So I made it all the way to age 62 without having to spend a night in a hospital. (Unless you count the day I was born.)
But a week ago last Tuesday, I staggered into an emergency room and said, “I’m having some pretty bad chest pains.” (They let me save the paperwork for later.)
As I told the folks there, I had a clean nuclear stress test about five years ago. (That’s where they put something radioactive in your blood, take a picture of your heart, have you walk on a treadmill for a while and, if you don’t turn into Spider-Man, take another picture.