The Week Before

The week before my heart attack I was in Colorado. I was in Tennessee the week prior and California two weeks before. Airports are made for younger men, or at least men with golf clubs, not briefcases.

The airport at Burbank wasn’t too bad, but walking through the Denver airport was brutal. Atlanta, my starting point and ending point, was always brutal.
I’m talking about chest pain. I discovered I could walk about 30 yards, but then I had to stop, rest and  pop an aspirin tablet, crushing it with my teeth. Quite often, this made the pain go away.

I finally wised up and made the following doctor appointments:
December 8, my gastrointestinalologist. (I have Barrett’s syndrome, which is glorified heart burn in the upper gastrointestinal tract and sometimes heart attacks and heart burn feel about the same)
December 10, my cardiologist in the morning and rheumatologist in afternoon.
December 14, my internist and family doctor.

As you know, I didn’t make any of those appointments. My wife later asked why I didn’t insist they see me earlier. The answer: Because I’m a man.

Also, because twice in my life, ten years prior and 5 years prior I thought I was having a heart attack and went to the emergency room. The first time was excellent. I had visions of sitting in the waiting room for hours until I died, but they took me right in not even bothering to check my insurance. I was admitted, kept over night and given an angiogram (heart catherization) which showed I had no major blockage in my arteries, but a lot of small ones.
Following this episode I was put on several prescriptions for various heart related things and told to make yearly visits to the cardiologist. The official diagnosis was stress. Not a bad heart, just too much stress.

The second time, five years later, the culprit was indigestion.
I remember standing in our study, short of breath, saying to Barbara, “I don’t know if this is a heart attack or not, but I’d rather find out at the hospital than stay here and die on the floor”.

I’m not sure the hospital had their “A” team on the ER floor that day. The welcome wasn’t quite as positive and it went down hill quickly once they determined my chest pains and shortness of breath were caused by a Mexican and Italian diet rather than bad valves or veins.

So, I was confused. At this point I was almost willing to die, just to prove a point. “I told you I was sick”, my tombstone would boast. But the big enchilada finally hit Dec. 3, 2009, late at night, and it was a pain that had me begging for mercy.