smile-breaks
No fuss stress test
The doc asked if I could walk on a treadmill. "Sure!" I hadn't been on a treadmill for about five years but I didn't mention that. "Good," he said. "I'm ordering up a stress test for you. I'll make it a treadmill stress test."
Nowadays, they can test you with an injection to speed up your heart. Or . . . you can hop on a treadmill and go until they stop you. I figured if I could get on a treadmill and last through the steep inclines and rapid walking rate, I had it made. No fuss.
The day came. I walked jauntily into the clinic, a short prayer in my heart and wearing the loosest clothing I had—as per instructions.
No fuss? Loose clothing? Right off, I was gowned up. So why the loose clothing? I had to take it off anyway. The nurse came in, lifted the front hem of the gown and taped it over my shoulder. She lifted another part, taped the edge to my back. I asked if she was going to be a fashion designer. Moving another part of the gown, she said, "No, but I should. They'd prob'ly pay me more."
Finally gowned, I was directed to a bed where I was told to lie on my side and move to the edge of the bed. "Closer." "No, closer. Closer." Somehow I stayed on the bed while practically falling off the edge. Smeared with gel all over my front and attached to tubes and multiple wires along with the beloved blood pressure cuff, I balanced precariously as the nurse logged onto the computer.
She tapped and tapped and then said, "Oh no." The computer screen was black. 100% black. Long story short—she called the tech; she went to the other room to consult with the tech; she returned to announce they would have to replace the computer and the big machine that went with it.
Fifteen minutes of me hanging on for dear life, it was all taken care of. The new machine arrived, got hooked up, and the probing began. She moved that probing instrument around and around and under and over the area of my heart, pressing with all her might—many times.
No fuss? Not done yet. "Breathe in," she said. "Hold it," she said. Eons later she said, "Breathe out." Whew! Glad that's over. Thought I was going to lose it!
But it wasn't over. More times than I can count I breathed in, held forever, and breathed out. What about the treadmill? I thought I was going to have a quick sonogram, hop on the treadmill and go home. No fuss. But they weren't through with me.
Now it was rehearsal time. "Get on the treadmill and pay attention to what I tell you. You won't believe how many people forget. When the treadmill stops, quick step onto this footstool and get on the bed as fast as you can. Lying on your side, move all the way to the edge. Remember—do it fast!"
The rehearsal ended, the treadmill controller arrived and got in position. I stepped onto the treadmill. I was ready. Give it to me! I would conquer the treadmill—no matter what the speed, no matter what the incline.
And I did it! I lasted the whole time! I was mentally congratulating myself when the nurse grabbed me and told me quick get on the stool and onto the bed. I did—not fast enough for her, but tough luck. I did the best I could.
I still didn't get to dress and walk out to the parking lot. Nope! More poking and prodding and listening to my heart beating to beat the band after that workout until at last I was freed. I hopped off the beloved? bed, got dressed and walked out to the sunshiny parking lot.
According to the report, I "tolerated the test well." Great, but—no fuss? Sure wasn't what I expected.
