I spent a good part of this week staring at a hospital ceiling, first in the emergency room and later in a regular room. I know that this is the season of spooks and goblins but there’s scary, and then there’s scary.
It started with some discomfort in my chest that wouldn’t abate.
“Oh, it’s just gas.”
“Oh, you pulled a muscle.”
Amazing how you can rationalize almost anything. But when the symptoms wouldn’t abate, the reality set in. It was time to get checked out.
Amazing is also the way to describe a modern hospital these days. Everyone walks around with computers on little carts, this one to take your blood pressure, that one to take your insurance cards.
When I presented with a rapid heart beat, the medical detectives took over. I would spend the next three days taking tests, waiting for results and wondering if the end was near.
Life can be a complicated place, where interwoven personal relationships collide with business dealings and social commitments to suck 25 hours out of a day.
But when you’re lying in a hospital bed waiting for this test or that doctor, when you’re alone with dark thoughts for hours on end, the world is not a complicated place.
It’s filled with thoughts of your children, your significant other, and your overwhelming desire to get one more chance to freely breathe fresh air.
As the results came back, the worries began to diminish. There was no heart attack, no blockages and no heart disease.
There is an issue, but one that is treatable, even minor given the scope of what cardiologists deal with these days.
This is the latest that I’ve ever submitted a column in my seven years occupying this space.
I’m sorry that I’m late, but since being released I’ve been playing cards with my kids and just standing outside looking up at the sky.
I hope you understand.