Stressing The Test

!!DANGER!! shrieked the stout
container: !Radioactive Waste!
compelling notice of the injectables
the efficiently courteous technician
deposited after swiftly infusing the
contents through the IV port she had
penetrated the vein in my inner arm
so effortlessly and relatively painlessly.
Given time for the nuclear medicine
marker to reach my heart, the next
step was an introduction to a gamma
camera mounted like the snout of a
great, terrifying beast on a retractable
movable apparatus under which the
gurney I lay upon moved smoothly
mechanically underneath. The beast's
handler explained little while busily
attaching the electrodes to my skin
shrinking from the contact, skilled
in manoeuvring the controls that
made my heart stop in the kind of terror
that overtakes the unprepared as the
beast hovered, then descended upon
my chest, shifting from one vantage to
another, taking the photographs that
would inform the cardiologist what
conclusions he would infer from the
diagnostic miracle that so intimidated
me, to prescribe a course of action
intended to prolong my life in a gamble
that intervention would do just that.