I can't die here, not this close to the Mennonite bakery.

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I think I almost died last Friday morning, right outside of Macon, Mississippi. The weather was atrocious, as it has been for the past two solid weeks; the rain was torrential (FYI: that’s a word on My Favorite Words List, which I keep in my glove compartment), the wind was ridiculous, and the roads held pockets of watery vengeance…but that’s not what I thought was I dying from.

Because I’m a fairly safe driver. It’s one of the good qualities I inherited from my father.

I kept my cruise control right on 60 mph, stayed in the slow lane, and I’d successfully steered cleared (literally) of any MDOT lane closings and the ubiquitous trucker. No one was on the road with me. Oh, and I had my lights on, too, naturally.

No, what almost killed me was a heart attack.

This reminds me: I need to lay off sweets.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

For nearly thirty pure and unadulterated minutes, my entire chest cavity ached unlike any pain I’ve ever encountered, and I had a bad experience when I had my wisdom teeth removed. The whole suffocating episode was very Spaceballs, I must admit, though in intensity only. No miniature alien burst forth from my stomach and started tap dancing – I would have enjoyed that.

This was the complete opposite of enjoyment. This was like a miniature alien bursting forth from my chest and lecturing on Vibrational Spectroscopy.

Now, I’ve heard a lot about heart attacks and chest pains, and the near misheard moniker of angina – U.L.’s been battling heart issues for several years – but I’ve never directly been involved with one myself. I’ve always been the one who arranged the Get Well cards and got the nurse because he wasn’t sure how the call button worked.

At first, I tried to burp this discomfort away. I always assume that any type of unease in my chest is simply gas on Va-Ca (that’s what the kids call “vacation” these days). So, I spent a good ten minutes trying to make myself burp. I’ve never been able to do that.

I just can’t burp on command.

It’s something I’ve had to come to terms with in my journey to Masculinity. (Though, trust me, it ain’t the only thing). And if by journey, you think that what I really mean is wasting half my time on color coordinating my travelwear to match my luggage, then Yes. You are correct.

I’ve not taken the first step toward any such journey. And, yes, to answer your question, I’m sure it’s far more than a thousand miles away…from where I am. So, what good’s taking the first step.

I’m hardly ashamed to say that I can’t burp on command. I think it’s rather crass, and usually, they seems to appear unannounced – at least for me. But, don’t say that in front of Matt or Mandy, about the crassness of burping. (I’m certain that between the two of them they could recite the Magna Carta, one belch at a time. If they knew the Magna Carta, that is).

Please tell me you remember the Magna Carta.

You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

(And then, remind me what it is, when you do. I’m not sure but I think it had something to do with the Board of Alderman allowing Sunday sales of alcohol in Starkville). Of course, that only applies to restaurants, not liquor stores. The theory is it’s OK to drink if you’ve got food to eat with it. That works for me, just fine; I never drink without eating. That’s what makes dirty martinis such a perfect beverage. Besides, liquor stores don’t sale olives.

Excuse me. I’ve gotten off topic. Again.

I was talking about gas, the manmade kind. I don’t want to say that I have a problem with gastric distress, unless I’ve eaten raw broccoli. Then, it’s every man for himself. But, lately, I must admit, I’ve been having rather difficult heartburn.

I’ve become addicted to Tums. I’m dropping antacid like it’s the 60s.

And it’s not really working. Which is, I’m afraid, problematic. Let’s not discount the fact that I’m also a hypochondriac, but that aside, I could be in serious trouble.

I certainly thought I was, last Friday.

There I was, driving down the road in Tigi (I named my car after my great grandmother), barrelling through a downpour (excuse me, I mean, safely cruising at just under 60 mph, as I stated earlier and with my lights on), thinking I was having a heart attack. It reached such a pain that I did something I rarely do when traveling, I stopped driving altogether.

I pulled under a defunct gas station (God, the irony, the near-miss of a good pun when I typed that, it’s killing me), and I stopped the car. I opened the door, because when you’re in a crisis, no matter what is, you always do one of two things: you either  go outside because you “need fresh air,” or you get up and head to the sink because you need a “glass of water.” This is a learned behavior, starting in Vacation Bible School, and sometimes, the Boy Scouts.

I got out of the car and my first instinct (and thus, the root of a much deeper problem) wasn’t to call 911. It wasn’t to call anyone, not U.L., not Amanda, not an ambulance. (Amanda informed me, later – since I’m not dead, that I’d more than likely experienced a panic attack. Great, one more thing to stress about).

No, my first instinct was how should I fall on my way into death. If I fell forward, I might hit the side of the door and scratch my smooth, ageless cheek. If I fell backward, I might scrape down the side of my car and land too close to the tire. The side of my car was filthy with mud and wet from rain; the tired was caked with grease from the eroding back brakes. That’d look too messy, I thought.

I was only clear on one thing: to leave the keys in the ignition. That beeping sound was very dramatic. It’d last until the battery went dead, like me, and I’d just gotten a new battery a few months back, so no worries there.

I should probably, I also thought, tuck my shirt in. But neatly. 

This picture needs no caption.

“God,” I prayed throughout the whole ordeal, “if this is my time to go, then I’ll go, but why didn’t you just let me drive a little further south. I can’t die here, not this close to the Mennonite bakery.”

I consoled myself by thinking the positives: U.L. would at least be pleased that I looked neat and tidy, until the very end. And, if he got hungry, I couldn’t argue with the culinary skills of a Mennonite. Of course, I was devastated about what the rain would do to my hair. Curly hair and humidity, which I knew would follow closely behind the tail end of the rain, never worked well together.

I’d have to grab my Fedora. Give it one last hurrah.

At this point, I realized that my chest pain had stopped, mostly. In an effort to make it leave completely, I pulled a Celine Dion and hit my chest a couple of times…why I did this, I couldn’t tell you. Even though the pain had dwindled to a mild irritation, I wanted it thoroughly gone, and thought if I beat myself in the chest it would return to its place of residence: my stomach.

Eventually, it subdued enough that I felt I could keep driving. However, I still had half an hour on the road, to go.

Be prepared. Somewhat. Or, at least, mostly.

I finally got to my office, and went to the restroom. I looked so pasty, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t had a heart attack. I dismissed it though; I had been recently cast as a British character in a play downtown, wasn’t I supposed to look like this?

But, it’s gotten me worried, I must say. I’m not old, not yet, but I’m not young anymore, either. Something’s got to get me, one way or the other, right? I’ll have to be prepared, as much as I can be…

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