Stressing about testing

Some people celebrate the onset of middle age with a new Volvo C70 hard-top convertible (uh, that would be My Love). Me -- I spent it trying to maintain my dignity by not flying off the back of a moving treadmill.

If you've never taken a stress test before, you've probably seen one done on any of the zillion of medical shows on TV these days. My turn on it resembled a cross between "Mystery Diagnosis" and "Scrubs."

In retrospect, I'm happy it just didn't turn into "CSI." After all, who hasn't heard the following story at least once in their lives:

"(INSERT NAME HERE) was doing just fine. Then he went to the doctor for a physical and BAM! Coronary on the treadmill. Had to scrape bits of him off the walls."

I asked my test technician about this, hoping to uncover an urban myth.

"Oh, sure," he said. "It happens."

Someone should tell him that such an honest answer is not the way to an "exceeds my expectations" score on the patient satisfaction survey.

"But," he continued, "if you are going to have a heart attack, having one of during the stress test is the best time. You're already hooked up to all the right monitors and you're surrounded by doctors and the necessary equipment to save your life."

Then he started shaving my chest.

This was the second time a man had ever shaved me before. While not on my list of life's pleasures, this go-round did beat the time it was performed by the urologist.

And, we're moving, we're moving …

So, now, I've got circular sticky patches and wires galore on my body. Zero hour has come.

"You'll be walking at a brisk pace, 3.3 miles per hour," he said. Every minute, the incline will increase one degree. Don't hold onto the bar. Just use it to balance yourself briefly when you need to. Let's go."

The first few minutes were deceivingly simple. I'm on a lovely stroll! Up a little hill! Watching "SportsCenter" and debating the evils of the designated hitter with a man in a white jumpsuit! How pleasant.

After five minutes, I'm eying the clinic's "stress test record holders" who are framed on the wall in front of me. I recognize a few names. They're all marathon runners. Hey, only 26 minutes more to go before I kick their asses!

Then, somewhere around Minute 13, I started rocketing through the Five Stages of Grief over my own body's flabbiness:

Denial -- That clock has got to be slow. It's been at least an hour!

Anger -- I am going to kill my wife for talking me into this stupid physical!

Bargaining -- If I live, I'm never even THINKING about cheese again. Or red meat. I'll give up sugar, too. Jane! Get me off this crazy thing!

Depression -- Dear Lord, I'm going to die in a backless paper gown.

Acceptance -- This gown is a lovely shade of blue, isn't it. Carolina? Mmmm, more of a periwinkle, I think. It will go nice with the blood splatters.

I made it to 22 minutes, 17 seconds before my legs went jelly. I probably could have stumbled and sweated another two minutes to move from the "good" to "excellent" health category; however, being wheeled out on a gurney would have been so anticlimactic.

If you enjoy my pain, go to Humor-Blogs.com, register and give a smiley face ... and some oxygen -- stat!