Quindecim

Issue date: 2/9/05 Section: Features

Media Credit: Caroline Langrall Art LaPenotiere ´05 is a staff writer for The Quindecim and a member of the Goucher II program.

Barbados, baby!! Yes, picture me flying out of the icy northeast on January 18, on a beeline for the Caribbean and the isle of Barbados. Yessss. This time, there would be no pretense of a winter break study course in Europe.

This would be the real thing. Tropical breezes cooling the superheated rays of the sun as only they can get, so close to the equator; men in bathing trunks and colorful shirts delivering rum and fruit flavored drinks with little umbrellas in them to my beach chair - no, to my throne by the sea; brown-skinned women entertaining me with volleyball matches and languid glances, knowing of course to strike just the right pose for me when my wife is looking the other way.

I am Walter Mitty and Austin Powers just turned sixty years old. I will rule the world from this kingly paradise, and I shan't return until the first day of spring semester. And only then, if it happens to be my whim.

But wait. What is it that is so often said in these cases? Oh yes, man plans while God laughs.

Rewind, January 9, 2005 - Barbados, minus nine days. I am settling in to watch the first round of the NFL playoffs on television. I am comfortable. I am content. And then I notice the mild burning sensation in my chest.

I rub it, as if that might make it go away. I've had this before, I think to myself. It's digestive, isn't it? Doesn't a glass of cold water make it instantly disappear? Of course, a glass of cold water will do the trick.

Six glasses of cold water later, the game is late in the first quarter and my chest is still on fire. It's time to tell my wife. She takes it well, tripping over the cat in an effort to get me into the car.

We arrive at Carroll County General Hospital in just a few minutes. There are (I was told this to be true) 176 people waiting ahead of me.

This is obviously not a good Sunday for humanity in general. But when I approach the desk, I am wise enough to say the two words that always move one up to the very top of triage: "chest pain."

I am immediately whisked into a room and connected to enough probes and monitors to feel like I'm a contestant on Fear Factor. They admit me for an overnight stay. They run tests. Hello? Barbados? Are you still there? Doc, the pain is gone, honest. False alarm. Doc?

Continued...

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