Some people celebrate middle age with a new Volvo C70 hard-top convertible (uh, that would be my wife). Me -- I spent it trying to maintain my dignity by not flying off the back of a moving treadmill.
If you've never taken a stress test before, you've probably seen one done on any of the zillion of medical shows on TV these days. Let's say that my turn on it resembled a cross between "Mystery Diagnosis" and "Scrubs."
In retrospect, I'm happy it just didn't turn into "CSI." After all, who hasn't heard the following story at least once in their lives:
"(INSERT NAME HERE) was doing just fine. Then he went to the doctor for a physical and BAM! Coronary on the treadmill. Had to scrape bits of him off the walls."
I asked my test technician about this, hoping to uncover an urban myth.
"Oh, sure," he said. "It happens."
Joy.
"But," he continued, "if you are going to have a heart attack, having one during the stress test is the best time for it to happen. You're already hooked up to all the right monitors and you're surrounded by doctors and the necessary equipment to save your life."
Then he started shaving my chest.
This was the second time a man had ever shaved me before. While not on my list of life's pleasures, this go-round did beat the time it was performed by my urologist.
And, we're moving, we're moving …
So, now, I've got circular sticky patches and wires galore on my body. Zero hour has come.
"You'll be walking at a brisk pace, 3.3 miles per hour," he said. Every minute, the incline will increase one degree. Don't hold onto the bar. Just use it to balance yourself briefly when you need to. Let's go."
The first few minutes of a stress test are deceivingly simple. I'm on a lovely stroll! Up a little hill! Watching "SportsCenter" and debating the evils of the designated hitter with a man in a white jumpsuit! How pleasant.
After five minutes, I'm eying the clinic's "stress test record holders" who are framed on the wall in front of me. I recognize a few names. They're all marathon runners. Hey, only 26 minutes more to go!
Then, somewhere in the early teens, I started rocketing through the Five Stages of Grief over my own body's flabbiness:
Denial -- That clock has got to be slow. It's been at least an hour!
Anger -- I am going to kill my wife for talking me into this stupid physical!
Bargaining -- If I live, I'm never even THINKING about cheese again. Or red meat. I'll give up sugar, too. Just get me off this frickin' thing!
Depression -- Dear Lord, I'm going to die in a backless paper gown.
Acceptance -- This gown is a lovely shade of blue. Carolina? Mmmm, more of a periwinkle, I think.
I made it to 22 minutes, 17 seconds before my legs went jelly. I probably could have stumbled and sweated another two minutes to move from the "good" to "excellent" health category; however, being wheeled out on a gurney would have been so anticlimactic.
Bottom line, my test turned out just fine. No chest pain, no fainting, no weird little blips on the monitor. The doctor did advise me to lose about 10 pounds because she was sure the extra weight was all that was holding me back from crossing into the "excellent" threshold.
No problem. Right after this double cheeseburger and triple-thick vanilla shake. Uh, but hold the fries, OK?
Stamford native Kevin McKeever, a married father of two, is a freelance writer and editor. He also writes the humor blog, Always Home and Uncool, and is a contributor to DadCentric.com. He spent 10 years as a reporter and editor for local newspapers, another nine creating and running the employee communications program for a Fortune 200 company, and then he wised up.
His humorous view of health and wellness, "Rubbing It In," will be featured regularly in future issues of Aetherial Living.
If you enjoy this article, or would like to know more about Kevin, please drop him a comment at kevin@aetheriaspa.com
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