"So, is this where it all ends???"

My recent obsession with my own mortality culminated in a day like two Thursdays ago.

That day started like any other day and quickly went down the drain in short order. Within about 5 minutes of waking up, I felt a pain in my chest. It wasn't a sharp pain - more of a dull, consistent ache - but something wasn't right. Naturally, I panicked and started getting somewhat short of breath as a result.

I tried to will the pain away and finished getting ready for work, but by the time I left the house almost an hour later, the pain was still there. I had taken my blood pressure twice in the interim - a little high, but likely due to my panic. The pain was definitely a distraction, but I decided to suck it up and make the trip to work.

On the way to work, I called Mrs. Tamble, who was in Chicago that week (sigh). Get thee to the doctor post-haste, she sort of said.

Me: "blah blah money, blah blah I'm sure it's nothing, blah blah it'll pass, etc."

Her: "Go now!"

Me: "K."

I turned my vehicle around and headed to the emergency room.

****

Driving in silence during the bulk of the near-30-mile trip and still in a panic, my mind kept reeling over the likelihoods of what I would hear once there. I know my weaknesses - poor diet, smoker, no exercise, mildly obese - and figured that the phrase "walking time bomb" would figure heavily into the day's events. I also imagined the phrase "90% blockage" and the question, "Are you familiar with the procedures for getting on a waiting list for a new heart?" would come into play.

Listen. I'm not Mr. Worst-Case Scenario or anything like that. I am, however, a generally happy-go-lucky person, probably to a fault - I don't get terribly upset about anything anymore, and probably haven't reacted negatively to things that I should be hopping mad, or at the very least, mildly concerned about for a good while now.

Which made my decision to go to the emergency room even the more harrowing - if I had an accident with a chainsaw where I would leave my arm hanging by a thread, I'd still probably rationalize not going to the doctor, since it was still hanging on by a corpuscle or a tendon or something. Long story short, I must be pretty concerned if I were giving in and going to a doctor.

I didn't have my radio on or didn't even bother to hook up my not-iPod to the stereo, but in my mind's ear, I kept on hearing The Postal Service song that goes "Would someone please call a surgeon who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart?"

God. I don't want to go to the grave thinking of The Postal Service, I thought to myself. Even "Freebird" would have been more useful here. I don't care how trite or cliched it would have been.

*****

Once at the hospital, I erroneously parked on the far side of the parking lot and walked about an eighth of a mile to the emergency entrance.

"Yes, Mr. Tamble, what can we do for you today?" the matronly woman at the desk asked.

"Chest pain."

She called a doctor, or a reasonable facsimile, who pulled me into one of the triage rooms. We went over my vitals and the particulars of why I was there (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), and I was whisked to Exam Room 3.

*****

My family was likely also in a panic by this point, and I couldn't pull a signal on my cell phone in the exam room to let them know I was still alive and not yet having my chest sliced open to repair any cardiopulmonary anomalies. I had called my parents and my wife on the way to the hospital, who all cried or at least seemed concerned. I told them not to get upset or otherwise panicked, but no one ever listens to me. Both parents asked if I needed them to come down to the hospital, and I vehemently rejected any notion of them dropping what they were doing to come be with me.

I meant it, too. I've made it a habit to not go out of my way for just about anyone anymore, and I fully expect the same when the shoe is on the other foot.

*****

The next hour was a blur. I was hooked up to an EKG machine, a nurse came in and pulled about a gallon of blood out of my arm ("Ahhhh, you're a bleeder!" she said happily), and a doctor who looked like he'd been in his share of bar fights came in to talk to me. We started conversing about the particulars of the morning (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair). He told me that it was unlikely I was having a heart attack, since it'd been about 3 hours since the pain started by that point, and it wasn't radiating into my arms or anything ominous like that. Doc put a stethoscope on my chest and back, gave my thump-thump a listen, and declared, "Your heart and lungs sound great." (!) He charted a course for my day, most of which involved the "low-risk cardiac track" and left me to continue the interminable wait.

*****

Another few minutes passed when a knock came at the door. One of the attendants opened it up and said, "Mr. Tamble, your mother is here."

The shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhit, while kept solely in my inner dialogue in its initial moments, became audible seconds later.

I really didn't want anyone to make a fuss about it. But she was there, and she wasn't going anywhere. I begged and pleaded for her to go back to work. She refused.

*****

Shortly thereafter, Dr. Barroom Brawler came back in. He reiterated his initial diagnosis after reviewing my EKG, and sent me to X-Ray for ... well, you guessed it. The X-ray tech started talking to me about the events of the morning (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), took a couple of snapshots of my innards and sent me back to my exam room.

*****

A short while later, a different heart doctor came in, dressed for golf, it appeared. He was apparently a big deal. We talked for a little while (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), and he confirmed Dr. Barroom Brawler's diagnosis that I was not dying right there in front of their eyes. I made the mistake of asking where exactly in the chest the heart was - whether it was right underneath the skin or whether it was deeper - because I honestly didn't know. Apparently, Dr. Double-Bogey heard, "Where is my heart?" because he answered, "In the middle of your chest." (Great, I thought. This doctor must think I'm a raisin-brain.) I rephrased my question and got the answer I was looking for, because I honestly didn't know.

I joked with my mom thereafter about it. I started scratching my shoulder and saying, "Look - I'm scratching my butt because I don't know where it is!" Not exactly gallows humor, but I was headed there.

*****

Around 11, a toothy nurse appeared at the door of the exam room with a wheelchair in tow, ready to roll me to the cardiac ward for my stress test, which would be the last test ran on me that day if it went well. Upon arrival in the room, the tech asked me to take off my shirt, and Toothy began shaving various spots on my chest so as to facilitate the gluing of electrodes. I would have preferred that she went for the whole wax, but I wasn't in a position to argue. While they were being attached to my chest, the tech asked me about the events of the day (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair).

Dr. Divot arrived shortly thereafter, and I got on the treadmill. My goal was to maintain a rate of 160 bpm, and the machine would increase in speed and angle at various intervals, while the monitor in front of me measured my vitals. After the third increase, the task at hand began to get more laborious, and I really struggled to keep up. (Feel the burn!) Gulping as much air as my lungs would allow, I finally got Dr. 3-Iron to take pity on me and shut the machine off. I staggered back to the exam table and landed on my butt. (Or my shoulder; take your pick.)

*****

"Everything looks great," Dr. 3-Putt told me. "The only thing I would point out is that you have poor exercise tolerance."

(This is not something I didn't already know.)

"A man your age should be able to last at least 10 minutes on the treadmill."

"I wasn't that far off, was I?" I asked hopefully.

"You barely made it to 5."

Oh.

*****

There were various names given to the chest pain I had (and still have today) - "atypical chest pain," "chest wall syndrome." The general consensus was that I had sneezed something out of whack in my chest. Not unlikely, really. I have these awful sneezing fits every so often, and as the story goes, it's possible that one of my rib joints got knocked off-kilter where it attaches to my sternum, right in front of my heart. They told me to take Tylenol or Advil for the pain, and stop smoking.

Oh, and wear my seat belt when I leave the emergency room.

Thanks.

*****

There's a Part II to this story, but I wanted to share Part I with you to lay the groundwork as to why I've been absent from this blog for the last couple of weeks. More later.