I had one of those nuclear isotope stress tests recently.† The test that employs a trained professional with a disturbing glint in his eye, who shoots you full of plutonium or FlufferNutter, I'm not sure which, but the result is that now the blood pumping through your heart is visible from outer space.
You are then denied your clothing from the waist up and plastered
with electrodes arranged upon your chest in the traditional 'Cross Your Heart
Hope To Die Stick A Needle In Your Eye' design.
At this point, I sense my Generation X nurse suppressing a giggle as she connects wires to the electrodes and catches sight of my mid-life figure now on display like so much mackerel at the fish market.† But I could have imagined it.
Now that I'm wired, I can have the one-size-fits-Laura-Flynn-Boyle-gown; the faded blue one with that weird little pattern on it that you can never quite identify.† Are these stars?† Paisleys? †A fleur-de-lis pattern?† Or merely something to make you crazy and feel worse than you already do?
Upsy-daisy, onto the treadmill, which another perky nurse sets on
high speed and at a nice little incline (think Everest).† "We want to get your heart rate up to
143," she chirps, "for five minutes--the target for someone your
age."† (Yes, someone my age who
gets up before noon, believes exercise is more than swiveling her chair around
to change the CD in the stereo behind her, and doesnít determine her diet by
whether the snack bag makes crinkly sounds or not.)
Huzzah, I make my five minutes.† Time for another injection of FlufferNutter or is it that liquid that collects at the bottom of the refrigerator that no one wants to clean.†
Down the hall to the heart photographer.† Still in my charming fleur-de-lis gown, Iím asked to balance on a narrow reclining chair, my arms above my head in what I hope is not an alluring manner.† A camera contraption rotates above my chest for the next twenty minutes taking pictures of the radioactive blood swooshing around in my heart.† I am told I must not move during this time.† Where would I go, dressed like this.† All the while Jimmy Buffett music is wafting into the room through speakers in the ceiling.† The photographer wears a Hawaiian shirt.† I find this oddly comforting and yet, a trifle unsettling.
I balance; Dr. Parrothead hums
along to Margaritaville, adjusts dials and records data about my dubious
heart.† Just before my arms lose all
feeling, a bell dings, signifying I am free to recompose
myself and learn to drive with my feet, or perhaps the doctorís burritos are
Apparently, I'm finished.† I'm told to get dressed and as a parting gift I may pay the receptionist a tidy sum on my way out.
Just think, Thursday, I get to have a colonoscopy.