A Blast From the Past 

 

Thursday, 10/26/ 2006

My sense of time is still wrecked. I know that today is Thursday, and that this whole thing went down on Monday, but all the time between is either compressed or expanded beyond recognition. 

It's easier to think in terms of distance. Colima Road, Whittier Boulevard, and Hacienda Boulevard form a triangle over steep hills that would make a great all day hike. That was the plan.

I noticed it was 9:11 when I left the house heading west down Whittier Boulevard toward Colima. Whittier hospital is on the corner of Whittier Boulevard, and Colima Road, about a mile and a half from my house, and I was about half way there when I started feeling tightness in my chest. Under normal circumstances, three quarters of a mile is not much distance, but within a hundred yards the first sensation of pressure turned to pain.

 It began to hurt. Bad. Angina was cranking up like feedback from a microphone shoved into a loudspeaker. Everything went into slow motion. I was walking in a cloud of pain that grew thicker and heavier with every step. I could see the hospital emergency room across the parking lot receding like one of those weird nightmares where you want to run but you're mired in glue and can't move. All I could do was stay fixed on that goal and force my legs to keep going. Somehow I just couldn't get enough air. I don't know how I made it up the steps, but I shoved my way through the door, and collapsed in the waiting room."I think I'm having heart trouble here".

Suddenly I was in the hands of people whose business is to save lives. I was poked with needles, stuck with patches, clipped to wires, and hooked to incomprehensibly sophisticated machines. I was processed, admitted, and wheeled upstairs. In the next forty eight hours I'd get to see high tech magic worthy of a science fiction novel. But mostly I lay on my back and waited and wondered what would happen next.

Doctors came and went. I found myself sleepless at three in the morning watching the sign of the cross form in the ceiling tiles. Holy cow, I thought, this is straight out of some some cornball religious testimonial. I should expect to see an angel any minute. But there was no epiphany, no luminous moment. Nor did I feel inclined to bargain with God- get me through this and I promise to reform my wayward ways. I tried to get a prayer out, but I couldn't concentrate. The best I could do was- "It's in your hands. Whatever you want. I'm OK with it." or something like that. 

The next day was the stress test which had me howling with pain in just over four minutes. Six hours later I had the angiogram, and the cardiologist put a stainless steel stent in one of the coronary arteries. It was 95% blocked. That's the one they call The Widowmaker. Five percent more and I wouldn't be writing this. There was no damage to my heart. Much to be grateful for.

Mary brought me home Wednesday afternoon. I've noticed this before in times of crisis. There's a weird giddiness- an almost surreal euphoria that kicks in to sustain you through the worst. That euphoria was draining off fast, and exhaustion was rushing in to take its place. My wife picked up the pills I'll be taking for the rest of my life. Four hundred bucks, and we have no insurance. It struck me then that we are now pretty much ruined financially.  

We got take out Chinese food for dinner. I climbed into bed with my wife, held on to her, and only then did it hit me what had happened. I broke down and bawled like a little kid. But it's Friday morning now. Now I'm OK, and I know that somehow this will all work out. I said a while back that there was no epiphany, no luminous moment, but I don't mean to imply that nothing happened. Only now does it occur to me that maybe I didn't need one. I guess I really have acquired some faith. Throughout the whole thing I was scared, but not terrified. I knew, somehow, that even if I didn't make it I'd still be OK. 

 

JWM