It must have been about two weeks ago, maybe even three. Whenever it was, I sensed a sharp pain in my chest area.
It was more like pressure, something being pushed real hard over my heart.
At first, I did not mention it to anyone because I thought it was possibly just indigestion.
I checked the food that I had been eating, and nothing set off an alarm that said, “Watch out, hot and spicy coming through.”
Then I realized that I had started a new exercise routine, and perhaps I had overdone those six-minute abs tapes. Hey, I have a lot more than six minutes worth of work due on my abs.
I slowed down that exercise program, but still the pressure persisted. I started to think that maybe it was a little more than heartburn.
I made an appointment with my doctor, who decided to listen to my heartbeat and take some X-rays.
“You know, you have had several children, and sometimes mothers don’t take the time to slow down. You are probably overworked and sleep-deprived,” she said in her most serious doctor voice.
As she ended her statement, she had a strange look on her face while she listened more intently to my heartbeat.
“I think I am going to order you a stress test. Be at the hospital on Thursday morning,” she announced.
She assured me that I need not be concerned, Just show up and be ready to work out my heart and lungs.
All the way to the hospital, I kept envisioning Bill Cosby when he took a stress test on one of the episodes of The Cosby Show. He was falling off of the treadmill, all out of breath and sweating like a hog.
I could not get his image of long, white socks and tight running shorts pulled up to the middle of his stomach out of my head.
I chuckled at the memory.
Before I knew it, I was the one on the treadmill, starting off slowly and able to keep a conversation with the nurse. About eight minutes into it, the speed had tripled, and the sweat started sliding down my rosy cheeks.
I was relieved when she told me it was time to stop.
By the end of the day of test and routines, I felt like my stress test had stressed me out more.
Fortunately, I was able to return home with instructions to take some time off sometimes for myself, let the laundry sit and maybe just read a good book.
The doctor who gave me those instructions was not married and did not have any children. No wonder he has a low-stress life.
Thanks for sharing.