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Chest pains!
A voice in my head says 'have it checked', but
another voice, the one that likes the lawn to get
very long before mowing it, says: "just a muscle
spasm."
One day passes, two days, three days...
Seven days now and the pain hasn't gone away.
Meanwhile my imagination has explored all the possibilities
offered up on the hospital soaps:
heart attack, cancer, ulcer, kidney stone, gall
bladder, appendicitis, stroke-the list goes on and
on.
Finally, the nagging voice wins and I arrive at
EMERGENCY.
The triage nurse asks how long I've had the pains.
Like a truant schoolboy, I confess to only
2 days.
She leans forward, smiles, pats my hand, and
says: "You mustn't wait when you have chest
pains. Sit over there and we'll take you in next."
The word "NEXT" echoes in my mind. I
imagine metal tongs prying my chest open, a quadruple
by-pass, a dead person's heart being jammed into
my empty chest.
Still, I sit as far away as I can from the other
emergency room petitioners. Foolish to pick up a
cold on my way to having a heart attack.
Before I know it, I'm squeezed into one of those
tiny hospital gowns with too many personal parts
hanging out. The nurses draw blood, take temperature,
read blood pressure, administer ECG, x-ray bones-everything
but floss my teeth.
One hour passes, two, three. Many people in white
coats pass, but none stop at my cubicle.
playground memory-
a deflated balloon half buried
in the sandbox
I wonder whether they've forgotten about me or
whether they've decided to ignore me because there's
no immediate problem.
"As punishment for waiting 7 days, let him
sit for a few more hours," imagination's evil
doctor whispers to the triage nurse.
I can't quite imagine being dead, but related thoughts
stream in: I should have done my will, pre-arranged
the cremation, hugged my kids more, told someone
I was coming in Š
in the next cubicle-
the sound of a machine
flat lining
Like a fish leaping out of the water, the need
to escape surfaces. I consider getting dressed,
bolting out the door. I imagine orderlies dragging
me back, the triage nurse's 'tut-tut' as they carry
me back lashed to a stretcher.
Finally, the doctor arrives, scans the charts,
hums and hahs, says: "All clear. Guess you
had a bit of a scare, eh? Next time come in right
away."
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