The Bloody Doors Off

It’s what I texted my wife in the wee hours Tuesday morning.

Some time after the paramedics had taken me to St. Michael’s Hospital.

“I’m still here.

I’m not going anywhere.”

It was like an elephant sitting on my chest.

At first I thought it was an anxiety attack. But there was no trigger.

I was simply sitting at my desk, having a conversation with my wife and a friend.

A few minutes went by. It wasn’t going away.

Someone — I can’t remember who — suggested that I lie down. (Author’s Note: I have been reminded that it was my wife who told me to lie down.)

So I did. And I took a Propanalol, which in theory should lower my blood pressure.

Not that I used it for blood pressure. It was prescribed mainly to help calm me during severe anxiety attacks.

Only this time. It didn’t.

Our friend had made their leave and my wife joined me on the bed. She’d been trying to get me into an after hours clinic, with no success. She asked whether I wanted to contact TeleHealth or call 911. I chose the former.

“Your call is important, please stay on the line… due to an increase in volume (or a decrease in funding thanks to Doug Ford) … If you want us to call you back, press one now.”

So we called for paramedics instead.

They arrived soon after, two men whose names I’ve sadly forgotten.

Two things I can tell you about them: 1) one of the paramedics had a sleeve tattoo on his right arm, and 2) it was their first shift working in tandem.

They entered the apartment, came to my side, checked my vitals.

They were unsure it was a heart attack. (Author’s note: Marlo has informed me that they indeed say it was possible I was having a heart attack.)

I was unsure it was a heart attack. (Author’s note: clearly I hadn’t heard what they said, otherwise I’d have been freaking out that much more.)

To be safe, they were going to take me to Emergency.

I lucked out that it was St. Michael’s. It’s closest to us. Michael Garron Hospital, while completely serviceable, was in East York. Much farther to travel.

I had the foresight to ask for my cell, and my slippers. Because my feet were bare. I wasn’t even wearing socks.

(Note: this would be the second time I would be admitted to St. Michael’s and not have a pair of shoes.)

I did not think of asking for my CPAP. I was naively hoping it would be a very short stay.

They guided me to the stretcher, and wrapped me in an orange sheet.

In that moment, I closed my eyes, and didn’t open them again until I was in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.

(Continues in “ICU, do you see me?“)