Borderline Stress Test

Early Tuesday morning, May 2, I left home with Hershey, my constant companion, to spend a few days with my family in Michigan. While driving, I called my sister-in-law. Her granddaughter answered. We had not talked in ages, so we gabbed a long time, then I had my usual lengthy chat with my sister-in-law catching up on each other’s activities including my current trip. After we said goodbye, I realized that the 401 had narrowed to two lanes on each side, thus I had not even seen London plus missed my exit for Sarnia. I was on my way to Windsor, and stuck with driving through Detroit.

As I pulled up to the US customs booth, the agent said, “Hello. How are you today?” I thought that was a rather cheery greeting especially at the Detroit border crossing where they are known for their officious inflexibility. I replied, “Fine.”

He took my passport. “Do you know your license plate number?”

“1 N..,” I hesitated because my husband had bought new personalized plates for me in April using my middle initial instead of maiden name initial, so I had to think. “MW, I think. They are brand new.”

“Have you seen a doctor recently?”

“Yeeeees,” as my mind was swirling with outrageous thoughts: Good grief! Why would he ask that? Is my health record connected to my license number? Is Big Brother watching? Were the results from my SPECT Cardiolite stress test yesterday so bad that they think I may have a heart attack while driving and have notified the authorities to watch for me on the road?

“Did you have a bone scan?”

“Yeeeees.” Then I added, “My bone density is very good for an old lady of my age.”

“I am sure it is.”

Another agent walked up to me. “Have you had a stress test lately?”

“Yeees, yesterday.” Unsettling thoughts were exploding in my brain! “How would you know that?”

“You are radioactive. Would you please pull up to that man over there. You will need to fill out some paperwork inside.” The indicated individual waved me in his direction as the second agent walked my passport over to him. I was directed to drive between two posts and make a tight circle around back to him. I still had not figured out what was going on. After completing the loop, I joked, “I can do it faster. Do you want me to drive around again?”

“No. That was good enough. Will your dog bite me?”

“No, but he will lick you.”

After he directed me to accompany the second agent into the building, I confessed, “My stress test yesterday was very stressful, but this is too.” They concurred. As I walked in, he drove my vehicle between the posts. Later I deduced that they were verifying that it was me, not my vehicle, which was radioactive.

Inside, they offered me a chair as three agents surrounded me, one with a Geiger counter-type machine which he held close to my body and backed away. I asked how long I would be radioactive. “Usually about three weeks.”

“Three weeks! I have to cross the border again on Thursday! Aah, but the Canadians don’t care. They usually don’t even ask my citizenship.” The female agent explained that Canadian border agents receive the same training that they receive. I remarked, “I guess I don’t look much like a terrorist threat to them.”

One of them questioned where I was going and why. I explained, “I am on my way to my brother’s in Rochester Hills, and my dog is going to see my nephew who is a vet. He is the only vet who understands his allergies.”

The door opened, and the agent returned my car keys, stating, “You were right.”

“You mean he licked you?”

“He sure did.”

I was then given my passport and released. The female agent continued chatting about dogs and canine allergies as she escorted me to my car.

I wonder what my blood pressure was during that episode.

Three days later, while driving toward the Port Huron/Sarnia crossing, I was feeling unsettled about what might happen at the border as I recalled an incident from the previous month. It was blizzard conditions as I approached Customs. The Canadian officer asked for my license number. “I don’t know it!”

“Why don’t you know it?”

“Why should I? No one ever asks for it.”

“Then get out and tell me what it is.”

“If I do that, I will have to pull either forward or backward. Which would you like me to do?”
In a huff, she stormed out of her booth, and went to look. “Is the storm preventing you from seeing my plate with your cameras?” No answer. But she released me.

I pulled into the stall at Sarnia. The customs officer queried where I live and how much I was bringing back. Period.