Tale of the Ticker's Tapes

I turned off the ignition in the parking space right in front of the V.A. clinic, Monday, about 8:15AM and then told my sister, "I have heart attack symptoms."


They got an EKG on me and hell broke loose, with the M.D. seeing the pattern, and instructing the nurse, "Call 9-1-1!," followed by an oh-by-the-way, "Anybody got a stethoscope?"


The Doc's convo with the Phoenix Fire Department's paramedic was an interesting exchange about each's observations and medical impressions, about the cause and immediate, on-site action before I was transported with a heart rate of 188 beats per minute.

The pattern kept changing before the doctor's and paramedic's eyes, to the technico-medical exclamations of, "Whoa, look at THAT!." and continued until I "converted" (stablilzed to a normal rate) as the gurney was hefted gently into the ambulance, eliciting my gratitude, "Well, at least you all got this on several tapes, from 3 EKG machines."

I've spent the last 2 days as an in-patient, passed my lab tests--even cholesterol--with flying colors, and was released after a chemical stress test with radioactive isotopes to the heart proved negative for an actual heart attack, and I was discharged about 4:45PM Tuesday, with the admonishment, "Call 9-1-1 if this happens again."

So at 1:18am after just 4 hours' sleep following two days of hospital rigors, my heart awakened me at Indy-car speed, and off we went, this time to be discharged from another expensive visit to the level-1 trauma center, only this time with a prescription in-hand and the farewell wish to have a happy day at work and, "Oh, you should see the cardiologist by the end of the week," which I dismissed with a mental finger and resignation of both eventualities.