They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

(Sheri's actual "Heart Behaving Badly")

Fall of 2011: a rough season.  There were many traumatic events in my circle of family and friends and it felt like there was a curse in the air each day I awoke.  I know the universe has a right to hiccup once in a while, but it was endless and intense.  Because I internalized it, stress started doing funny things to my heart and stomach during the days I was trying to hold it together for myself and others.  

Suddenly, I developed a weird heart rhythm, chest pains and dizzy spells.  What was next, scurvy?  I had already been sidelined for six months because I blew my knee out in a horrific beach-volleyball-spike-gone-awry accident (but I STILL made the shot, baby), and hadn’t been able to run.  And running would have been SO right for this kind of stress.  Since I couldn’t run, I should have just taken a whack at our fence with a 9-iron.  Everyday, at 3 p.m.  Since I did none of those things, my ailments stayed.  Finally, I put myself first (after of course getting the washing machine fixed), and started the mind-numbing month of seeing specialists.  When your heart is in danger, the mother-lode of tests awaits you.  You get taken very seriously.  And you are told you can't be a runner yet, until you get cleared.

So, enter, The Stress Test (Treadmill Of Damnation.)  Just two weeks ago.

I heard about this beast.  Last year, I could run for a whole 44 minutes straight, and I was never once distracted by the vultures drafting off of me.  Surely, with the right treadmill test strategy, and my physiologist/husband’s obsessive need to be Fully Informed Before Walking From The Kitchen To The Living Room, I knew I had this covered. So, the hour before my stress test, he gave me the full description of what would happen.   I gathered a saucy playlist on my iPod, to mask the sounds of my own hoofs on the treadmill.  He made me a lunch so I could carb-load.  He tried to have faith in me, but I swear I heard him mutter, “That’s what a ‘last meal’ looks like.” However, we still had faith that I could hang on for at least 15 minutes; maybe 15.5 minutes, tops.  

I arrived to be admitted by a grandma-type.  I signed my forms and she blinked and said, “Well thank you.  You’ve just signed over your Rolex here, and your BMW here.”  I looked at her anew, full of the delight and interest one would use when seeing Joan Rivers in a cubicle.  She then hit me with this gem, “I’d love a Harley, but it would have to be a three wheeler,” and at that moment, I knew I was in love with her and it was going to be a magnificent day. 

But not so fast. 

I then entered the cardiac waiting room with a ‘Vacancy’ sign flashing overhead.  I saw a staff of beautiful nurses and technicians, who were upbeat and ready for me.  One technician, who looked genuinely happy to see me, readied the room for my great moment.  I heard lotions, seat covers smartly snapped and put in place, drawers opening, tools being clinked together.   

I felt my high wear off as I suddenly realized: this doesn’t sound like a spa.  It sounds like surgery---the heinous signals of an experiment.  

Then, my name was called in a “Sheri, party of one, your table is ready” kind of voice, as my heart cowered in its cage. 

Courage, courage, I thought, as she led the Clydesdale into the small room. 

The room!   NORAD, with wires, monitors and machines, but no lavender or candles. Anywhere.  Within minutes, I was efficiently plugged into things with bundles of telephone cables, jump ropes and dynamite fuses.  Suddenly, like when they discovered the Titanic, my heart image and EKG readings came into view on the monitor; the stock-market numbers raising and lowering, letting us all know my every thought.  I cast a sideways glance at The Treadmill, and thought….this isn’t a leisurely run through the forest to impress them with my stamina…their job is to run this horse into the ground until it drops.  Final comprehension is a wonderful thing if you catch it in time.  I was dying for them to ask me if I had eaten a light lunch, so I could answer, ‘Yes, a sausage on a hoagie roll!!!’ because sarcasm was pretty much all I had, what with being naked under the paper towel I was wearing.  I wasn’t allowed to use the iPod.  Please, I just wanted to make them laugh.  

We had to wait for the doctor, so I was alone in the room for a bit, with my numbers splayed open like the Book of Life.  I wanted to write down something in my ‘one-day-I’m-going-to-blog’ notebook of ideas.  Because this was good stuff. 

I saw my heart rate go up.  Simply reaching for the pen. 

I am hosed. 

I also had just bought a new set of running shoes in honor of this new era ahead of me, and as I stuck my feet in the mouth openings, I swear the shoes spit them back out in disgust as they muttered, “Imposter!”  Then, suddenly, the room came to life, as Team Sheri came in to lead me to damnation.  They were truly a positive group and I felt calm, even as someone's hand hovered over the trigger.

I whispered…bring it, proud of my resolve, like right before you birth a child or yank on that extra sunburned skin flap. 

It was all a blur.  My playlist wouldn’t have helped, because they hit “Incline” fairly quickly.    Six crazy minutes later, they seemed to have seen enough and the treadmill stopped, leaving only dust and smoke.  The Sheriff has left town.  The gunfight is over.  

Six minutes?  Not even enough time to save the world, and they already figured me out. 

“Your heart is perfect.  You can start being a runner again.” 

Wha?  Oh, sweet Mother of Mercy.  I looked at the image of my heart and bestowed that beautific look of love.  You know that look.  The one you give your pet or your child when they smear something sticky on the floor, and it is ART. 

Good girl.   All the way home, as I drove, I just kept saying,"Good girl."  I don’t know if I meant me or my heart, but both of us were cleared to start moving again.  Which makes me both happy and agitated because gosh, I HATE running. 

Many of you have sweetly told me my blog has inspired you to start your own exercise routine.  I’m sorry about that…I didn’t mean it.  Unless of course, this is how you want to do things around here. 

In that case, can I tell you how much pride I have whenever one of you emails me to tell me you are making little changes too?  

(The program that emails my posts to you, has run-on some of my words.  I am so sorry….we’re looking into it.)