By Jim Hagarty
I had a stress test one recent Saturday. I had thought living in the city in a small house in 2016 with a wife, two teens, five gerbils, two cats, a dog, two cars and more bills than a pond full of ducks was a sort of 24/7 stress test but apparently the authorities did not think that was official enough.
So off I went in loose-fitting clothing (at 65, is there any other kind?) to find a clinic in a nearby city, an office I’d never been to. Driving up and down a busy four-lane street looking for a number on a building was the start of the stress test, I guess. When I finally found it, I rushed in the door to a lobby filled with older people, half of them with great big intravenous syringes sticking out of their forearms. Well, that’s too bad for them, I thought, but that wouldn’t be happening to me. I was just here to go running around on a treadmill.
I introduced myself at the front desk and was given a “release” to read and sign. For maybe the first time in my life, I read something I was about to affix my John Henry to and the blood rushed from my head to my toes as I took in the words on the page. “This test,” one sentence read, “occasionally results in a heart attack and very rarely, death.” OK, I thought, this piece of paper must be a clever beginning to the stress test. A doctor, somewhere, watching me on a monitor fed by a hidden camera, was looking for my reaction to the news that I was about to sign a piece of paper which said to the authorities, “Yes, go ahead and kill me and see if I care.” If they wanted me to tense up, mission accomplished.
It was all becoming clear to me now in an instant. On the phone with a sister the day before, I was planning a family Christmas party for Sunday. “But aren’t you having a stress test on Saturday?” she asked, as though she knew I would not be at the party. That was also why my wife wanted to come with me – so she could drive the car home as she knew I wouldn’t be. And why she called on my cellphone before I went into the clinic to say, “I love you.”
OH MY GOD! THIS IS IT!
It occurred to me to set down the paper and run out of the building but I have been trained to trust the authorities in all matters and so I signed it and said my prayers. One by one the syringe people were called into another room but I don’t remember seeing them coming back out. They were probably being taken out the back door and driven away in hearses.
Finally, as in a dream, I heard my name being called. And a few minutes later, I was sitting back in the lobby with a great big syringe taped to my arm, about the size they’d use to inoculate a giraffe. An hour later (do you know how many thoughts can go through a person’s head in an hour? I don’t either because there was only one in mine: I AM GOING TO DIE!!!) I was called back into the other room which was very pleasant looking, almost like a fitness centre or a very modern mortuary. I was placed on my back in this tube-like thing to have my heart photographed so they could recognize it later after taking it out and putting it in a cooler, I thought. I was told to lie perfectly still with my arms above my head for 15 minutes and under no circumstances, was I to fall asleep. So I fell right to sleep. I often do that when I am COMPLETELY STRESSED OUT.
Back to the lobby for another hour to mull over my impending doom along with the doctor’s scolding for my having fallen asleep. Called back in finally, I went into a small room with a very nice-looking young woman with the most intoxicating smile I’ve ever seen. The first thing she did was pull off my sweatshirt which was a struggle as she had to somehow get the sleeve over the IV in my arm without yanking it out.
“Women are always trying to get my clothes off,” I joked with her. “Well, it looks like I was successful,” she laughed as the top finally popped off.
“Believe me,” I replied, “any women who try to get my clothes off are always successful!”
She seemed to think that was a reasonable reply so to punish me she put me on a treadmill. After a few minutes of huffing and puffing I thought they may as well warm up their hearse. But the worst was yet to come. This nice young woman, obviously offended by my low-brow humour, kept speeding up the treadmill and tilting it higher and higher till I felt like one of those fancy dancers in Singing in the Rain who somehow dances right up the side of a wall.
A doctor came in and started taking my blood pressure every few minutes. In my imagination, I thought I heard a great big Cadillac – the kind funeral homes like to use – warming up in the parking lot. But eventually, just when I thought St. Peter would soon be giving me a scolding, the treadmill slowed down and stopped, the nurse smiled at me and handed me my top and she told me my fast was over and that I could go out and eat whatever I wanted to.
Like all health-conscious people who’ve just had a heart test do, I headed straight to a restaurant for a pizza and Coke.
A week later, my doctor called to tell me the results: My heart is as good as new. When the Toronto Maple Leafs call me up, I’ll be ready.
(Also, if that nurse calls me.)
