My Uncle's Shoes

Happy Birthday

Part I

Tom Froehlich

The pizza box lying next to me was translucent with pepperoni grease.  “It must be heartburn,” I thought. “It has to be heartburn. Well, it’s either that or a heart attack and I refuse to have a heart attack at one o’ clock in the morning!” Besides, it was my birthday as of an hour ago and you just don’t have heart attacks on your birthday.

For three hours I laid in bed insisting what it was or was not. Certain that if it was a heart attack I would in fact be dead by now. That’s the way they work, right?  Excessive chest pain. Terror. Death. I had covered the first two a couple of hours ago and death hadn’t come yet so I figured I must be cool on the heart attack deal. Then again, who knows?

Just the day before I had prayed to my higher power to get me to a doctor for a check up. I asked my higher power to either help me find the balls to make a doctor’s appointment and if he didn’t see that happening, to get me to a doctor any way he could. You see, I am terrified of the medical profession. I was six months into a sobriety program and I knew I needed to get checked out after decades of drinking and smoking. I was the kind of guy who was reluctant to check the donor box on his driver’s license for fear the DMV would just point and laugh. However, I knew the odds of me seeing a doctor for a physical, voluntarily, were about as good as Charles Manson voluntarily taking a lethal injection. Just the thought of entering a doctor’s office jacked my blood pressure up into grande mal seizure territory. Evidently my prayers were being answered because here I was surreptitiously glancing at the phone each time pain knifed through my chest.

After what seemed to be the eight thousandth burning, knife-like sensation twisting just below my sternum I grabbed the phone. I had looked up the phone number earlier in my denial, just in case I was in fact having a heart attack and needed to call just moments before becoming unconscious as the result of some explosive coronary embolism.  It’s funny how death really held no fear at this point. I figured if I end up dead I’m not going to know about it anyway, right? Even if there is an afterlife and I do realize I’m a goner, the after life by most counts of those who have returned from it is supposed to be pretty awesome. Bright warm, welcoming light, surrounded by those you love who have already past on. You have access to the knowledge of the universe are at total and complete peace and most likely thin and eternally young. Almost makes you want to not make the call, right?

“Hello, Santa Monica Hospital switchboard, Christina speaking. How can I help you”?

“Hi Christina, I’m not sure what your position entails beyond answering the phone, but I think I may be having a heart attack and am wondering if you could shed any light on that.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good sir, but I am not qualified to help you. Let me connect you with emergency.”

“Before you do, I want you to know I have no insurance. Will you still take me or leave me dying on the sidewalk in the pink glow of the neon emergency sign?”

“Oh no sir. Don’t worry, we accept everyone. Let me transfer you.”

I hear a click and the phone rings. And rings. And continues to ring.   As I wait for someone to answer I just keep thinking, “Well, if I’ve made it this far maybe it isn’t a heart attack and I should just hang up.” But as I push aside my diagnosis of heart attack I realize this still hurts like a son of a bitch and I had better get it looked at. I’m not sure how many times the phone rang as I may have blacked out momentarily from the pain, but I finally decided to hang up and give Christina a ring back.

“Hello, Santa Monica Hospital switchboard, Christina speaking. How can I help you”?

“Hey Christina, it’s me again. I’m not dead yet, so maybe I’m not having a heart attack, which is good, because no one is answering.”

“Well, it’s Saturday night and Halloween, they may just be busy. Why don’t we try again?”

I’m possibly having a heart attack and they are too busy to answer the phone in the emergency room? Somehow I am more amazed by this than fearful.  That white light seems to keep getting brighter. And yes. I was born on Halloween. Save the jokes. I’ve heard them all.

After several rings I hear, “Hello, emergency.”

“Hi, I may or may not be having a heart attack and I don’t really want to waste your time if I’m not, so is there someone I could talk about the symptoms with and confirm whether or not that’s the problem?”

“Well sir, I am not allowed to diagnose you over the phone, but what exactly are your symptoms?”

“Well, I kind of have this searing hot knife-like pain just below my rib cage.”

“Again sir, I am not allowed to diagnose you over the phone, but that doesn’t sound good and I suggest you come in and let us check you out. I mean frankly, anyone who suspects they are having a heart attack should probably be here already.”

“Damn…” is all I say and turn off the phone. I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting her to say, “Oh we get these kinds of calls all of the time. Searing knife-like pains are nothing unusual. Take two aspirin and call us in the morning. That is if you’re not already sucked into that white light and universal knowledge thing.”

Now I have to decide how to get to the hospital. Not only do I have no insurance, but I also have no car, having totaled it the year before.  I could take a cab, but I could be dead by the time that arrives or have changed my mind no less than a thousand times. My roommate is out of town. I do have keys to her car and could drive myself. Now, of course I consider that I will be driving six miles through the city in extreme pain with the possibility of a major organ exploding out of my chest, but I say to myself, “I think I can make it.” That’s right. I “think” I can make it! Those are words chosen by an NBA star attempting a difficult free throw or someone in a decathlon, struggling the last ten feet to the finish line. Those are not or rather should not be the words of someone driving himself to the emergency ward.  Yet, I pull on shorts and a t-shirt, slip into some flip-flops and am out the door, keys in hand.  As I pull out of the parking garage it seems as if the pain has subsided a bit and I actually consider turning back. Then I consider the possibility that if I did die my roommate’s cat may make a meal of me before her return.  My roommate has enough phobias and the last thing she needs is to my snacked on corpse, a half eaten alternative to kibble.

A mile from the hospital the knife in my chest feels like it’s filleting a tuna and my thought is no longer, “I think I can make it,” but “Jesus Christ! I hope I make it, this hurts like a mother fucker!”

Pulling into a parking space I see signs warning that cars parked over twenty minutes may be towed. I worry about that momentarily, but then figure if I am dead who gives a shit if the car is towed? Yet I do take the time to wonder who has an emergency that takes twenty minutes or less?

I step toward the entrance, the glass doors slide open and I see two security guards. They look at me blankly and ask, “Can we help you?”  I think, “Well Christ, yes! This is the emergency ward isn’t it?! Who in the hell doesn’t need help in the emergency ward? Do you fully understand the meaning of the word ‘emergency’?”

Instead I calmly and politely say, “Yes I think I may be having a hear attack.”

“That lady there should be able to help you when she is finished,” one of the guards says pointing to a woman filling out forms with another patient. The lady motions for me to sit in the waiting area, while she finishes. Again, I wonder if anyone here fully understands the definition of the word “emergency”. 

After what feels like a thousand knife stabs later she asks, “Now, how may I help you?”  I’m pretty sure when I mentioned my possible heart attack to the helpful security guards moments earlier, I vocalized it at a volume she could hear fully. Followed by something that could possibly be described as a high-pitched girl scream. Yet somehow this doesn’t really seem relevant to her. 

She pulled out a form and asked, “Have you ever been here before?”

“No.”

“We just need to fill out some paperwork and get you admitted.”

“You’re kidding, right?! You did hear me say I may be having a heart attack didn’t you?”

“Yes sir, but we just need to fill out some paperwork before we can get you admitted.”

“You are aware I could be dead before we are finished aren’t you?”

“Name?”

To be continued next week.