My Heart Attack (it wasn't)

The BBQ Pit
1

So last night I’m at a small New Year’s Eve gathering. I’m there by myself because my wife had a child by c-section two weeks ago, and while she thought she wanted to go, the baby was up the night before and no sleep was had.

I was committed to going and so had to put in an appearance. Frankly, I also wanted to speak with adults in a social situation for the first time in months.

Things had been very stressful for me. Not a lot of sleep. Hard to eat right. Big changes at work. A new child.

There’s about 15 people at the party. About ten of the people are Doctors. There’s two Urologists, three Gynecologists, a cardiologist, spouses… and me.

I’ve had two drinks. It’s about ten o’clock. I’ve been there for an hour. As soon as I finish this conversation, I am going to say goodbye and leave.

And then I start to sweat.

This is not like a little sheen of sweat, this is like suddenly my shirt is soaked, my pants are wet and my hands and face are quite literally dripping. I am hearing this humming noise in my ears. My teeth are tingly and vibrating.

This happens in about thirty seconds from out of the blue.

I excuse myself and attempt to get a drink of water.

This is clearly not going to happen. I am soaked. I am in fact, I beleive, in the process of having a heart attack and dropping dead in the middle of polite company.

Now probably I should have been thinking about my family, or God, or something. What I am actually thinking about is how embarassing it’s going to be to die right here.

I decide to go and die with dignity in the bathroom.

As I walk to the bathroom, my vision completely fades out. I continue walking turn into the bathroom and grab for the door.
Let’s change perspective:

Back at the party the person I am talking to is watching me curiously and with concern as I suddenly sweat like a squeezed sponge all over the place.

The host, a urologist, who had been mixing nice martinis, is a good host. He too watches me with concern as I break out in a sweat and walk to the bathroom.

Both suspect that I am about to vomit.

Back in the bathroom, my soul, consciousness, animating spirit, or whatever, vacates my body completely and suddenly.

Two hundred pounds of inanimate meat that was (and maybe still is) Scylla is left in an improbable vertical position.

It falls like two hundred pounds of inanimate meat.

The party is not a quiet party, but when Scylla’s head hits the sink it makes a ringing thud, that brings total silence to all gathered.

Then ten doctors all simultaneously spring to the bathroom to see what has become of me.

Let’s take a triple asterisk break.

2

And?

3

Jesus, Scylla. Don’t leave us hanging like that…

Unless you had another attack and your face is now on your keyboard. :eek:

4

Two OB/Gyns followed by the host, the Urologist reach the wet bag of meat that may yet again become Scylla, first.

I later came to understand that they had something of a tiff, over my pale wet body. One of the OB/Gyns is the hostess. The host is the urologist. They are married.

Since meeting them I’ve wondered about what it would be like to have a doctorate in my genitalia and to be married to someone who also had a doctorate in their respective genitalia.

Would sex in such a situation be amazing, or simply highly codified and rigidly professional?

I don’t know them well enough to ask, and am too polite in any event.

I wasn’t thinking about this at the time as I was still just a bag of inaminate meat, but I thought it was an interesting aside, and it does have some bearing on the tiff in question.

The two Ob/gyns could confirm that I was not in labor, and did not require a hysterectomy. Seeing as they did not have their speculums handy they were at something of a loss as to what to do.

The urologist was thinking that he had a foley catheter in his bag in his car. He could run out and get it, insert it up my urethra and into my bladder… or perhaps now would be a good time to perfomr a vasectomy?

You see the problem?

Having a heart attack and dropping like a stone in a room populated by Doctors seems like the perfect place to do it.

In practice though, what you need is the right kind of Doctor.

I had made a social faux pas. If I had exhibited proper party ettiquette I would not insult my urologist and gynecologist hosts by having a heart attack at their gathering. The polite thing for me to do would be to either go into labor or attempt to pass a kidney stone.

Fortunately my hosts had been thoughtful enough to invite a cardiologist to the gathering, probably for the benefit of rude guests such as myself.

The other problem with dropping like a sack of meat in a room full of Doctors at a social gathering is that you are suddenly like a steak being thrown into a cage full of hungry wolves.

Each Doctor is used to being the master of his domain and having a team to serve him. The Doctor takes action, issues orders and receives the immediate obediance of his subserviant underlings.

So, I was in the classic situation of having lots of chiefs, but no indians.

Clearly and quickly it was decided that the cardiologist was on and the other Doctors accepted grudging secondary positions, except for the host and hostess who maintained a Joint Chiefs of Staff kind of perspective, since, after all, it was their party.

I think a two asterisk break this time.

