Panic
The pain started at the center of my chest just as I fell into my arm chair after work. It had been a long day of extra hard labor moving appliances, and though I felt sore all over, this pain seemed sharper than the once groaning through my legs and arms, less a product of honest work, than a violation. I immediately presumed the worst, my whole body stiffening with the anticipation of death.
I know this sounds silly now, but at the time it seemed like a logical assumption. Three family members had died from heart disease. I'd even watched my grandfather suffer through his last few moments, struggling to breath, struggling to swallow, his hairy arms thick with goosebumps. The more I contemplated, the more I felt these same symptoms.
I tried to lay down, stretching out on the bed to relax. But I kept
thinking about that refrigerator I had lifted earlier that day, insisting I
needed no help to put it on the truck. I wonder now how impressed my fellow
workers seem when they read my obituary in the morning, Superman McDonald, found dead in
I even gave myself up to prayer, though God hadn't heard from me since I belted a home run through Mrs. Brett's picture window and she showed her appreciation by chasing me around the block.
``Lord,'' I said. ``I don't want to die.''
In my twisted condition, I thought I heard God laugh.
``Fool! Nobody wants to die.''
``I know, Lord, but I'm too young,'' I said. ``Why can't you give me until I'm thirty three.''
It seemed like a fair compromise. If he could give his son that long, I figured it was good enough for me.
By this time I figured I should seek some more earthly relief, dragged on my pants, searched for my keys, then rushed of the apartment headed to the emergency room.
The whole drive there I worried over the wait. The newspapers routinely told horror stories about people dying in the waiting room, stretched out and stiff when their number came for service.
But I needn't have
worried. How many fools like me charge up to the nurse's window at
``Are you out of breath?'' the nurse asked.
``Yeah,'' I said, neglecting to tell her I'd run the last half mile from the parking lot.
A half hour later, they let me go with two darvons and a warning about how lifting refrigerators can pull the strain a muscle in your chest. They also warned me not to jump to conclusions and worry about every ache and pain. By then, however, I had more to worry about like my 33rd birthday and my deal with God, wondering if there was any way I could renegociate for forty.