There was never any pain, just waves of heat in my chest, a dimming and then clarifying of consciousness and the understanding that this time, something seriously wrong was going on.
I fought it driving home from work, stopping twice to see if the symptoms would pass, then driving on for another 2 miles or so before pulling into another parking lot.
I bought almonds and chocolate milk at a 7-11 thinking maybe my blood sugar was too low or whatever constitutes wisdom in such a befuddled state.
In front of the pizza shop, my destination, I tried calling my wife but her ringer was on mute. If she had answered, I would have asked her to come get me.
Instead, I called 911.
Two doctors, an ICU nurse and the admitting ER nurse told me that if I had not called 911, I would have died.
I waited in my car, door askew, my feet on the macadam. The sun felt good. I thought that I should go in to pick up our pizza. They needed to be paid.
When the ambulance arrived, Mike, the EMT, went through a battery of questions with me. He was trying to ascertain whether I was drugged, drunk, in serious pain, trying to narrow down what kind of situation he was observing.
I walked to the ambulance and then lay down on the gurney. Mike continued asking me questions. I never lost consciousness. I answered every question precisely, a good Catholic boy always.
When he had the EKG cables attached and began getting a readout, he said, “Holy Shit” quietly and then told the driver to turn on the sirens and lights and to step on it.
He told me what he was doing – inserting an IV, describing the drugs he was injecting, and then we talked about books. I pitched a couple of titles I thought he might like.
I kept my eyes closed. I was watching the most marvelous colors shapeshifting across the screen of my eyelids – every variation of pinks and reds and oranges. I was fully alert. I told a story. The waves of heat floated across my chest. I felt zero pain. I was unafraid – I am not bragging about that. No bravado or idiot machismo. I cannot explain it.
At Phoenixville Hospital, a score of nurses attended to me. I answered their questions. Another IV, in my right arm now. A doctor hovering over me, speaking quietly. More instructions. Then the heat began to subside.
I lost track of time. Patti arrived. The ER nurse told both of us that my heart rate had been fluctuating between 20 to 30 to 40 to 50 beats per minute up to 200 beats per minute. At 200, my heart was no longer pumping blood. It was only vibrating, as if a neutron star had appeared in my chest. It was pulsating, not pumping.
I remained in the ICU at Phoenixville for 4 nights. I lost all sense of modesty in less than 24 hours. I received multiple tests, all focused on my heart. Every single person I dealt with at Phoenixville was superb – the Hospitalist, Dr. Martin; my Cardiologists Dr. Patel and Dr. Kusmirek and Dr Ledley: every technician and every ICU and ER nurse and Gene, who cleaned my room. I was treated not as an affliction with a name but as a human being with an affliction.
I have been diagnosed with Idiopathic Ventricular Tachycardia. The electrical circuitry of my heart is screwy. They do not know why. They do not know how it is triggered. I’m fine with that. Medicine is not magic. This week, they’ll insert a wire into a vein in my thigh, guide it to my heart and with a spark of lightning, kill the tiny piece of it that threatened to end me. That however is bloody magic.
This is a before and after moment. I have been lucky in more ways than I can count. I wake up and my wife is beside me, the dogs are ready to go, my family and friends are only a text or call away, and I know how I want to spend my day, the only day, each day, one by one by one.
