Stress

The mere sight of the word “stress” raises my blood pressure noticeably. And that is before adding one of the words I’ve always dreaded most—“test.” Add the word “nuclear” to that mix and I think you get the picture. Today I am on a tread mill in physical therapy. Unfortunately my mind is racing ahead to tomorrow at this time when I am scheduled for a “Nuclear Stress Test” on a similar tread mill.






I know that mature grownup men are not subject to fear so perhaps I am not a “mature” grownup man. The stress test is “for my own good” but no one consults me or asks if I think I need one even though I am the victim patient. Stress tests are something routinely administered to those with heart event histories, but it’s far from routine for me. Even the timing of this test is stressful because it reminds me of the life changing events connected with a massive heart attack this time of year seventeen years ago.






If my recollection is correct, I think when I first experienced this type of test it was called a “Thallium Stress Test.” That reminds me for some unknown reason of Thalidomide from decades ago. Even though I am not sure what that is, I am sure it is “bad” and thus another bad association. Either way, the test involves being garbed in an assortment of harnesses and electrical leads connected to various parts of my body. In addition, an intravenous tube is threaded into and dangles from a vein in my arm. A team of observers is assembled around me as the tread mill starts a routine called “The Bruce Protocol” which is a series of increasingly difficult speeds and elevations. I am told to “exercise till I can’t go any more”- a daunting challenge. One of the assistants hovers poised with a hypodermic needle ready at some point to inject a solution into my IV tube (actually two solutions). I imagine this must be how someone facing lethal injection must feel as all eyes focus on me and my struggle to stay on a “runaway” treadmill. Once I breathlessly signal I can’t continue, the “executioner” injects a radioactive dye into me and tells me to continue for another minute. Finally, the stress test is all over. Now that the injected dye can illuminate any potential weaknesses, it’s time for the actual reading of how healthy my heart really is. Thus more testing, but thankfully laying still on a table under a huge rotary scanner.






I query every medical professional I meet to see if there is some other way to check things out rather than relying on this “barbaric” test. Unfortunately, they are unanimous in their resounding “NO.” I find that difficult to believe in this age of pill-sized swallow able cameras and elaborate imaging. Guess I’ll just have to accept it and endure with my thoughts and apprehensions till tomorrow.






My mind races and my blood pressure elevates to a level unseen in years even after I get home. Perhaps some time on the computer will have a calming effect. A quick search on the internet produces a fascinating little ditty called “the Holmes and Rahe Stress Test.” Though it’s not new (1967), it’s new to me. It tabulates the stressful factors that may have been experienced in the past year of one’s life (and correlates them to probability of experiencing stress induced illness). When I glance through the list they’ve compiled I realized that I really have relatively little stress. I do a few parentheticals based on what I know others have and are experiencing. Many results are “off the chart;” and they are friends with “normal” problems. I can’t imagine the stress for a single mom in a gang-infested neighborhood, or the special person providing 24/7 care to a loved one that can’t take care of themselves, or folks who are fighting to save a thirty-plus year “perfect” marriage, or a young person that doesn’t fit into another foster home, or a special lady I know who recently acquired the label “homeless,” or a grieving new orphan in far off Haiti, and the list goes on.






When I turn my eyes away from my situation in light of all this, I am embarrassed to think that my “few minute tread mill encounter” even bears the label “stress.” It’s time to refocus my thoughts, concerns, prayers, and actions to an outward perspective and a “stressed” world. Yes, I am called to be “my brother’s keeper”. In addition, I am learning that I can’t effectively focus on that challenge as long as my eyes are on myself and my own perceived “stresses”.