Days and nights are getting a little out of control.
I think I’ve been in the hospital a few days now.
Since Saturday? Maybe.
Apparently I pushed myself a little too far while tearing out the deck.
At first, it just felt like a muscle pull—right between the shoulder blades.
That seemed reasonable. I was exhausted.
I tried resting. Reclined in the car. No relief.
Tried laying down—
it felt like there was a golf ball in my back. I could get into a position,
but not comfortable. And I wasn’t recovering.
I thought about driving home. Maybe I was dehydrated.
I’ve never been dehydrated, but I had the sweats.
That didn’t feel right.
Low blood sugar?
Maybe. I’ve never had that either.
I had emergency snacks in the car,
but what if it was high sugar?
I didn’t know what was happening.
I’d never had a heart attack.
Until now.
Apparently, a golf ball between the shoulder blades is my warning sign.
But it didn’t stay like that.
Good grief, no.
Once I was in triage, things escalated.
Crackling lungs. Fluid.
I wasn’t breathing properly—
technically, I was drowning.
This was not a peaceful surrender.
I wasn’t beatific or calm.
I was fighting.
White-knuckled on both bed rails—
(which, by the way, is literally a death grip)—
my feet pushing against the end of the bed.
I flashed on a scene from an old western.
A cattle rustler, gasping at the gallows.
I just couldn’t get air.
Not enough to inhale. Not enough to live.
At some point I said, “I think this is it.”
My wife and daughter disagreed.
That’s fine—from their perspective.
I wasn’t so sure.
My daughter had just given birth,
so maybe I could frame it like that—
pushing through every breath.
In. Again. Again.
One more.
I realized it was up to me.
The doctor was just standing there—hands in pockets.
No magic device. No silver bullet.
I had to breathe.
So I did.
Until I couldn’t.
Then I passed out.
When I woke up,
there was a tube in my arm—
a wire, a balloon, a stent.
Heart attack over.
The artery patched.
Bad news?
There are more—two, maybe three—
blocked or completely shut down.
I’ll be back. Probably for open heart surgery.
I’m still in ICU.
Can’t leave yet.
My diabetes is out of control.
My lungs are unreliable.
I’m wearing a mask that shoves air into my face.
Oh well.
But here’s what I know now:
I’ve learned more in the last few days than I ever expected.
I’m still taking in the care and love shown to me.
And this much is clear—
I thought I might go peacefully.
Turns out, I’m fighting.
Hard.
Apparently, it shows.
The nurses keep offering morphine.
There’s a long road ahead.
But for now, I’m still on it.
A Work Progressing 