Life is a stress test

Treadmills look so harmless. Not too big, not too complicated, not something that's liable to yank you inside its mechanical workings, chew you up and spit you out the other side. All they require you to do is walk, right? Something most of us have been most of our lives.

Ha. I went in for a nuke treadmill. Officially, it's called a myocardial perfusion stress test or something like that. Personally, I call it One Bad Day. It starts with an IV. Needles and I don't like each other. They're sharp. They hurt. My veins prefer to remain unpunctured, with all the blood inside.

The nuke guy was very good at sticking; he hit the vein on the first stab. Then he injected me with a radioactive isotope. (Wonder if I would make a Geiger counter tick?) After it pumps through my veins for a while, he took a whole bunch of pictures with this camera that defines "up close and personal." That takes fifteen minutes or so, with me lying on my back with my arms above my head.

I don't lie on my back unless I'm doing yoga. It makes me antsy. Gives me headaches. Makes my neck stiff. And I sure don't lie on my back with my arms over my head . . . unless I'm going yoga. An old separation injury in my left shoulder, an old rotator cuff strain in the right shoulder . . . (Jeez, sounds as if I've lived an active life. Ha!)

So fifteen minutes and oodles of pictures later, it was time for the treadmill. I was wired for sound, my blood was glowing green (don't tell me it wasn't; you won't change my mind), and Randy the nuke guy starts the treadmill. Easy going -- 2 mph, level surface. I was strolling along, thinking hey, this isn't bad. The timer hit the three-minute mark, the speed increased, and the thing inclined. Not so easy going anymore. But my heart rate was only about 80 -- still a good ways from the target of 144. Then the timer hit the six-minute mark, the speed increased again, and the incline increased again. Holy cow!

Years ago I saw some show with Bill Crosby where he was having a treadmill. Mine wasn't nearly as entertaining as his. I was huffing, puffing, sweating -- the damn thing was kicking my ass. Finally, I hit the target rate and stayed there while I got another injection of the radioactive stuff. A minute or so after that, the gods of women of a certain age took pity on me, and I got off the treadmill.

Then I got more pictures. On my back. Arms over my head.

Man, was I glad to get out of that place!

We'll see you back next year, one of the girls said on my way out.

Don't count on it. You don't have to hit me over the head with a treadmill to teach me a lesson. I want to live a long happy life, and I'm pretty damn sure that allowing people to torture me on a regular basis ain't the way to do it.

Besides, glowing green isn't my color. Rachel7:23 PM