I ran in and said to Russ, "Hey, this place really likes the way I write and they think I'm brilliant and they want me to pen an article for them."
The quizzical look on Russ's face stopped me, but only for a moment since I was on a roll. "They like me so much they want me to mention info about Medigap plans! Which I actually know nothing about but they seem like a good idea. And I know even less about Medicare Plan A, B, XYZ, but hey, I'm a quick learner, and—"
Russ put his finger to my lips. Probably because they're soft and sweet. I use a lot of ChapStick.
Or maybe because he wanted to shut me up; I'm not sure which.
He looked me in the eyes. "I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm thinking they wanted you because your last topic had to do with hospitals."
Awww. And here I thought it resulted from my writing brilliance. My capacity to put pen to paper, my ability to turn a phrase. Or turn my nose up at certain smells. Whichever.
Not to give you whiplash, but since I only gave the briefest information about that trip to the hospital in, "Education, Elephants and Hospital Beds"—and you know you really want to hear all the juicy stuff—I'll fill you in a little more.
Saturday around noon, I noticed a small amount of pressure in my chest. I figured it was a gas bubble. Or heartburn. Or I'd swallowed a very large butterfly. I wasn't sure which, but it seemed reasonable to assume it would go away if I ate chocolate, the universal panacea.
I ate a bon-bon or two ... or ten ... took a walk, but the pressure continued. Finally, around 6:00p, I started wondering if I should go to the hospital. However, the only thing that could get me into the emergency room on a Saturday night was a hunky gladiator and a team of wild horses.
Enter Russ, who is neither a gladiator nor a horse. At least as far as I can tell. I casually mentioned the chest pain to him. Bad move, very bad move. Never tell a guy—any guy—that you might be having a stroke, heart attack, or have house maid's knee. He'll freak out.
Russ thought I should go to the hospital immediately. He thought so in a loud, strong voice.
Upon arrival, the fastest team of medical personnel I've ever seen swarmed over me and hooked me up to wires. I looked like the floor behind a computer desk. Following that, the doctor firmly suggested I spend the night.
The next morning, he insisted on an EKG, CAT, and a DMV. (Department of Motor Vehicles? No,that can't be right.) He decided it wasn't a visible heart attack but most likely a heart spasm.
I know. I'm with you. I thought a heart attack was a heart spasm. I guess Google and the Internet don't know everything after all.
The idea that I would have a spastic heart is totally hilarious in a bizarre, Saturday Night Live sort of way. But, I suppose it fits me. And besides that, it gave me fodder for this blog.
To make a long story short, the emergency room doc gave me a bottle of nitroglycerin. The up side? I can now blow up bridges when I'm bored.
What more can one ask for at my age?
Well, maybe for a bottle of nitro and for a Medicare insurance supplement. But, apparently they don't make a Medigap policy for someone who's just barely over 29.
(Oh, all right. Barely over 29 ... and then add 30 .)
(Disclosure: This is a paid blog article for MedicareSupplementalInsurance.com. However, my opinions of the sites, events, of the companies involved, or the quality of the products mentioned are my own. For more disclosure information, please read the disclosure page.)
Ever wanted to kill your spouse because he/she keeps interrupting something you're trying to do? If so, you'll get a charge out of Cindy's latest published story, "Texting on Ice" in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Hooked on Hockey.