When the clock struck 4:00 this morning, I slept peacefully in my TempurPedic bed. When the clock struck 4:01 this morning, I was out of that TempurPedic bed, keeling over in a fit of panic—a steel dagger lodged in my heart.
In the fleeting moments of consciousness that ensued, I became cognizant of the fact that cardiac arrest had found me in my sleep. (And how ironic, it being on a night that I’d eaten a salad for dinner).
Blurry vision. Loss of breath. Numb arm. Aching jaw. SEVERE, piercing chest pain.
I wobbled through the hall as the symptoms persisted for two, three, four minutes. Ten minutes finally passed and although my vision had adjusted, and my numb arm had turned into a numb leg, the chest pain was unrelenting.
I tried to go back to bed. Tried to tell myself it wasn’t a heart attack. That it was gas (from my salad). But I wasn’t buying it, and I wasn’t falling back to sleep. I laid in that bed, in that god awful TempurPedic bed, wide awake for the next two hours.
The chest pain never ceased as I tossed and turned, nor, as I debated its cause.
Gas. Blood Clot. My Lung repairing itself. MRSA.
Heart attack mostly stuck in my mind. I couldn’t accept that it was gas, not on a night that I’d eaten a salad. And so I laid there in agonizing pain, waiting for the cardiac arrest to take me.
But, obviously, it never did.