My husband Mike and I were winding down from an uneventful Saturday, catching up on some televised drivel that made me appreciate how DVR’s have stolen the last bit of my functioning gray matter, when I suddenly felt flush. I’d been struggling with heartburn all day, but this was a new sensation, more akin to nausea. I stoically sat through an episode of House Hunters, waiting for it to pass.
By the time they said “man cave” for the third time, I knew that things were not all right. I was breathing, but it didn’t feel like breathing.
By the time we reached the hospital, (translation for my British readers: “By the time we reached hospital”) I’d begun shaking. My shoulders jerked. I felt cold. Waves of nausea continued; my scalp tingling, my breathing ineffective. I walked through the emergency room’s automatic door expecting people in white to sprint towards me, screaming for crash carts and jerry-rigging tracheotomy tubes out of ink pens.
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