I spent the majority of this morning undergoing a nuclear stress test. This is a test devised to determine how much abuse someone who's had a double bypass can tolerate.
First, two burly guys took me to a room filled with medical paraphenalia. One of them stabbed a needle into the inside part of my elbow, finding just the right place to affix a tube into which they would later inject all manner of nuclear materials that can be detected by a large, ugly machine. During this process, the skin-head with a neck as thick as a mighty redwood tree talks to the tall, middle-aged black guy who has been laughing at me since I came in the door. Skin-head is a motorcycle racer who apparently operates a part-time auto-parts shop and garage from his front lawn. He tells big nice black guy that the next time he needs a brake job to call him, because Pep Boys always overcharges. Skin-head's neck is probably 40 inches around, tastefully decorated with tatoos of motorcyles and naked women.
Before moving on to the testing phase, I am asked to review and sign a sheet that asks, among other things, whether I plan to fly anywhere the next 31 days. I respond, yes, I am planning to fly; mega-neck then fills out a little card directed at TSA personnel, saying if I set off metal detectors in airports, it's OK, because I have heavy metal running through my veins. I've never seen such a thing, but I decide I will take the card with my on my upcoming trips to Albuquerque and Moscow.
The next step was to have me lie down, face up, on a hard table. A massive piece of equipment above the table has magical properties that allow it to view the innermost pieces of my body...this machine slowly encircles my mid-section, recording the inner-workings of my damaged chest. That's a 20-minute exercise, during which every muscle in my lower back and my upper arms seizes and shudders, thanks to the position in which I am forced to lay motionless.
After the first phase of torture, I am escorted into a room with a huge treadmill. One of the burly bastards rejoices as he attaches all sorts of wires to my chest and then has me mount the treadmill and begin the process of trying to overwork my heart until it explodes and ceases operation. Every few moments, he tells me to prepare to walk faster and "up the hill" and then laughs and says "you're going to be glad when THIS is over, aren't you?" Fifteen minutes later, I am sprinting at what I would guess to be 40-60 miles per hour, my throat and lungs screaming to take in every available breath. I feel like I am being dragged behind a speeding car, forced to either keep my legs moving at superhuman speeds or else yield to the speed and be dragged helplessly behind the vehicle.
Finally, the torture stops and I am asked to sit patiently in a waiting area. While relaxing with some photo magazines, the doctor's staff interupts me to take my blood pressure and ask questions that I've long since answered many times. My blood pressure if fine, they say, so I may wait again for the burly bastards to take more pictures. Sure enough, they called me back in for a repeat of the first torture. Muscles tense, pain grows...but I handle it through to the end.
After all the pain, I'm told I should come back in two weeks to be given the results of the tests. I agree to this, after paying the $50 co-pay for this visit, and head to the office, where I encounter more work than I bargained for. Once again, I think about becoming a shepherd or a cheese-straightener to get me out of this drudgery, but that goes away. More work, more surprises, and now, here I am.
3 comments:
Well, that whole experience sounds thoroughly unpleasant. I'm now wondering how easily you'll pass through security on the way to Moscow. They'll probably think you're contaminated with something dangerous and not want to let you into the country. By the way, the last time I flew home from the U.S., I had to stand inside of some big glass compartment and be blasted with air for a couple of seconds. I guess they thought I was a terrorist or a mule... or something. It's almost enough to make me want to give up traveling to the states -- but perhaps that's the objective.
Bizarre rites of passage we have these days.
That was a vivid description of, well, I guess they think a necessary ordeal. Glad to hear you passed!
Post a Comment