**

5

…there is a difference between “witty” and “irritating,” Scylla… and multiple cliffhangers is definitely pushin’ the line…

6

This shit sucks.

Stop posting.

7

This is gonna turn out like Ewes Sluts, I just know it.

8

If this turns out to be a “shaggy dog” story, Scylla, we will hunt you down.

9

Don’t be a hater, man.

10

Having asserted his dominance as alpha doctor, and having aggreed to take me on as a patient, the cardiologist schedules an appointment for immediately, kneels down in the bathroom. He is going to see if I have a pulse, and if I do, he is going to take it.

At this point, I would like to brag about how quickly I was able to get an appointment with a cardiologist. It must be some kind of record.

All this time everybody else has been doing it wrong, seeing general practitioners, getting referrals, filling out paperwork, making appointments, sitting in waiting rooms, etc.

I on the other hand, have accomplished this arduous task which usually requires weeks of effort while completely and totally non compus mentus on the bathroom floor.

You may congratulate me and post your admiration at my puissance in this regard.

But back to my pulse.

It turns out that I have one. I am not sure how the cardiologist feels about this. Perhaps the evening would have been more entertaining had I not had a pulse. Then he would be able to pound on my chest.

My pulse turns out to be the next best thing to nothing, though.

It is 20.

If you go to the butcher shop and buy a nice fresh roast beef, it’s pulse won’t be much better.

I am pale. Deathly pale. My lips are blue. I am wet. I appear to be breathing. The cardiologist does not have a blood pressure cuff on hand, but he is apparently a very good cardiologist and he knows that my blood pressure is also about as low as my pulse. Being a good cardiologist he has accurately guessed exactly what has happened to me. It is called Basal Vascular syndrome, or some such, but he’s not telling anybody yet. He is going to perform a magic trick.

He elevates my legs. The blood in them rushes down my extemities, and pushes oxygen rich blood into my brain.

Whatever ghost inhabits machine Scylla, obeys the command and returns from the either of nothingness.

It is time for me to regain consciousness.

Just one.

11

While y’all are waiting, I’ll reiterate the joys of having a family of doctors. Need a baby delivered? We can do that. Baby premature? We’ve got that under control too. Guess it’s time for a pediatrician now. Time to toss the ball over to my dad. We’ve also got dermatology and psychiatry taken care of. It’s convenient. And the conversations you get into at dinner. Um mmm good.
-Lil

12

…

13

???

14

!!!

15

Here I am.

I am not in my bed.

I am on the floor of the bathroom, and people are trying to wake me up.

I am at a party.
What has happened?

Evidence suggests that I have gotten obnoxiously drunk, made a horrible ass of my myself, and passed out. Did I throw punches or grab somebody’s wife? My thought processes are vague and fogged which confirms the drunken fool thesis.

I am being woken up to account for my crimes. This is not fair. I don’t do this. I haven’t done this since college and then only once. I am a responsible drinker. This is going to be horribly embarassing. I hope I didn’t do anything bad. How many hours did I lose?

Why am I blind?

My vision rushes back, and with it my thought processes. They are suddenly crystal clear. I am not in the least drunk. I have only had two or three drinks. I am not in a social situation where I would have more.

And then I remember.
I guess I wasn’t able to close the bathroom door and sit down quietly. At least I made it to the bathroom. That says something. I got that far. I accomplished that.

“Are you awake?” The cardiologist asks.

“Yes.”

“How do you feel?”

“I feel perfectly fine.”

I don’t. What I feel is sick, and wrong, and confused. There is this huge overwhelming shadow of embarassment that is falling on me.

I sit up with assistance. I feel the beginning of what will be the huge lump in the side of my head throbbing. I am grateful to that painful throbbing. It’s something. I actually like it.

I did not like the going away, blacking out feeling, the emptiness, the nothingness. I am still here. I know that because I have banged my head, and it hurts.

The embarassment is overwhelming. Why did I have to do this? But there is another problem. I should not have sat up. I am going away again. There goes the vision, here comes the numb teeth, and the sweat. I sense that it’s comical, like in Airplane where they simulate sweat by hiding a hose in the pilots hair and turning it on.

“I’m sorry,” say, and my animating spirit which didn’t even have time to unpack, decides to leave again, and I am so much roast beef.

I guess I’ll go with three ampersands.

&&&

16

And…??

17

Grr…

18

I guess I’ll go read a thread that gets to the point…

19

My thoughts exactly, Michael. And I caught this three posts in.

20

Well, I assume that you’re still alive, or you wouldn’t be posting this…

That’s good.