Playing Dead

**Names changed to avoid lawsuits.

50% of the Oberembt family suffer from a genetic heart condition. Our hearts slowly break down until they can no longer pump blood efficiently, if at all. My father and his siblings who had the condition have all passed. In my forties, I was diagnosed with this ailment.

While at work, I was feeling a bit dizzy and nauseous but didn't think much of it. I entered a faculty restroom during my break, and within moments I woke up on the cold, dirty tiles. I stood up, washed my hands, and trudged next door to the nurse's office.

Our school nurse was a no-nonsense woman who had no time for crybabies. She looked me up and down and demanded to know why I was there. I explained what happened, and she sat me down to take my blood pressure and pulse.

Looking alarmed, Betty stated, "You need to go to the doctor."

"I'll call and make an appointment after school," I replied.

"No," demanded Betty, "you will go right now."

"Why?" I asked.

"Your heart rhythm is out of whack! Since you passed out in the bathroom, I think you should get to the doctor as soon as possible, " Betty explained.

A friend came to pick me up and take me to the hospital. The on-call doctor ran some tests and diagnosed me with atrial fibrillation. He recommended I see a specialist as soon as possible.

I found a great specialist, but he wasn't proficient in my family history. Therefore, I decided to visit the doctor who had run tests on Grandma Josephine back in the 1950s. Dr. Whatshisname was no longer the hip, young doctor from the fifties, but he was still practicing medicine. He had also worked with Harvard to conduct tests on the entire Oberembt family, so I knew he would know what to look for when studying my heart. I wanted to know if I had the same condition that started with my grandmother.

Dr. Whatshisname checked me into the Cardiac Center where he conducted his research. They hooked me up to a telemetry machine and scheduled several diagnostic tests. I would be in the hospital for a week.

It soon became apparent I would not be receiving great care. The first sign was an actual sign in my room which read, "If having a heart attack call 555-5555." Ericka and I had a good laugh, and I posed for pictures while pretending to have a heart attack while dialing the phone. It was the dumbest sign I have ever seen in a hospital, and I have been in A LOT of hospitals.

After a few days, the leads on my heart monitor started to lose their stickiness. I complained about the constant alarms going off and asked for new stickers. The nurses acted like I was asking to win the lottery while slapping tape over the electrode pads to better adhere them to my chest. This method does not work, so the alarms continued to blast. I couldn't sleep.

Another lost night of sleep convinced me to take matters into my own hands. I ripped the damn stickers from my chest, placed the monitor on my bed, and went for a walk in the hallway. Did anyone notice I had "flat-lined"? No! No, they did not.

I commenced loudly proclaiming my death while parading past the nurse's station. I stuck my head into the telemetry station to let them know I had flat lined and died a painful death. No one gave two poops about it. Eventually, a nurse chewed me out and reconnected my sensors.

When Dr. Whatshisname dropped in the next day, I filed a complaint. I was finished with the crappy care and no longer believed he could do anything for me. He released me from the hospital, and I never went back.

As the years have passed since this unfortunate incarceration, I am occasionally tempted to pick up the phone to dial 555-5555 just to see what happens!