Day's End

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Day's End

 

Chest Pains

 

A voice in my head says, ‘have it checked’, but another voice belonging to the one that likes the lawn to get long before mowing it, says, “just a muscle spasm, don't worry about it.”

One day passes, two, three … seven now. The pain has ebbed and flowed, but not gone away. The possibilities dance through my mind: heart attack, cancer, ulcer, kidney stone, gall bladder, the list goes on ...

And, I drive to EMERGENCY.

The triage nurse asks how long I’ve had the pains. I confess to only 2 days. She pats my hand: “You mustn’t wait when you have chest pains. Sit over there and we’ll take you next.”

Her "NEXT" echoes in my mind. Who gets immediate attention in an emergency ward? I imagine metal tongs prying my chest open, a quadruple by-pass, a dead person’s heart being jammed into my empty chest cavity.

Soon, I’m squeezed into one of those tiny hospital gowns with too many personal parts hanging out. They draw blood, take temperature, read blood pressure, administer ECG, x-ray bones—everything but floss my teeth.

Wait time ... minutes like hours ... white coats passing by ... none stopping ... Have they forgotten about me? Or, better, perhaps they’ve decided to ignore me because there’s no immediate problem.

My imagination's evil doctor, the one with the pencil line moustache and snide smile, whispers to the charge nurse: “As punishment for waiting seven days, let him wait for a few more hours.”

I can’t quite accept the possibility of death, but related thoughts stream in: I should have done my will, pre-arranged the cremation, hugged my kids more, told someone I was coming in …

Nearby there's the sound of a monitor flatlining. Startled, I consider bolting out the door. I imagine orderlies dragging me back, the triage nurse’s ‘tut-tut’ as they lash me to a stretcher.

And finally THE DOCTOR arrives, no pencil moustache, no snide smile, scans the paperwork for what seems like hours, says: “All clear. Guess you had a bit of a scare, eh? Next time come in right away.”

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twenty old men
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R. Rasmussen, Haiku Harvest, 2:4, Spring-Summer, 2006.