Previously on toole.blogspot.com:

-- I had some heart palpitations
-- The cardiologist found nothing
-- I looked like a suicide bomber
-- My chest was shaved

To read the beginning of this story, scroll down to yesterday, or click here.

So I took off the heart monitor, thoroughly disappointed that it wasn't going to show anything. I felt fine the entire time I had it on. I guess just going to the doctor cured me. Fifteen dollar co-pay pissed away. Just my imagination I suppose. Nothing serious.

Then at around 7:00 on Friday it hit me again. Fuck! You're a day late, dick.

One of the things that anyone I brought this up to would say, "You think it's anxiety? Maybe it's a panic attack." So I thought about that and made a note to pay attention to when it would happen. Was I at work? Was I on the subway? Was I about to putt on the 18th hole of the Masters? Basically, was there anything at all going on to trigger it? Here I was at 7:00 on Friday evening sitting on my couch watching The Simpsons. Anyone who knows me well enough knows that this is my happy place. I'm rarely more happier than I am when I watch The Simpsons. Pathetic, yes?

Yes.

I basically sit there on my couch for a while willing it to go away. It's probably the worst it's ever felt. It doesn't hurt. It just pounds a lot. It feels like it's beating in reverse order at times. I have some trouble breathing. Then I'd take my pulse. One. Two. Three.... Four? Where's four?!?!! OK, there's five. We skipped four. That's how it went.

Like the times before, I just waited for it to go away. I tried to go to sleep, but that didn't happen. I decided to bite the bullet and head for the Emergency Room. It's 1:30 AM and I hop on the L train to First Avenue to Ye Olde Beth Israel Hospital. I've heard horror stories about New York ERs, so I was a bit nervous that there may actually be people that actually bit actual bullets this evening that would get priority ahead of me.

The first person I see after I check in asks me if I'm making any big decisions this week. He's going with the anxiety angle. I tell him no. He goes to the computer and, in the little box of problems, clicks ANXIETY. So now I'm getting anxious about all of these people telling me how anxious and stressed out I am.

I'm brought to a bed and the first thing I notice is how New York hospitals are similar to restaurants. In a normal restaurant in Anywhere USA, you might see a table for two. Take that same space and put it in a NY restaurant and you've got six tables for two. Same with ER beds. Quite tight. It was like I was in the military.

I'm lying there and a nurse guy comes to put some shit on my chest and take the EKG. He does it, looks at the print out kind of funny, says quizzically, "Hmmph. You know what. Why don't you try one laying down?" OK. I lay down, my heart still beats weird. He looks again, tells me he's going to bring it to the doctor and he'll come back.

A little later I see the nurse show the chart to the doctor. I can't hear them, but I can read the doctor's lips. He says, "Whose is this?" The nurse points to me and I'm just lying there staring right back. Should I wave? I felt like an idiot. The doctor had this look on his face like, "Really? That guy?" They talk a little more. There is nothing more reassuring than being connected to machines while two people talk about you outside of earshot. They disperse and the doctor walks by me and gives me a little smile and a nod. What the fuck was that? Was that a bedside manner smile? And the nod? Was that a "good luck with the heart cancer" nod? Somebody fill me in please!

I wait for a while but no one comes in to talk to me. I kill time by watching my heart monitor, noticing some weird looking lines. Then, out of nowhere, this NY emergency room finally came alive. This black guy comes in straight out of an ER subplot. He is ranting and raving about his leg. A cop comes over to calm him down and the guy goes off. "Oh what you think you gotta stop me? What you think I am? You think I'm homeless? I ain't homeless. I got me a job! I got a job. You ain't need to fight me. You wanna fight somebody, go to Iraq. Kill some of those motherfuckers, then come back for me. I got a job. I ain't homeless. I got a two bedroom!"

I got a two bedroom. I will start using that on people when they doubt me for any reason. "Mike, we need to talk about your job performance for the last month. It's down considerably compared to last year."

"Don't hassle me. I got a two bedroom!"

Anyway, after talking about how white people are terrible, Stereotypical Crazy Guy left on his crutches and provided me with the highlight of my night so far.

About an hour later, the resident doctor comes in, asks me some questions including am I stressed out or anxious. I tell him no. He then tells me, "Yes, we did catch something on the EKG. Both of them, actually."

I have never been so happy to know that there was something wrong with me. I actually started smiling, because after going to the cardiologist, I felt defeated. Like I was just a pansy. So to know that I wasn't crazy was a relief. Then there was the issue of what was wrong. This guy didn't tell me. That would be up to the main doctor who was there, who happened to be a cardiologist. So the resident leaves and comes back about a minute later. "Oh yeah. One more question I forgot to ask. You do any drugs?" I tell him that I don't. "OK, just had to ask. You don't do coke?" Uhhh. Nope. "Hmm. OK. Be right back."

It seemed like he really wanted me to be on coke.

A little while later the doctor comes in. He explains to me what I have. When people start talking seriously to me, I have this horrible habit of laughing. I guess it's an uncomfortable reaction. You know that Barenaked Ladies lyric, "I'm the kind of guy that laughs at a funeral"? That's me. So I'm biting the inside of my cheeks to stop from busting out laughing. I always have to think of the day my grandma died to stop smiling. So I kind of hold it together, and then he asks me if I do coke. NO! Whatever is wrong with me is not being caused by coke. Please go back to whatever medical journal you are looking in and find something else. I was so tempted to say, "Well, I'm really anxious about this huge coke deal I've got going down soon. Actually, can we speed this along? I have to be in Washington Square Park in about 45 minutes." Anyway, it's good to know that I've got the heart of a cokehead.

Meanwhile, there is a lady to my left who was in for something. Not sure what. She is not good at pain. They put an IV in her and she was like, "OHHH! Oh mercy. Oh Lord no. Aaaahhhhh!" I heard the nurse say to her, "You're kind of weak, huh?" She just kept moaning. There was a curtain separating us, but I was pretty sure I could tell where her head was. I wanted to punch it.

OK, so back to me not being on coke. I basically have some sort of irregular heartbeat (PVC), which is fairly common, but the fact that it was happening so frequently was not common. They monitored me for a little while longer, then told me I needed to go back to the cardiologist for some more tests. But it looks like I'm going to make it.

I was told to stay away from caffeine. OK. I guess decaf is the way to go now. Ugh. I'll deal. Stay away from excess amounts of alcohol. OK. I can do that. No O'Doul's though for me. I'll just quit for a little while. It's probably a good idea anyway. Save money and brain cells. And the best part, stay away from exercise. Doc, I'm three steps ahead of ya. "Hey Mike. Can you help me move this table?"

"Nope. Sorry. I'm a lazy fuck. Doctor's orders!"

So that's my story. It was funnier in my head. I don't feel it transferred well and I think I'm forgetting stuff. Oh well. Get off my back. I got a two bedroom!

Anyway, I'd just like to say a little something to my overly concerned parents. Thanks for the crappy heart! Way to procreate, jackasses!!!!!

I kid.

Love Mike (Oh yeah, with my new lease on life, I'm going to start ending everything with Love Mike).