Stress Test - Part 2

By Bob Hansen

In a previous issue I recounted the exciting details of my cardiac stress test—part one. Part two took place a few days later—the always-thrilling treadmill.

For those of us men who are particularly manly, there is a down side to this test. Before beginning the actual procedure, a hundred electrodes (only a slight exaggeration) must be affixed to the chest. Unfortunately, the little buggers will not attach unless they contact bare skin.

In my particular case, patches of manly chest hair had to be sacrificed. I found this both humbling and uncomfortable. I think of chest hairs in the same way I think of the silver (not gray) hairs on my head—as badges of courage and endurance. I earned each one by overcoming the rigors of life. To have them removed, unceremoniously, with a few strokes of a razor, just doesn’t seem right.

The discomfort comes in the following days with the inevitable stubble. This causes general irritation as fabric catches on the newly emerged hairs. I believe that’s enough said about this sensitive subject.

As the technician prepared me for the treadmill, the subject came up of how long I had previously lasted. I told her what I recalled and she seemed impressed. She checked my charts. “Wow!” she said. “Very few make it fifteen minutes!” It’s possible she says this to every patient, I suppose. No, I’m sure her comments were genuine.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose I could go even longer if I really trained for the event.”
Soon, I was on the treadmill, relaxed and confident. I noted the wall before me, which was adorned with items intended to comfort anyone who might be distressed by the stress test.

A large photograph displayed a relaxing pastoral scene. Several cartoons were pinned around the lower edge of the photograph, depicting (somewhat questionable) medical humor related to the heart.

Then it struck me. I would prefer to see a chart of the records. It would be inspiring to view the best performances by others in my age group. With this information, I would know when I had achieved the highest score ever.

Perhaps the clinic should have interchangeable wall hangings. In my wife’s case, pages of department store advertising would capture her attention, easing the tension of the situation.

A fun feature of the treadmill is that it starts slow and easy. Then, every three minutes, the speed increases and the platform tilts to a steeper angle. This cruel treatment causes some to breathe hard and even sweat. I guess that’s the point, though, since it’s called a stress test.

One of the technicians asked me to inform him when I had a minute’s worth of energy left. At that point of maximum physical output he injects the radioactive chemical. This can be difficult to calculate, but knowing my previous time was helpful.

I’m happy to report that, despite not knowing the overall world record, I did achieve a personal best of fifteen minutes and ten seconds (besting my former record my four seconds.)

The doctor said I did well and the EKG looked good. I marveled at his ability to understate my athletic achievement.

A half-hour later, I again bravely endured the twenty-minute tunnel torture experience (mentioned in my last column) without movement of any kind. All that now remains is the doctor’s consultation. In the past this has been routine, but this time there might be a surprise. Since I mentioned the issue of records to the cardiologist, I suspect he has subsequently searched all past files. Is it too much to expect that my upcoming visit will involve great fanfare as I am presented with an award for establishing a new world treadmill record?

In the midst of joking about the experiences relating to my heart attack, I can’t help but be reminded of my mortality. My cardiologist once told me, “You have heart disease. That’s what you’ll die from.” Subtle.

The Bible says: “It is appointed unto a man once to die….” How glad I am that the verse doesn’t stop there. It goes on to say the most astounding thing. “Then comes the resurrection.” Without this second part of the verse, hope would slip away with the years. With this great promise, life is redeemed. Sorrow and pain and sickness and disease are bought back. Now, I can say with confidence, “I will die, but I will live again!”

Bob Hansen writes from Chehalis, Washington.