Quad Takes a Stress Test

Because I turned 45 in December and because heart disease runs in my family, my doctor thought it would be a good idea to partake in a nuclear stress test as part of my now annual physical. Today was the day.

Before I get into my morning, I have to tell you that the last two days have been hell. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat or drink after midnight the night before. No big deal. Hell, I have usually drank my fill of Bombay Sapphire by ten. But I didn’t know, until I was told of course, was that I couldn’t have anything with caffeine in it for 48 hours prior to the test. So, beginning Sunday morning, no coffee.

Now to most people that’s not a big deal. But most people don’t know me. Most people don’t know that I drink 6-10 cups of coffee a day on average. That my friends, is no lie. I love coffee. It’s my addiction. It tastes like the nectar of the Gods. So it didn’t come as a surprise that when my system was used to so much caffeine intake and there was none to be had, my body would pay me back with headaches. And if you have never had one, caffeine withdrawal headaches are the absolute worst because you can’t do anything about them but feed your system caffeine. Needless to say, by the time it was time to go to bed Sunday, my head was hurting so much I couldn’t sleep.

Yesterday, the pain was there, but not as bad. But I felt lethargic all day. I felt like I was moving and talking in slow motion. People were asking me if I was OK because they had never seen me like that. I left work early and took a two hour nap before MQ and the Future got home. That seemed to help. By the time I went to bed last night, it sucked. I was tired as hell, and my headache had returned. Fast forward to this morning.

4:43 am: I wake up to go potty and couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind kept wondering and moving at 90 to nothing.

6:45 am: I must have fallen to sleep because MQ wakes me up. As she showers, I walk downstairs and commence to make our morning smoothie. For some reason, I thought the bottom of the blender container was on tight. It wasn’t and my concoction of banana, strawberry, vanilla yogurt and ice was all over the counter. “oh hell.” I thought. “I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.”

7:25: I have showered, gotten dressed, gotten the Future dressed, kissed my daughter goodbye on her way to the bus stop and was finally out the door. It was cold as a bitch. The kind of cold that takes your breath away for the first few seconds. As I drive off, I make sure my daughter is at the bus stop.

7:34: I arrive at the hospital and am lost the minute I walk in the door. So I ask for directions to the healthy heart area. “go to the end of this hall, take a left, and then another left.” It’s not that simple, as there are multiple lefts after I take the first left at the end of the hall. I ask for directions again.

7:36: I waltz into the healthy heart area and am immediately taken aback: I am the youngest person in the waiting room and I immediately feel stupid. Everyone stopped as I walked in to gander at the Quadness, probably wondering why such a fine specimen of a man is in the healthy heart area. I check in.

“just have a seat. They will call you when it is your turn. Your appointment is not until 8:15, so you have some time.”

“great.” I think. “I was told the wrong time again. Someone has a sick sense of humor.”

7:38: I mosey down the hall to the men’s room to take my morning relief. I felt weird taking a dump in a Catholic hospital, but I guess it was OK since there was a bathroom.

7:45: damn. Thirty minutes until my appointment. I guess I will read. I pick up a Newsweek and was reading a chapter excerpt from the not-published OJ Simpson book. If there was ever a doubt he murdered his ex-wife and that queer, there isn’t one now. He did it, and he said so.

8:23: I’m called back by this 5’11 beauty. I feel embarrassed because I didn’t shave this morning. Well, not my face anyway. She explains about the dye injection, asks me to roll up my sleeve and to make a fist. It took three of them to get my sleeve over my Python, and every time I made a fist, I flexed a little and would pop the rubber tie thing off my arm. Finally, they were able to find a good vein, inserted the IV, and injected the dye.

8:45: I am taken back to this room where I have to lie on the table while this machine took incremental pictures of my heart. The machine was actually a little fascinating, but it was the most excruciating 13 minutes of my life because they were playing country music on the intercom.

9:00: I’m taken to the waiting area, but was supposed to go to the treadmill area. “we have to wait until the person that’s in there gets dressed.” The nurse said.
“dressed?” I asked
“yep.”

“that’s just great.” I thought. “I am going to have to run on this treadmill nude trying to focus through the smacking sound Roger Ramjet will make when slapping against my chest. All I need is for him to get tangled up in the EKG wires and give a false reading.”

While I am waiting, a second nurse comes in: blonde, blue eyed Nordic goddess. Pregnant. Married.

