Three Days in Heaven

In 1979, the wheels were put in motion that set the tone for the rest of my future. For a while, I’d been dealing with what they call an inverted T-wave. During a routine examination which included an EKG, they discovered this pesky anomaly. As it was explained to me, my abnormal was my new normal, and I had nothing to worry about. However, it raised its ugly head one day almost twenty years later in 1998. It was a hot summer morning as I headed my way to work. Another day, another dollar. I had a successful law practice that kept me and a staff of twelve very busy.

I am a real estate lawyer, with an emphasis on corporate law and dealt with most of the hospital’s legal work. My practice focused on patient and medical law. Just for grins, I hired an attorney fresh out of law school to handle traffic tickets for my friends and their idiot kids.

But on this day, while shuffling through some paperwork, I wasn’t feeling my best. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought because I’m in pretty decent health. I never get the flu, and rarely a cold. My life is relatively active, but I don’t exercise on a regular basis unless riding a golf cart counts. So on the rare occasion I get a little puny, especially with the thought it may be cardiac related, I become a little concerned. I called my doctor’s office and told them I wasn’t feeling very well. Sandy, Dr. Stewart’s nurse got on the phone and asked a routine series of questions.

This is my favorite, “Tony, are you in pain?”

Scouring through a contract, I said, “No.”

I say it’s my favorite because if I were in pain, I’d have to play the pain-meter game and state my pain level from one to ten. I always say five so we can move along to the next question. During this medical version of the Spanish Inquisition, I interrupted her.

“Slow down, Sandy. It’s not a big deal, just some pressure in my neck.”

But in the back of my mind, I was concerned my heart was going south. So, to be on the safe side, I wanted to get it checked out. My concern escalated when Sandy told me to come in ASAP. My personal physician, Dr. Ronald Stewart, shows little favoritism. It usually takes a week to see him, even for a big shot like me. By the time they get to you, you’re already cured!

When I arrived, Sandy escorted me to an exam room for a checkup. The first stop—the scales. I hate those things because they always lie. It rattled as I stepped on it. She tapped the balancing weight thing back and forth until it became level. Her bifocals had been swinging around her neck the whole time. Sandy slipped them on that big honker of hers and checked my weight.

She tilted her head up slightly to peek through the reading part of her bifocals, and with a hint of a smirk, she asked, “Gained a little weight, Tony?”

“Maybe a couple of pounds, not sure.”

Her smirk turned into a giggle.

“Well, you’ve gained more than a couple of pounds. Come with me, fatty.”

“Very cute, Sandy.”

We got to the exam room just a few steps down a hallway, and I sit on the examination table.

“Open wide.”

She took my temperature, then hooked me up to the EKG. Sure enough, my T-wave became the topic of conversation. There’s a knock at the door.

“Hello, Tony.”

Dr. Stewart entered the room and glanced over the EKG; again reminded me I had nothing to worry about. Pointing at the print-out, Dr. Stewart said, “Tony, I assure you this has nothing to do with the other”—meaning my EKG result had nothing to do with my visit today.

Dr. Stewart told me everything was up-to-snuff. He suggested I go home and rest, adding today’s event probably had more to do with stress than anything else.

I wandered off in my mind and thought, Fan-damn-tastic! A complete waste of time and money. Sounded like an excuse for a round of golf.

The next day arrived, and I’d hardly started my morning routine at work. My day was interrupted with the same symptom as yesterday, except this time, with the added joy of a little chest pressure. Again, no pain, only discomfort, and more worry. Again, I called Dr. Stewart’s office; this time with more anxiety. His receptionist handed the phone over to him right away.

“Tony, this is Ron. What’s going on?”

“Same as yesterday, but a little worse.”

Even over the phone, I could tell my doctor was concerned. When he sat up in his chair, I could hear the squeakiness resonating from it. Ron asked if I had developed any chest pain since yesterday. I told him it was more pressure, but still no pain.

“Tony, in my opinion, the best thing for you to do is to go straight to the ER. You stay put. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Ron, I don’t need an ambulance. I can drive myself.”

“OK, hard-head, do what you want, but if you drop dead on the way, don’t blame me. Get going, and I’ll call Bev.”

Wow, this was serious! Dr. Stewart was more interested in me going to the hospital rather than being the middleman for his next car payment!

“Nothing to worry about,” had quickly turned into “something to worry about.”

I laid down the phone and plopped in my chair. I felt my heart start racing. I took some deep breaths and tried my best to calm down. My mouth started to dry up, and whatever moisture was there, made its way to my face. I could feel beads of sweat trickle down my forehead and wiped them away with my tie. I sat there, thinking and staring into space. I collected my thoughts, sat up in my chair, and finished my coffee in a single gulp contemplating all the “what-ifs.” I didn’t say much to my secretary only that I had to leave for a while. I got to my car, climbed in, and loosened my sweat-stained tie.

On my way to the hospital, more “what-ifs” occupied my mind. “What if this is it? What will Bev do? What about the kids? And my car! I love my car!” Who wouldn’t? It’s a brand-new Porsche. She thought it was the dumbest thing I ever bought. Bev’s jealous because she’s stuck with a minivan. I’ve joked I wanted to be buried in my car and speculated if it was even possible. When I arrived at the hospital, my phone rang. I waited in the car long enough to take the call.

“Tony, this is Bev. Are you all right?”

To this day, she always introduces herself when she calls me. This time thought I’d have some fun.

“Bev who?”

“Bev who my ass! I just got off the phone with Ron, and he told me he sent you to the hospital.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? You’re at the ER! I’d call that a big deal!”

“Bev, I’ll be in and out in no time. I’m OK. When I’m done, I’ll give you a shout. I have to go. This call is costing me thirty-five cents a minute.”

She exclaims, “You drive a sixty-five-thousand-dollar toy, and you’re concerned about a thirty-five cent phone call?”

“If I don’t hang up soon, it’ll be a seventy cent phone call. Bev, I really have to go now. I’ll call you later—from my office.”

I ended the call before she could carry on with any more of her worrying. I got out of my car and walked to the ER.

Near the entrance, an ambulance flew by me and I could smell burning rubber from the tires as it screeched to a halt. An EMT leaped out, ran to the back of the ambulance and opened the rear door with so much force I was amazed it stayed on its hinges. He pulled out the stretcher while the other tech was pounding the hell out of the guy’s chest. A bottle of saline swung back and forth with every blow. The hospital trauma team, already in full stride, joined the EMTs and took over. I didn’t get a clear view of the patient, but he seemed familiar.