What (Not) To Do When You're Having a Heart Attack

WHEN THE CHEST PAINS started, I knew there was no time to lose. So, I followed the well-established protocols for this emergency.

First, I plugged in my cellphone to charge. A heart attack is a serious condition that could result in a lengthy hospital stay. You don’t want to be out of communication with people whose sympathies will help in your recovery.

Second, I showered and shaved. You should always look your best, but particularly on what could be the last day of your life. You don’t want some coroner’s assistant commenting on your poor hygiene, while next of kin sheepishly apologize: “He was usually very clean.”

To that end, choice of outfit was key. Business casual is an acceptable ensemble for almost any occasion, but at that moment I was wearing white socks. Changing over to black would be appropriate, but knee-length dress socks might take too long for emergency room nurses to cut away to harvest a vein. So, I stayed with my whites. This was not the time to put on airs.

I considered wearing an older shirt that I wouldn’t miss if it were ripped open for the resuscitation paddles but settled on a slightly newer long-sleeved one. Classic but not too showy, and the vertical striping will provide pleasing symmetry on a gurney.

CHOICE OF ADDITIONAL ITEMS is also important, but you have limited time when numbness is spreading down one arm. So, I grabbed my now-charged cellphone and extra-long charger (hospital room outlets are notoriously out of reach), and I also tossed in a cheese stick and some peanut butter crackers. Emergency rooms are notoriously understocked on snack foods, and I figured these items were small enough to be exempt from the “no eating before sedation” rule. Comfortable slippers are a must, since cold hospital floors come right through those cheap socks they give you. And let’s face it, walking along hospital hallways with your IV drip is just more comfortable in stylish leather moccasins. (The tassels convey a sophistication often lost the moment your gown gaps in the back while bending over to plug in a phone charger.)

With my belongings carefully packed in an overnight bag, I was finally ready to drive myself to the hospital. Driving is always the best option, since an ambulance can take time. Better to get there, park, then walk briskly to the ER. (I try to add steps wherever I can since my phone gives me a little balloon parade when I hit 7,500!) But I realized I’d forgotten the book I was reading, and went back to retrieve it, making a mental note to skip to the end if my diagnosis was terminal. (I’d only got to the point where the author had eaten and prayed, but not yet loved.)

NONE OF THIS is true, except the driving part. (I got an excellent parking space close to the ER.) But it’s more interesting than my actual diagnosis: chest discomfort caused by an inflamed esophagus, which the doctor blamed on “something you ate.” At 73 years old, I suffer many aches and pains. But because I have the body of a 68-year-old, none of them are worthy of hospitalization, although heaven knows I’ve tried. (Maybe it’s the hospital food I love. It comes in those separate little containers, the perfect symbol of an orderly universe.) “Next time,” the doctor suggested, somewhat coldly, “take a Tums.”