I had my regular physical recently, and because I’d passed a line in the sand as far as age is concerned, volunteered certain useful information (“I have an ache here. And one more down here.”) and asked a couple of reasonable questions (“What’s wrong with me? Am I dying?”) my family doctor recommended 45 - 50 different tests and procedures.
One such procedure was an exercise stress test at the London Cardiac Institute on Pall Mall St.
Yesterday was my day of reckoning.
“Hi, my name is Gord,” I said to the receptionist when I arrived at the appointed hour.
“Hi, Gord,” she said. “We’re ready for you.”
I followed a young lady to a small room and was told to remove my shirt.
That was stressful, and I wondered if more stress was around the corner.
It was.
She proceeded to stick a dozen sensor tabs to my chest and when she couldn’t get two to stick she pulled an electric razor out of a desk drawer.
Crap, I said to myself, starting to sweat. I play hockey in two hours and that patch of hair she just removed won’t grow back in time. That one either. That one either. That one either.
By the time I was asked to step onto a treadmill I was a sweaty mess.
But, because of years of marathoning, regular exercise and two games of hockey per week I was greeted by four lovely words once the 15 minute exercise drill was finished.
I was hoping for “you broke the machine” but will happily settle for “your heart is perfect.”
***
Well, almost perfect.
I didn’t take time to tell the doctor that back when I was in Grade Six a young red-head named Karen Shultz turned down my offer to take her bowling one Sunday afternoon.
I had taken a bath, was all dressed up, had politely knocked on her door...
I may still have a picture of her around here somewhere.
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