Tuesday morning started like most of my days: coffee, Bible, God, basically the original “triple-shot espresso for the soul,” except with fewer side effects and a much better loyalty rewards program. I was halfway into my second cup, feeling spiritually and caffeinally superior, when I decided it was time for my regular country walk.
When I’m in Texas, instead of my usual four-mile scenic mountain views where coyotes stop to say hi and foxes complain about me interrupting their breakfast, I go for a “country walk.” In this context, that means a scenic 3.5 mile round trip featuring a gentle downhill stroll to a creek and a deeply personal uphill journey where you question every life decision that led you there. It’s also a technological dead zone, meaning if you collapse, your last known contact with civilization will be a buffering icon.
I was getting dressed for the aforementioned walk, when suddenly my neck started complaining. Then my back joined the union. Fine, I thought. Hot shower it is. That’s when my chest decided to file a grievance, followed immediately by my left arm. Pretty soon my entire left side, from neck to waist, felt like it was being squeezed in a giant, invisible trash compactor. The kind they use on old cars. Or disappointing robots.
At this point, even I, a man who once Googled “can you walk off internal bleeding”, realized this might be serious. So I did what any rational person would do: I asked Google when urgent care opens. Google, in its infinite wisdom, told me, “Oh, it’s open,” which turns out to be what we in the technical community call “a lie,” and what the rest of the world calls “a cruel prank.”
I threw on yesterday’s clothes, because when you’re possibly dying, laundry standards drop significantly. I did, however, apply deodorant, because I have dignity. I may be having a heart attack, but I am not going to be that patient. I got in the truck, turned on the hazards, and began what can best be described as a one-man reenactment of every road rage incident in history. I arrived at urgent care at 7:50 a.m.
Closed.
Naturally.
Because nothing says “urgent care” like a locked door and no one answering while you pound on it mid heart attack. So, I upgraded the situation to, “Yes, this is definitely a 911 kind of morning.”
EMS showed up, and within minutes I was in the back of an ambulance going 90 miles an hour toward a hospital 20 miles away, with lights flashing and sirens blaring—which was great, because I’ve always wanted a dramatic entrance somewhere.
The EMT looked at me and said, with the casual tone of someone announcing lunch specials, “Mr. Moreland, you’re having a heart attack.”
Great. Perfect. Exactly what the brochure promised.
I did what any reasonable person would do in that situation: I started praying like a man who suddenly remembered he had an important meeting with the Almighty.
“Lord, You are so great… thanks for the wife, the boys, the life… the boys are grown, the wife’s set… if now’s the time, I’m ready.” It wasn’t a classic deathbed negotiation; it was very heartfelt, though with a distinct hint of, “I’d really prefer not to die in yesterday’s underwear.”
After the meds the EMT gave me reduced the pain took effect, I began a text exchange with my wife, who was 1,000 miles away. It went like this:
Me: Please do not freak out but I’m in an ambulance and I think I’m having a heart attack
Her: Wjat
Her: Plz call ken
Her: Or call me where are ya
Me: No baby I’m actually in the ambulance right now Her: What do i do? Where are they taking you
Me: Baby you don’t do anything I’ll let you know what I know when I
Me: Probably going to Seton Kyle
Her: Ok
Her: Can u let me know when you get there if you can plz
Me: K
Me: They are driving fast
Her: Well. I hope so.
Nothing says “marital love” like your spouse agreeing that the ambulance driver should, in fact, be breaking the sound barrier.
Her: I called uncle Ken. Dont be mad
Me: Dude
Her: Dudette
Her: Im 1000 miles away and I was nervous. Apologies.
Me: Man it hurts
Her: Chest or arm? Different than usual?
Me: Chest arm neck back. So yeah. Different than usual.
Me: They said def heart attack.
Her: Ohkay. Im really nervous.
Me: Ack ack ack (Come on, you know the Billy Joel song)
Her: Bro!
Her: If they will just have someone there call me to let me know what’s up. Plz.
Me: Txt life group please. I’d like prayer.
Her: Ok. I will. Done.
Her: I should just go to airport now. I need to be there with u.
Me: No you don’t.
Her: Ok but like I want to be there with u.
Her: Casey J is up with me trying to make me laugh by tooting. (Nothing lightens the mood like flatulance.)
They wheeled me straight into the cath lab, where the cardiologist explained the procedure had a 1% chance of death. I looked at him and said, “Hmm, let me think: 100% chance of dying from the heart attack, or 1% chance from you poking around in there. Duh. Get in there, doc.”
They went in through my wrist (which sounds way too casual) and snaked their way up. I heard the cardiologist say, with the professional detachment of a food critic, “Nasty.”
“Hey!” I said. “That’s my heart you’re talking about!”
It was 100% blocked. They call it the Widow Maker. Mine almost earned the name. They slapped in two stents, yanked out the alien tentacles, bandaged me up, and sent me to ICU.
Me: In ICU
Her: Babe I know. (Which was unsettling, because I’m pretty sure I just got there.)
Her: Thank you for not being stubborn and calling ambulance.
Her: I booked 1pm flight.
She got on a plane immediately, because unlike me, she makes good decisions under pressure.
Not long after I landed in ICU, which, by the way, is not a frequent flyer program you want to rack up points in, my first visitors arrived: my son Zach and my brother Kenneth.
Now, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have called anyone, because my personal crisis management plan is basically “handle it quietly and hope no one notices.” But nooooo, my wife had already called Zach, who is a “high-alert individual,” meaning if you tell him you have a paper cut, he’s already Googling amputation options. Kenneth, meanwhile, is the human embodiment of the song Stand By Me. The man just planted himself there for most of the day like a loyal oak tree.
Later, my in-laws, John and Diane, showed up. They drove over 100 miles, which was incredibly kind and absolutely unnecessary, but there they were anyway, being supportive and making me feel slightly guilty for having a heart attack without consulting anyone’s schedule. Meanwhile, the one person I really wanted to see was currently 30,000 feet in the air in a pressurized aluminum tube.
At some point, in what I felt was a responsible estate-planning moment, I informed Zach that when I finally shed this mortal coil, one of my gold dental crowns was his and the other belonged to his brother. He looked at me and said, “What am I supposed to do with it? Just sell it?”
I said, “No, have it melted down into a nose ring, just to spite your old man.” That brought a solid round of laughter, which I’m choosing to interpret as both affection and a mild concern for my judgment.
I kept a brave face all day, telling the EMTs, the doctors, and my nurses that I knew where I was going and if God said it was time, I was ready. And as true as that is, when my wife walked into the room later that afternoon, it hit me just how close I came to not seeing her again. Suddenly I wasn’t the joking, calm, philosophical guy anymore, I was the guy trying not to cry and failing spectacularly.
Turns out I do know where I’m going when my time comes. But as long as she’s here, I’m in no particular rush to get there.
If I’d started that walk fifteen minutes earlier, you’d be reading a very different story, probably written by someone with better grammar and fewer jokes about arterial blockages.
So yeah. Get your cholesterol checked. And remember, Google can be as accurate as a coin flip.