Mind Over Matters
by
Mary A. Green
One evening last January I made an unexpected visit to the Urgent Care Center at the Misericordia Hospital. It was something I hadn't planned on doing that day. The flu which strain I can't tell you, but I was vaccinated for one of them came on me in mid-December just in time to ruin my Christmas, and then hung around like a rude house guest.
After three weeks of low energy and little appetite, I woke up one morning and realized that I was actually eager to get out of bed and get on with life. And I was hungry too. I felt that I might enjoy a plate of tortellini the home-made kind I'd seen at DeLuca's store. People in the seniors' apartment block where I live had mentioned that it was especially tasty when served with a special tomato sauce and parmesan cheese. Yes! Today I did feel strong enough to walk the four blocks to the store to buy some. And daughter Tanya, my vegetarian child, was coming over on Saturday; I'd also pick up some special cheeses to treat her.
But first I needed to get my apartment in order. And I spent the morning doing that. And a bit more after lunch too. It was three in the afternoon before I got away for the trip to DeLuca's.
On my way home I suddenly noticed that I was very tired. And dizzy and short of breath. But I put one foot ahead of the other, determined that I would not be dug out of a snow bank by some stranger on his way home from work.
It was now almost supper time. But first a little rest. "Have to get rid of this dizziness," I said to myself. Continuing the conversation, "Gee, my chest is getting to feel tight and my face is flushed." I sat down for a few minutes, then washed my face with cool water and started cooking my supper.
The tortellini was boiling and the tomato sauce was bubbling when I realized that I was in trouble. The doctor had warned me this time might come. "You're overweight, Mary. And have high blood pressure. If you think you might be having a heart attack, call an ambulance and go to emergency right away."
I didn't need an ambulance. Yet. But what to do with all this food? Lucky for me, my sister lives in the same apartment block as I do. I called her. "Verna," I said, "I did get to DeLuca's today and bought the tortellini. But I think I'm having a heart attack. Can you come down?"
She soon arrived, mumbling, "Golly crackers, that elevator was so slow. What are you doing? Did you call the ambulance yet?" I'd turned the heat off under the pots by now and was in the bathroom washing myself and changing my clothes. Heaven forbid I should arrive at the hospital in smelly socks and dirty underwear.
"Where's the kids' phone numbers?" she wanted to know. "Do you have any spare keys?"
I assured her that I didn't need an ambulance, but could she please call Duffy's for a cab, and do something with all the food on the stove? I showed her where the phone numbers were written down, then located my spare set of keys. I told her that if I didn't get home that night, she might as well take the food up and have it for lunch next day.
She helped me into my coat and walked me to the foyer. The taxi was already parked in front, waiting. She hovered anxiously watching my every step. "Okay, Verna. Thanks for everything," I said, dismissing her. "Call Sally tonight. And if anything happens to me, make sure Tanya gets the cheese."
* * * * * EPILOGUE:
I've read somewhere that when people believe their lives are in danger, they will scribble hasty messages to be read by those who survive them. So! What did I, a some-time poet, choose to tell the world when I thought I was having a heart attack? I relayed a practical message through my sister:
Don't let the food go to waste. Let Sally, the daughter named to look after my affairs, know that she was now on stand-by. And make sure that Tanya got the parmesan and havarti.