My Very Stressful “Stress Test.”

I know all things Cosby-related are taboo to discuss now, but I couldn’t help but recall the hilarious Bill Cosby show episode, “The physical." 

You see, my doctor set up a “nuclear stress test” for me at Barnes Hospital last week. 

It was quite stressful.

The first red flag was the word “nuclear.” 

A quick Google search explained it thusly: 

“A nuclear stress test uses a small amount of radioactive material and an imaging machine to create pictures showing the blood flow to your heart.”

Wait, what? Someone is going to inject radioactive fluid in my veins and I’m supposed to be OK with this?

Fine! I trust my doctor…sorta.

The emailed instructions from Barnes stipulated that I not have coffee, chocolate, or cigarettes 12 hours prior to my appointment. My day begins with two of those things (don’t judge me, damnit!). The latter is probably why my doctor ordered the test. 

Anywho, I show up at the hospital bright and early already stressed from deprivation. I check in and sit in the waiting room until a technician calls my name and takes me to the prep room. There, she checked my blood pressure and explained the upcoming process. She stuck a needle in my arm and a catheter which would be used to pump the liquid death into my veins that would travel to my poor unsuspecting heart. 

All the while I’m peppering the tech with questions:

“Is this radioactive stuff safe? Has anyone ever been rushed to the emergency for heart surgery during one of these tests?"

“Yes,” and “Yes,” the technician answered, way too nonchalantly for my taste.

Stress!

After this I was taken to another room with a gurney and a treadmill nearby.  Another tech came in, had me lie down on the gurney and placed about 12 sticky patches ("electrodes") strategically on my chest and torso. Next, she connected a bunch of wires to the electrodes before strapping a portable EKG machine around my waste that, she said, would measure the electrical activity of my heart while I "walked."

Next, I was told to stand on the treadmill. In a few minutes, the tech explained, it would start and gradually increase in speed and elevation for about 15-to-20 minutes.

“Easy-peezy,” I thought.  

Like Cliff Huxtable, I was cocky, strutting on the treadmill like a Blaxploitation movie character to the beat of “Superfly” playing in my head.

About five minutes later, I had a Getto Boys moment where my mind started playing tricks on me.

“I can feel that radioactive sludge coursing through your veins,” it said.

Beads of sweat percolated on my brow, my arms and torso... making me think I might short out the EKG wires. I felt my poor heart beating rapidly in my chest, my temples and, for some strange reason, the back of my throat.

Stress!

“Stop being a punk,” my inner macho man demanded.

OK, but my legs joined my brain and started complaining: “Dude, we aren’t used to this. We drive places. What’s with all this walking fast crap?”

Ten to fifteen minutes, more speed, and higher elevation levels later, I started to really panic. I don’t know why they had that freakin’ EKG screen right next to. Every time I coughed the ragged line shot up on the screen. I can’t swear to this, but I believe I saw a flat line or two slip pass my eyes.

I think my intestines and bladder simultaneously decided to save me. Suddenly I needed a (#1 & #2) bathroom break…like immediately.

Stress!

Then, my legs, as if they had their own brain, just stopped. I grabbed the treadmill handlebars so as not to slide into the wall behind me. The technician must have noticed because she gently placed her hands on my lower back with gently reassurance: “Just keep walking it’s almost over.”

Finally, the treadmill ordeal was done. I desperately needed a cup of coffee and a cigarette (stop judging). 

But, Nooo, I had to wait around for the second part of the test. Once my heart rate settled down, I was told I’d be placed in an imaging machine so doctors could see blood flow to the heart at its “resting rate.”

Whatever!   

They gave me a small cup of cranberry juice and a tiny packet of graham crackers and sent me to another waiting room. Because I hadn’t eaten anything in the last 15 hours or so, I greedily consumed everything with a satisfied quickness. I’m not sure if it was FOX or News Nation but the latest "Trump news" blared on the waiting room's TV screen.

Stress and disgust!

We were about three hours in at this point. I might have to stick around for another two hours or so, the tech told me, if the doctors weren’t satisfied with the images from the treadmill and scanner.

Damn! Rotating images of Starbucks and Parliament's 100s circled my imagination.

Anyway, I was sent to the imaging room and was told to lie down on this machine that looked like part oversized metal donut and part coffin. I lay under the donut part first, with my arms above my head holding my wrist. The whirring donut rotated back and forth for a few minutes then the gurney-thingy slowly slid into the metal coffin part.

Again, my mind started tripping: 

“Man, it’s awfully snug in here,” it complained. 

I didn’t know I was claustrophobic but for some reason, I started breathing funny and felt my eyes bulging. Laying there under whirring coffin cameras, the little boy in me pleaded:

“Momma!”

Finally, finally, it was over. “No more tests needed,” the Tech told me. “The doctors think they have what they need.”

I was released.

On the way out of the hospital, I stopped at a kiosk and got a hot cup of java. I sat in my car on the parking lot sipping coffee and doing that other (nonjudgmental) thing I mentioned. 

I don’t know the results of the tests yet but I was feeling pretty good. For those precious, caffeine and nicotine-filled moments, after hours of self-inflicted mental anguish...

I drove home stress-free.

****

Sylvester Brown, Jr. is a longtime, St. Louis based write and author of three books, including White Castles with Jesus & Uncle Ray at the Used Tire Shop.