On a clear summer day in 2004 when I was sixty-four and to move from my apartment to a small house, I had a heart attack. I felt sick to my stomach, then had a cold, clammy feeling; finally I felt as if my upper body were being aired up, like a tire. I was at home by myself, and I dailed 911. When EMS wheeled me into ER, an RN friend was on duty. “What are you doing here,” she asked. “Oh I came out to see if you ever really work.” Then I flatlined for the first time and gave her and everyone else on duty a real workout; they worked on me from about 4:00 p.m. until about 9:00 p.m. while I flatlined another eight times. Finally I was stabilized, and shipped out on a helicopter bound for an area hospital with a cardiac care unit. When the chopper landed on the roof of the hospital, I remember being pulled out by a man who I later learned to be my cardiologist, then I knew nothing until I woke about two days later. I learned that my family had been given a dire prognosis: I wasn’t expected to make it through the first night and if I did, I might be brain-dead because of the number of times that oxygen had been removed in order to use the paddles on me yet again. I couldn’t believe all that had happened to me.
I had been trying to take care of myself better and had chosen to cut down on the amount of meat that I was eating (I had begun eating veggie pizzas, for instance), and had given up pork completely. However I continued to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee, which I later learned are both enemies of the heart and especially the mature heart; both cause the heart to beat faster thus wear out sooner. I had gotten my cholesterol count down to 160 without anyone bothering to run the blood test required to check it, but I hadn't counted on tar and nicotine getting into my arteries, too. I learned that I was (and am) very, very lucky to be alive and I immediately became very grateful that I was/am.
