The Stig
01-04-2013, 07:02 PM
As usual this post contains vulgar language and will likely be offensive to nearly everybody....
You have been warned.
Old Stigy has been having some odd pains in the upper left chest. At first I thought this was caused by pulling a muscle or the like but after 2 or 3 months with no relief I decided to go see the doctor.
After an exam, 100 questions and an EKG she felt the odds of it being a cardiovascular issue were very low. But to be sure, and rule it out completely, she ordered a stress test. I figured what the hell...it's my civic duty to support the health care industry of the Federal Government.
So this morning I awoke and ate a light bowl of cereal at 5:30am and arrived for my 9:00am appointment all excited and full of wild eyed wonder. I did use the restroom right before the test to recycle some of the mornings water, but as I walked into the room my stomach had that first pang of "I may have to take a dump later". Y'all know exactly what I'm talking about.
Needless to say I was somewhat disappointed when the 50+ year old DUDE nurse called me back. He was very very nice and helpful but he suffered from one big problem: he wasn't a hot chick. But I digress. He took my vitals, hooked me up to the electrodes and explained what would happen.
I was further disappointed when the DUDE nurse practitioner came in to administer the test. Same situation, cool dude, no chick.
But I'm a sexist pig like that.
For the uninitiated a stress test is when they hook you up to an EKG and have you walk/jog/run on a treadmill. As your exertion rises any irregularities will show up as your heart beats faster/harder to supply blood. Pretty simple.
So I hop on and they start up the treadmill. It's moving at a speed to make me walk fast but nothing hard. I was talking to them, cracking jokes and being funny guy. After two minutes of that he ramped up the speed. Again, no big deal. Towards the end of that two minutes I started to feel it a tiny bit....but overall no issues. The talking and jokes slowed down but not by much.
As we go into the third, two minute block the speed increases so that I'm power walking to keep up. I tend to walk fast anyway so it wasn't alarming. Think of it as walking as fast as you can without running. I made a joke about it being like when I have to dash through airports to catch planes but as the block of time worn on my witty banter evaporated. I could feel a little bit of sweat building and as I approached the end of the 6th minute my breathing started to accelerate. I won't lie, my clutch on the handlebars tightened precipitously.
So now Mr. Fancy-White-Lab-Coat-Murse-Practitioner, doing his best imitation of a Nazi death-camp guard, decides to launch the tread mil into hyperdrive.
This is probably a good time to mention that, despite what you all believe, Mr Stig is not a chiseled God of athleticism. Shocking I know. It's kinda like finding out Santa isn't real. I went through a phase of working out about two years ago but generally speaking I've never been one for sports, working out or jazzersize. I could lose a good 20-25lbs and don't maintain the best diet. I could blame it on heavy traveling for work, stress of moon spot activity. Bottom line, I'm not disciplined and lazy in this area. I can go out in the yard and work all day at my own pace but if I really go at something I get winded and worn out very easily.
AND.NOW.I'M.RUNNING.ON.A.FUCKING.TREADMILL
Holy fucking moose tits. Not only am I rapidly starting to huff & puff like the wolf fixing to blow down some pig's houses, I'm clutching onto the handlebars like Joan Rivers clutches onto living. I'm pretty sure I left marks in the aluminum.
Remember the part where my tummy started to rumble as I walked into the test. Yea. This is happening.
So now I'm (1) running on a treadmill (2) huffing like an 90 year old asthmatic with a five pack a day habit (3) clutching onto the handlebars to avoid being thrown off the machine in a heap of shame and failure AND (4) I'm having visions of shitting my pants in the process.
I'm praying for a massive heart attack, stroke and spontaneous combustion all at the same time to spare me from the humiliation.
After what seemed like an eternity, as I could feel my tenuous grasp on the handlebars slipping away, do you know what Mr. Murse Man says to me? The ass-hat says, "ok....just give me another minute."
ANOTHER FUCKING MINUTE AND YOU'LL BE COVERED IN MY SWEAT, FAILURE AND DIARRHEA YOUR FUCKING SADISTIC BASTARD.
Seriously, I was this close to letting go and letting the sweet release of death save me.
