“The Heart Fitness Test That Can Save Your Life” was, I’m reasonably certain, the first national magazine piece about stress testing. When my late wife Arlene and I wrote it, we had no clue that the first life it would save would be mine.
The ASJA wore different initials in 1974. Back then, as the SMW (Society of Magazine Writers), it was about one-tenth its current size. But when Parade magazine editor Jess Gorkin said, “You’ve got the assignment,” it was just one more proof that paying dues – whether to the SMW or ASJA – pays big dividends.
It was proof, too, that veteran members are happy to help newbies. Mort Weisinger, who wrote regularly for Parade, had personally led us into Jess’ office to introduce and praise us with his personal Good Writing Seal of Approval.
Mort’s own creativity was legendary. When press agents stalled his requests for celebrity interviews, he would just bypass them. He’d call Mr. Moviestar long distance from a phone booth (remember them?) with a pocketful of quarters, dramatically pinging them in one after another. In those days, that sounded important and Mort would get the interview.
But back to our stress testing assignment. To personalize the piece, I had agreed to experience the stress test, and several days later my phone (pre-e-mail, of course) rang with an invitation to the office of Irv Levitan, the friendly cardiologist who’d suggested the story. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ve read the results. Good thing you agreed to take the test. You have an S/T depression. That’s serious. If you don’t completely change your lifestyle, you could be dead in five to ten years.”
This was not good news. I started jogging. First time out, I managed to huff and puff through two blocks before stopping to look for the nearest oxygen cylinder. But in three months, I was doing six up and downhill miles every other day, and I didn’t stop until 25 years later when my pavement-pounded calves accused me of legicide in the first degree. (I took up swimming and water aerobics.)
More lifestyle: I switched from fries, burgers, and steak to salmon, eliminated my customary two-fried-egg breakfasts, and bade farewell to all-you-can-eat buffets. I lost 15 pounds and was rewarded a year later with the results of my next stress test. Miraculously, the S/T depression had disappeared. Apparently (I hope, medical writers, I’ve got this right) one or more replacement arteries was increasing my heart’s oxygen supply.
That five to ten year deadline is long gone. I’m not.