9:03: I’m taken back to the treadmill area, where I am asked to remove my shirt. Gasps fill the room as the nurses get a view of their fantasies: the Quad Pectoralis Maximus. As I stand there, I flex and make my Pecs bounce. If I had known I would have to take my shirt off, I would have oiled down first.

9:04: the DUDE attaching the EKG probes obviously wasn’t amused at my entertainment. After swabbing me down, he literally takes a miniature brillo pad and scrubs the areas where the probes will be placed.

Quad: why?
Dude: because it helps the probes stick even if you sweat while on the treadmill.
Quad: will I be making love during this treadmill action?
Dude, laughing: no. why?
Quad: because I only sweat during the love, the whole love, and nothing but the love, baby.

9:15: I’m wired and ready. I have to walk on the treadmill to get to my target heart rate. To get that, they subtract my age from 220, and multiply by .85. so my target heart rate is 148.75. every three minutes, the speed gets quicker and the incline greater.

9:18: first three minutes done. Nothing. I felt like I was taking a Sunday stroll.
9:21: pace picks up. Incline is greater, but not big deal. It feels no different than my regular walks. The pace quickens even more and the incline is greater.
9:22: this shit sucks.
9:23: this shit REALLY sucks. My legs are screaming, calling me names! My breathing quickens and I finally hit my target heart rate. “one more minute.” They tell me, and inject more dye.
9:23:30: son of a bitch. Only thirty seconds have passed? I feel like my legs are going through labor. I scream out and call the doctor a bastard. “You got my into this shit!” I scream!
9:23:40: my heart rate is now up to almost 160, which is good. My legs weigh a ton. Muscles that have never hurt before now scream out for mercy. 20 more seconds I tell myself, then it happens: I break through the wall and finish the final 20 seconds without incident. In fact, I wanted to keep going while I was on a roll.
9:30: the doctor tells me that every thing looks good, and that anyone who can successfully make it to nine minute on their treadmill is at a very, very low risk for heart problems. They remove all of the probes but three because I will need them later when they take another series of pictures of my heart. I’m taken back to the waiting area.

“would you like something cold to drink while you wait?” the Nordic goddess asks (NOTE: I have to wait 30 minutes before the pictures are taken.)

Quad: gin and tonic.
Nordic: hmm. I wish I could help you. How about cranberry, apple or grape juice, with some graham crackers?
Quad: grape please.

I commence to reading ESPN the magazine. When she returns, I close the magazine and listen to her while she sets my juice and crackers down. On the back cover of the magazine is a picture of the 49ers tight end, in his under armor shirt, running.

Nordic: oh my god. Look at those shoulders!
Quad: yeah, years of training.
Nordic: you know, I like muscle, but that’s just a little much. I think most women like a little muscle.
Quad: I think most women say that, until they run their hands on muscle. Then it’s a whole different tune they sing.
Nordic: hmm. That’s interesting.

10:00: Nordic takes me to the back and asks me to lie down on the table. When she starts to connect the probes, she runs her hand under my shirt instead of having me lift it. I notice that as she moved from pec to pec, her hand lingered, feeling the rippling of a Michael angelo sculpture. She then ran her hand across my abdomen to the probe on my side, savoring the what she couldn’t see: the quality of the six pack of Quad. I think that is why she left my shirt on so that her imagination could take charge.

10:15: I am done and the probes are removed. Again, she slides her hand under my shirt to remove them, looking me in the eye as she did it. I can only wonder what is going through her mind. We make small talk, she gives me a survey to fill out and writes her name on the card: Melissa.

I leave, and have to ask for directions to get out of the damn hospital twice. I get in my truck and haul ass to 7-11 to get me some coffee. I fill my truck up with gas, then go inside. I notice they now have chicken wings.

Quad: what kind of wings are those?
Employee 1 (female): the top ones are bar b q. the bottoms are spicy.
Employee 2 (male) from behind the register: you can get 10 for $4.90 TODAY!
Quad: that would make sense since the sign says they are 49 cents a piece!
He looks at my like I’m the dumb ass. I look back at him like, “Who’s the dumb ass?????”
Quad: I’ll take 10 hot wings.

I go get my coffee. Pick my wings that I got on special 10 for $4.90, pay and hit the road. I take my first sip of coffee in over 48 hours. “Man.” I think. “What a life I live!”