Instead, like a total blithering idiot, I focus on a spot on the wall and bear down. Fuck this test. Fuck this treadmill. Fuck this clinic. Most of all fuck whoever invented stress-tests. No I mean it. Find the guy, bury him alive in concrete and launch him to Saturn. Then burn down his house, sell his comic book collection for $15 and give his wife herpes. Tell his kids the dog didn't "go to live on a farm" and was smashed by a truck. Take a piss in his goldfish bowl. What an asshole. I'm going to ranger the fuck up and grunt this out just to prove....well....I don't know. But I'm going to prove it dammit.
Then Mr. "I Went to School and Have a Clipboard" blurts out "45 seconds".
WHAT? Fuck off you dickhead. That was at least 36 seconds not 15.
Now I'm gasping for air. Really. I'm making this sound like a whooping cough victim as my lugs decide "we're done with this stupidity". I'm pretty sure everybody in the waiting area heard me going "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaooooppp ppppppppppp" as I tried to get some form of useable oxygen to my lungs. For good measure I mixed in a couple grunts. You know...to sound cool.
This has gone on really too long already so I won't drag it out. I made it the full two minutes at (for me) a flat out run. Yippie Fucking Yahoo.
Now the real fun starts.
Short version: it took me nearly 45 minutes to recover. Between the cold chills, the incredible pressure that had built in my colon, the nausea and light-headedness I'm pretty sure jamming a dremmel on high-speed up my dick-hole would be more fun. I stood up once and the entire world collapsed on my head, I had to reach out for support and I nearly launched the contents of my stomach through the wall into the next room. I've never passed out but I'm pretty sure I almost did this time.
Basically I had to lay still on the cold title floor until everything settled down long enough for me to regain my composure and search fruitlessly for my dignity.
Thank whatever deity you chose to pray to that it wasn't a couple of big-titted co-ed nurses in low cut outfits doing this test. It was bad enough being reduced to a pile of poo in front of a couple guys. Yea, I'm a sexist pig like that.
So the good news is, after eight minutes of stress test there are no irregularities in Ole Stigys ticker. The two guys administering the test really were very nice.
The bad news is, I'm going to become a hobo and travel the rails to contemplate my complete failure as a man.
Bottom line: if your doctor orders a stress test, just die. It's simpler, less humiliating and involves no co-pays.
You have been warned.
Old Stigy has been having some odd pains in the upper left chest. At first I thought this was caused by pulling a muscle or the like but after 2 or 3 months with no relief I decided to go see the doctor.
After an exam, 100 questions and an EKG she felt the odds of it being a cardiovascular issue were very low. But to be sure, and rule it out completely, she ordered a stress test. I figured what the hell...it's my civic duty to support the health care industry of the Federal Government.
So this morning I awoke and ate a light bowl of cereal at 5:30am and arrived for my 9:00am appointment all excited and full of wild eyed wonder. I did use the restroom right before the test to recycle some of the mornings water, but as I walked into the room my stomach had that first pang of "I may have to take a dump later". Y'all know exactly what I'm talking about.
Needless to say I was somewhat disappointed when the 50+ year old DUDE nurse called me back. He was very very nice and helpful but he suffered from one big problem: he wasn't a hot chick. But I digress. He took my vitals, hooked me up to the electrodes and explained what would happen.
I was further disappointed when the DUDE nurse practitioner came in to administer the test. Same situation, cool dude, no chick.
But I'm a sexist pig like that.
For the uninitiated a stress test is when they hook you up to an EKG and have you walk/jog/run on a treadmill. As your exertion rises any irregularities will show up as your heart beats faster/harder to supply blood. Pretty simple.
So I hop on and they start up the treadmill. It's moving at a speed to make me walk fast but nothing hard. I was talking to them, cracking jokes and being funny guy. After two minutes of that he ramped up the speed. Again, no big deal. Towards the end of that two minutes I started to feel it a tiny bit....but overall no issues. The talking and jokes slowed down but not by much.
As we go into the third, two minute block the speed increases so that I'm power walking to keep up. I tend to walk fast anyway so it wasn't alarming. Think of it as walking as fast as you can without running. I made a joke about it being like when I have to dash through airports to catch planes but as the block of time worn on my witty banter evaporated. I could feel a little bit of sweat building and as I approached the end of the 6th minute my breathing started to accelerate. I won't lie, my clutch on the handlebars tightened precipitously.
