Too close an encounter with the beast in the closet

Last week, I scribbled a column that noted how, having watched my father die at 53, I've never counted on living long enough to burden Social Security.

My writing done, I headed to the gym for my weekly hoops game: two hours of slow-motion hustle, hoisted bricks, and joyful jabber by a crew of balding heads.

About an hour in, I soared my usual two inches into the air to fire a jump shot. Like a thousand before, it felt good, but rimmed out.

Then I felt something else, a stab in the left side of my chest. Oh, hell. I sat out a few points, drank water. The pain got worse, inched down my left arm. Double hell.

"Something wrong?" someone asked. "A little chest pain," I admitted. Guys with furrowed brows lined up to take me to the hospital.

Feeling woozy, I flipped my keys to my pal, Stuey the 3-Point Ace. If I hadn't already been experiencing angina, his frantic driving to Lankenau Hospital would have done the trick. At the ER, a brusque clerk said to fill out a card and take a seat. I obeyed, resigned to waiting for my name to be called or cobwebs to form, whichever came first. Stuey proved his mettle. He slapped the counter: "I got a 50-year-old guy here with chest pains from basketball. CHEST! PAINS!"

Thanks to Stu (you're in my will, buddy), I got triaged in a trice. Soon, I had aspirin on board and EKG leads all over my chest. The pain subsided. I calmed down. An ER, like the Army, is a matter of hurry up and wait. Lying on a gurney, watching Larry King toss insipid questions at Michelle Obama, I settled in to await my release.

Wrong again, Dog Breath! Blood tests showed an enzyme linked to coronary distress. And my kidneys were balky. I was admitted.

Like a man strapped to a roller-coaster, I was to be propelled through the wonder, weirdness and pell-mell expense of modern medical care.

Over the next two days, the staff at Lankenau was superb - expert, cheerful, crisp, attentive.

Still, the hospital experience poses mysteries: How does the friendly neighborhood phlebotomist know to pick just the moment when you've finally dozed off to draw blood for the 97th time? Why give a man in the cardiac unit a breakfast with scrambled eggs and a small haystack of something pretending to be potatoes? Did I really lie there, drugged and spread-eagled, wearing nothing but a hiked-up hospital gown, as I chatted with a cute young nurse? (Please, God, erase the memories.)

But all's well, etc. . . . This hadn't been the Big One. It was a cardiac "event," not a full attack, leaving no permanent damage. Still, my coronary disease got revealed in all its fatty detail. I'm relieved my case is mild, but I blanch at how many thousands were spent to learn that. My ventricles apologize to your co-pay.

On the second day, I had a cardiac catheterization. In this charming procedure, they Roto-Rooter your heart and take pictures of the fun. The tube was inserted into my groin. The prep for that was, ah . . . interesting. It entailed the wielding of a razor near a place where men don't fancy sharp objects. I ended up with what I believe is termed a "Brazilian cut." Quite fetching.

The cardiologist stopped by to obtain my "informed consent." This included a riveting disclosure: There was a teeny chance that the procedure could kill me.

At this point, this guy who was about to jab a tube into my heart smiled and said, "By the way, I do read your stuff in the paper, and I want you to know my opinion of it will not affect the professional skill with which I do this procedure in any way."

Now, now, crumple up that outraged letter to the AMA. He was joking. I suspect he'd noticed how the cockiness in my eyes had dissolved into bubbling fear. He was distracting me until the Valium kicked in. Sarcasm as kindness. My kind of guy.

Thankfully, my sojourn at Spa Lankenau resulted only in cause for concern, not eulogies. Just a little memo from God: Straighten up, idiot. Hello, treadmill; goodbye, Five Guys burgers and fries. Less stress, more sleep.

A burger-less life I can handle. Reducing stress will take more thought. Not rooting for Philly sports teams might help, but, hey, this is the Phillies' year! Getting out of the struggling and abused "dead-tree medium" where I've worked for the last 30 years could cut my stress in half.

But then, where would I write the tale of my next medical adventure?