Stress Stories....

Sorry foodies, no food today!

Well, yesterday was pretty much devoted to my second Stress Test. For those interested, it was “normal” based on real time data.

Anyway, for the Feeder, the “stress” part of it was thinking about doing it. Try as you might you can’t help but tucking it in that little corner of the brain which sets off its alarm clock every so often.. “only two more days....”; "tomorrow"...

So at last yesterday, dressed in my best Greg Norman warm-up suit (wear loose fitting clothes) and a tasteful Ralph Lauren tee shirt, I drove out to the Bean Palace and checked in at the cardiac doctor’s office. “Sir, why are you here?” Well I’m doing a stress test. “That’s down in radiology, sir”. Oh. (As an aside, the cardiac doctors are located on the second floor, up a long flight of stairs) and I went back down and checked into Radiology.

After a few minutes, I was ushered into the inner sanctum and asked to sit in the chairs and somebody would be “right with you”.. That was a phrase I heard more than once during the day, meaning it would be at least twenty minutes before somebody was actually “right with you”. Anyway, I was finally taken into a room to get ready for the process. The first thing I was handed was one of those fashionable open front gowns, and asked to put it on. It was pink. (I referred to it as “salmon” the rest of the day). I guess it’s all part of the plan to strip you of any dignity and breaking you down to a babbling patient, meekly following any direction. My protest of "what happened to the loose fitting clothes?" was met with silence. So, off comes the Polo shirt, and she prepared to affix the instrumentation to me. Open comes the gown, and she says: “oh, good! we won’t have to shave your chest!”. Another blow to the masculine ego. No manly hairy chest there!. So pickups were glued on, and nurse number one leaves.

I am not making this up. Nurse number two comes in with “Hi, I’m < ----- >, and I’ll be helping you with your test today!” ~ the one time when “taking care of you” would be welcome and appropriate. So she shoots me up with the radioactive stuff, leaves, and says “I’ll be right back”. Twenty minutes later we went to the picture machine where you lay still on your back and the little “in your face” machine moves at an imperceptible rate around you doing whatever it does. That’s about 18 minutes of nothingness that seems like 40. After that, we’re ready for the treadmill room. Go sit in there; get re-hooked up to a machine that shows your heart rate and all the little squigglies of your heart beats. As she departs the room leaving me to look at the strip charts she says over her shoulder: “the doctor will be right here, and we’ll get started”.

Half an hour later, we’re ready to actually "get started". The doc is reading the chart, and Nurse number two patronizingly says “now anytime you want to quit just say so”. Switch on, the mill moves and I start walking at a snail’s pace. “are you sure you’re okay?” Yes. “now anytime you want to quit just say so”. This goes on at least three more times, and by this time I swear I’ll die on the thing before giving in. Finally the doc says do you think you can do one more? (nurse coos again at this point). Bring it on! So finally get to the top, congratulations all around, and the doc says “looks stone normal to me”. So unhook everything and was told to be back in an hour for a final round of pictures.

Why does this always happen to me? I gather my stuff, re-don the tasteful clothing and head for the fluttermobile in the parking lot. Reach into Greg’s right hand pocket for the keys----nothing. Other pocket. Nothing. Check the (unused) laptop bag. Nothing. Both pockets again. Nothing. Bag again. Nothing. Check the parking lot—nothing. As I start walking back to the building, I hear key like jingling noises coming from somewhere. Pockets again..nothing. Then I look down by my right ankle and see a bulge just over the elastic cuff. Sure enough, there are the keys! Pull open the cuff only to find the keys are actually located between the lining and the outer shell of the pants which are sewn together. No way to extricate them there. Fortunately I parked in the far reaches of the lot in relative privacy, so I decided I’d slip out of that leg, hold it up and they’d slide out the top. Discreetly as possible I did, only to have the keys slide from the right leg into the left leg and back down to the ankle. Okay, now I’m in trouble. With no option left, I shuck out of the left leg leaving me in the skivvies. Fortunately Ralph Lauren is long enough to slightly cover the right things. Hold both legs up (glancing for any on lookers) and the keys now slide up to the waist band, but there is still no opening to get to them. They’re trapped!! I couldn’t find any hole in the pocket. Now desperate, I poke the ignition key through the lining, unlock the door and get in. So I drive home (slouched in the seat) in my undies with only the notched part of the key in the ignition and the rest of the pants draped from the steering column. Thank God no stopping by police. Upon reaching the safety of the garage, MFO eventually found a small hole in the pocket which escaped me while deshabille in the parking lot, and surface the keys.

What a day. It was capped off however by a wonderful Gray Goose Dirty martini to lower the stress… and I was NOT

DFD