So now Mr. Fancy-White-Lab-Coat-Murse-Practitioner, doing his best imitation of a Nazi death-camp guard, decides to launch the tread mil into hyperdrive.
This is probably a good time to mention that, despite what you all believe, Mr Stig is not a chiseled God of athleticism. Shocking I know. It's kinda like finding out Santa isn't real. I went through a phase of working out about two years ago but generally speaking I've never been one for sports, working out or jazzersize. I could lose a good 20-25lbs and don't maintain the best diet. I could blame it on heavy traveling for work, stress of moon spot activity. Bottom line, I'm not disciplined and lazy in this area. I can go out in the yard and work all day at my own pace but if I really go at something I get winded and worn out very easily.
AND.NOW.I'M.RUNNING.ON.A.FUCKING.TREADMILL
Holy fucking moose tits. Not only am I rapidly starting to huff & puff like the wolf fixing to blow down some pig's houses, I'm clutching onto the handlebars like Joan Rivers clutches onto living. I'm pretty sure I left marks in the aluminum.
Remember the part where my tummy started to rumble as I walked into the test. Yea. This is happening.
So now I'm (1) running on a treadmill (2) huffing like an 90 year old asthmatic with a five pack a day habit (3) clutching onto the handlebars to avoid being thrown off the machine in a heap of shame and failure AND (4) I'm having visions of shitting my pants in the process.
I'm praying for a massive heart attack, stroke and spontaneous combustion all at the same time to spare me from the humiliation.
After what seemed like an eternity, as I could feel my tenuous grasp on the handlebars slipping away, do you know what Mr. Murse Man says to me? The ass-hat says, "ok....just give me another minute."
ANOTHER FUCKING MINUTE AND YOU'LL BE COVERED IN MY SWEAT, FAILURE AND DIARRHEA YOUR FUCKING SADISTIC BASTARD.
Seriously, I was this close to letting go and letting the sweet release of death save me.
Instead, like a total blithering idiot, I focus on a spot on the wall and bear down. Fuck this test. Fuck this treadmill. Fuck this clinic. Most of all fuck whoever invented stress-tests. No I mean it. Find the guy, bury him alive in concrete and launch him to Saturn. Then burn down his house, sell his comic book collection for $15 and give his wife herpes. Tell his kids the dog didn't "go to live on a farm" and was smashed by a truck. Take a piss in his goldfish bowl. What an asshole. I'm going to ranger the fuck up and grunt this out just to prove....well....I don't know. But I'm going to prove it dammit.
Then Mr. "I Went to School and Have a Clipboard" blurts out "45 seconds".
WHAT? Fuck off you dickhead. That was at least 36 seconds not 15.
Now I'm gasping for air. Really. I'm making this sound like a whooping cough victim as my lugs decide "we're done with this stupidity". I'm pretty sure everybody in the waiting area heard me going "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaooooppp ppppppppppp" as I tried to get some form of useable oxygen to my lungs. For good measure I mixed in a couple grunts. You know...to sound cool.
This has gone on really too long already so I won't drag it out. I made it the full two minutes at (for me) a flat out run. Yippie Fucking Yahoo.
Now the real fun starts.
Short version: it took me nearly 45 minutes to recover. Between the cold chills, the incredible pressure that had built in my colon, the nausea and light-headedness I'm pretty sure jamming a dremmel on high-speed up my dick-hole would be more fun. I stood up once and the entire world collapsed on my head, I had to reach out for support and I nearly launched the contents of my stomach through the wall into the next room. I've never passed out but I'm pretty sure I almost did this time.
Basically I had to lay still on the cold title floor until everything settled down long enough for me to regain my composure and search fruitlessly for my dignity.
Thank whatever deity you chose to pray to that it wasn't a couple of big-titted co-ed nurses in low cut outfits doing this test. It was bad enough being reduced to a pile of poo in front of a couple guys. Yea, I'm a sexist pig like that.
So the good news is, after eight minutes of stress test there are no irregularities in Ole Stigys ticker. The two guys administering the test really were very nice.
The bad news is, I'm going to become a hobo and travel the rails to contemplate my complete failure as a man.
Bottom line: if your doctor orders a stress test, just die. It's simpler, less humiliating and involves no co-pays.