Deep thinking after a false alarm

On a recent cold Monday, unexpected things entered my head after being told I might be in the midst of a heart attack. It happened a couple of weeks ago when I stopped in an urgent/acute care facility to make sure that my bad cold was nothing more than that, not COVID or RSV, or anything more serious that might affect someone already in heart failure.

The next thing I knew I was being wheel-chaired to a hospital emergency room and I was thinking, “Whoa, this isn’t good.” Sitting alone, instead of looking back at my life, regretting any unkindness toward others, wishing I’d loved more, or cared more about those who have loved me, I was on a much more mundane, practical plane. I’m thinking I should make notes about how my cat Pippa likes to drink from the faucet in my second-floor bathroom, or I wonder if my estate can get the money back that I just paid as a down payment on a new, and probably last, car.

I’m not sure if these things are normal, but there you have it. Thanks to my mother and my late wife I’m one who believes that if you want something done correctly and with empathy, you turn to women; thus I’m fortunate to have two extraordinary, brilliant women who have agreed to be the executors of my estate. Pippa will be in good hands.

When sitting in the emergency room, waiting for test results, something about enzyme levels, I asked the staff to leave the door of my little room open, so as to have some sense that the world was still out there, still moving on, whether I joined it or not. Most would have turned on the television in the room however, I’m not a big fan of television, wanting to hear voices instead. And God forbid that I ever own a cellular telephone.

Across the way, in a room I could not see, a man, who sounded even older than I, was coughing up a lot of phlegm and, in a low, gravelly voice he called out, “Help!” For what seemed an eternity no one came. I wanted to unhook all of the electrodes and medical stuff from my body and go find help for him. After the tenth cry for help, someone arrived and he managed to say, twice, “Pain pill. Pain pill.” His pain put it all in perspective for me. That may be me one day, but not today, please God, not today. Give me, and that poor man, a little more time here with our friends and family.

I’m not sure what was happening to me that day, but it turned out it was some sort of upper respiratory infection laying me low, not a heart attack, so I drove home, with much to think about, and be grateful for. Sometimes these episodes in our lives are the beginning of wisdom, but I’m not always clever enough to truly sort it out.

Anyway, as I write this my cat Luna is in the front window, quietly watching three deer of our acquaintance working the field out in front of the house. It’s a mother and her two young ones, who are never too far from the house. It’s cold out where they are, but warm in here, warm in the sense that I’m still here, still a conscious being, listening to jazz, listening to my old heart, sipping an amber liquid, no longer worrying about whether there will be a tomorrow, or a day after. Please join me in that.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald recently published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here