My Heart Attack

My wonderful Dad died some ten years ago of congestive heart failure after many, many arduous surgeries. Several years later, I had a heart scan done and discovered that I had some plaque in my arteries. This was followed by several EKGs, a brother-in-law who told me I would most likely die in my sleep, and soon (probably wishful thinking), and a thallium stress test. This is a test in which they inject a radioactive isotope into your veins, and then leave you alone in a room with a robot that scans your upper body. You can’t move as you lie there and watch this thing move around you, and I imagined that I had been abducted by aliens. The doctors told me that I couldn’t enter any government buildings for 24 hours after the isotope was injected or I would set off the alarm systems, which meant that I had to cancel my luncheon in the Oval Office.

Anyway, though I was instructed as every other person with a family of heart history is instructed−regular check ups, eat right, lower cholesterol, exercise−the whole thing has left me with a sense of paranoia. A few weeks ago in the middle of a regular day, the muscles between my shoulder blades began to go into what felt like a Charlie horse spasm. I took a few baby aspirin; I lay down on the floor; I used a heating pad. The pain wasn’t going away. I Googled “signs of heart attack” for the umpteenth time on the Internet. It said if upper back “discomfort” lasts for longer than 25 minutes to call 911. No way!

So then I decide to go and use the blood pressure machine at Publix. I’ve never used it before and the anticipation alone made my heart pound faster. My BP was slightly elevated, so I decided as long as I’m having a heart attack, I might as well pick up a few items. I reason that if I collapse people will call for help if nothing more than to keep me from blocking the aisles. I take the groceries home and put them away as the pain persists. I call husband Jack, “Is it an emergency hon?” he asks. “Sort of,” I answer. “Can I call you back?” he answers. Now I really feel sorry for myself. I try to call my doctor who is closed for the day, and it’s Friday. Then Jack calls back and tells me that our insurance will probably cover a nearby emergency center, but to check it out before I have anything done. Ooo-kaay.

I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK DAMN IT!

My fear of doctors is now doing battle with my fear of dying. The fear of dying wins out. I circle an emergency medical center near our home. Nobody seems to be there. I circle again. I’m in my car by the way. I haven’t yet left my body. Finally, I get up the nerve to park and pull in. I don’t want to get emotional, so I stand up straight and say a little speech to the receptionist:

“Hello. My family has a history of heart problems. I’ve been having consistent pain between my shoulder blades for about an hour and a half now. The information on the Internet says that I may be having a heart attack, so I thought I should come and check it out. Do you take this insurance?” I hand her my card.

“Yes, but first fill out this paperwork,” she says, hardly looking up. Geez, I hope I can write fast and don’t have to look up any answers.

Well I see the doctor. I tell him about the stress, primarily financial, that I have been under for about four consecutive years. I have an EKG, a BP check, and I read an entire Time magazine and parts of a People waiting to find out if I’ll live. “Your EKG is very normal, no sign of a heart attack,” the doctor tells me. “Of course, you could have a normal EKG and then drop dead in the parking lot.”

“You’re not making me feel better.”

“Have you been picking up any small children?”

“Does a 20-pound pug count?”

“Yes. I believe that you are under stress and your muscles are already tense. Picking up something of that weight from the floor has caused you to pull out your back.”

Well, I’m relieved for the moment, even though I rush out to my car so that I don’t die as predicted in the parking lot. Wouldn’t that make him sorry!

I feel a twinge of guilt for lying to the good doctor though. My pug actually weighs about 25 pounds.