I should open by saying that I’m typing this column on my phone in the waiting room of a hospital ER. I had mild heart attack symptoms earlier tonight, hyped myself up until “mild symptoms” became “terrifying certainty,” and went to the hospital. Now I’ve been sitting here in the emergency room, probably fine, and feeling like a complete tool for the last 5 hours.
I’ve never had an issue with false alarm hospital visits before. Some people will go at the drop of a hat, but I really dislike seeing the doctor and tend to avoid going until I’m sick enough to start hearing dead relatives beckon from beyond the grave. The only other time I’ve ever gotten scared enough to visit the ER, I went into emergency appendectomy surgery within a couple of hours.
What I’m saying is that unnecessary doctor visits are not a pattern of behavior for me, but if I went every time I wondered whether or not I should go, I could probably list the hospital as a forwarding address for my mail.
I hate feeling any unexpected physical symptoms, because no one has figured out a good system for what is and isn’t ER worthy. The easiest way to decide if something is serious enough for a trip to the hospital is a Google search, which is also the worst possible place to turn for medical advice. Beyond the sites shilling conspiracy theories, metaphysical healing, and miscellaneous mumbo-jumbo, even the serious sites are no help. Nobody wants to get sued, so every symptom, no matter how minor, comes with a recommendation to visit the emergency room.
Short of breath? ER.
Bad gas? ER.
Disappointed with the last “Avengers” movie? ER. Better safe than sorry.
“We thought the time travel subplot was pretty thin, too, but you should probably get checked for a stroke just in case.”
Regular readers know that I mostly write about my experiences as a parent, and today is no exception. I’m finding that the older I get, the more my medical decisions are made with my spouse and kids in mind. I’m sitting in this miserable waiting room, trying to type next to a guy whose combined snoring and sleep farts could probably drown out a basalt mining drill, purely for my family.
(Seriously: some doctor is gonna miss a code blue because this dude is louder than a marching band getting hit by a train. I didn’t know the human body could produce this kind of volume.)
Supposedly married men live longer, and I think I can see why. The long running joke among guys is that a spouse will make you go to the doctor rather than just duct tape your leg back on or whatever, and yeah: that isn’t entirely wrong. I’ve gone to the doctor before purely because my wife Sara drug me there by the scruff of the neck (metaphorically, though my neck scruff is probably equal to the task). It’s more than that, though; once you have a family, your health stops being about you.
When I was in my 20s, dropping dead unexpectedly never really scared me all that much. Some pain, a moment of wondering if you still have time to erase your weird browser history, and then you’re forever beyond having to give a damn. Seemed pretty easy. Your mom will cry, someone will have to clean your grungy apartment, and then everyone will move on with their lives. It’s the ultimate no call, no show.
…But dying unexpectedly with a family absolutely scares the crap out of me.
What would happen to my kids if I disappeared tomorrow? Would my wife have to break the news to them? I can’t imagine having to do that if the roles were reversed. Who would take care of the 3 of them? Would Sara’s mom move in to help with the kids?
I don’t think I’m here because I’m worried about my heart; I’m here because I’m worried about how my heart effects my spouse and children.
Between starting this column and now, I’ve been discharged from the hospital. An EKG, a chest x-ray, and 2 sets of blood work confirmed that my heart is fine. Honestly, by the standards of a heavy 40-year-old, it’s actually in pretty good shape. For all the drama of tonight I guess I had nothing to worry about, besides what this is going to cost me and finding a ride home at 2 AM.
…But I think I need to view this as a disaster averted instead of a clean bill of health. A Get-Out-of-Hospital-Free card I lucked into, not something I’ve earned. I’ve never paid a ton of attention to trying to stay fit because I like who I am. My lackluster physique isn’t something I’m ashamed of, but I’m beginning to realize it’s something I need to be prioritizing, because my health isn’t my own any more. It’s time to take it seriously.
It’s also time to call the hospital and see if I can wheedle out what was wrong with the snore-farter, because whatever he has, I don’t want it.
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