Sitting in the party garage Sunday evening...and, yes, drinking a beer...
Can't draw breath. Can't move. Can't talk. Felt like someone reached into my chest and squeezed. Hard.
Duane grabs his phone to dial 911. All I can do is wave a hand in the air...NO!NO!NO! (I'm a bit stubborn. No one's taking ME to the hospital. Not until I have time to think this over.) 5 or 10 minutes later--I have no idea how much time passed--it's over. Duane is white as a sheet, darn near ready to cry. My own eyes are leaking, apparently from god-knows-what. I take a deep breath, wipe my eyes, think about getting out of my chair.
Fast forward to Monday morning. Now, mind you, I gave up doctors 5 years ago. They hurt me. They take all my money. Just don't like 'em. But I'm scared. And poor Duane was up 3 times in the night, checking on me.
I haul my ass down to the local clinic, walk in, announce I think I had a heart attack last night. The receptionist's eyes go all big and she literally pulls away from me. Checks with the Practitioner, comes back, tells me to continue hauling ass--straight to the ER. OK. No problem.
Long story short...3 hours in the ER. Everything's just fine. No sign of a heart attack. No tumor. No lung clot. Blood pressure, excellent. They even left a cute little electrode-thingy under my arm. (souvenir?) I'm now the proud owner of 2 full sheets of "How to Quit Smoking", and the most adorable little bottle of baby aspirin. (chewable. orange. nummy).
Please tell me peace of mind is worth $1000. Please.