Ya know, back in November of 2009 my doctor insisted I take the stress test. I didn't even like the way it sounded. But I finally agreed. So I go in early, hoping to get out and do a full day's work. The girl running the test (and trying to kill me) started a bit slow, but within seconds she had the treadmill straight up and down. And she had it spinning so fast I'd need a dragster to keep up. But then she took mercy on me and shut it down. Had me get off it and go sit down on the gurney. Soon she had a cardiologist looking at the graph paper it'd been spitting out. Then she came over to me and said "here, take this pill and put it under your tongue". She said it won't do anything but relax you maybe, so lay back. And I went to sleep. Then they woke me up and said I needed an angiogram. So I called work and said I won't be in on time...
Soon they were calling my wife (next of kin?) So they put me in a room (holding cell?)
Then it was off to the evil folks that do the angiogram. I got to the cold room. It wasn't a walk in freezer, but might as well have been. So they gave me a warm blanket. Soon they said they were going to give me something in an IV that would relax me, but I could watch the screen if I wanted. So I went to sleep. Next thing I knew, I was back in the room with my wife there. And I was the grand prize winner! I was going to get surgery the next afternoon! Wonderful. But they gave me even more happy medicine and I went to sleep.
So the next day came and they cut my heart out. Much to the dismay of those who were sure I didn't have one. And just for fun, they even slit my leg open and harvested some vein.
So I again learned to never trust anyone, or anything they said. But on the plus side, they had lots of happy pills and were pretty darn free with them. The one nurse even had a cute backside. But before you know it, I was sent home to suffer. And my only source of relief was my wife, notably stingy with anything that might make me feel bad. The happy pills said one or two every four to six hours. To her, that means one every six hours. The nice little nursey was giving me two every four hours. About the second cycle of that and I took over my own pain meds.
Youngest son heard the commotion. He's probably nearly addicted to pills because of his ongoing back issues. But for once he was willing to share. My wife had to go back to the surgeons office because they can't call in the good stuff. Son just called his doctor and they sent him another prescription. So I had a backup plan if need be. But I didn't need it. I managed to ween myself of the happy pills even faster than I thought possible. I went from 2 every 4 hours to 1/2 every 6, and then none at all for a couple of days. Then only a half and then none.
So my plan is when they demand another treadmill, I'm refusing. If I die, its alright by me. I just don't like the pain. They deal in other peoples pain all the time and it means nothing to them. If I croak, its OK. Oldest son's instructions are clear. Just dispose of the body. Or roast it to ash and dump them out in the desert. He knows the place. And he has better sense than to include women folk in the process. I hope. They'd want BLM permission! What nonsense. The winds will carry the ash away.