Back in mid-December, I said to my wife,
“So what are we going to get each other for Christmas, individual gifts or one
big gift for the both of us?”
She replied, “Let’s go with one big gift
for the both of us. And it will cost $1,200.”
“Whoa, that’s a lot,” I said. “We
usually don’t spend that much, even if we can afford it, which I’m pretty sure
is not the case this year.”
My wife then said, “Well, it’s not
actually $1,200. The correct amount is $1,155.97.”
I said, “Oh, in that case, no prob —
Wait, what?! How do you know the exact amount down to the penny?”
She held up a piece of paper and said,
“Because this came in the mail today. It’s an invoice from the ambulance
company, and it says your health insurance denied the claim. They’re looking
for $1,155.97 from us by the end of the month.”
“Oh, I forgot all about that,” I said. “So,
that five-minute ambulance ride cost 1200 bucks? Man, I’m in the wrong
business.”
It’s funny how we can completely forget
certain events, especially when they turn out to be false alarms. Back in the
summer I thought I was having a heart attack. Wanting to be sure I could not afford
a Christmas present for my wife in four months, I said, “Let’s take a
five-minute van ride that costs more than round-trip airfare to Paris!” No,
actually what I said was, in a barely audible voice, “This is not good, hon. I
feel horrible.”
My darling bride, also wanting to make
sure she could not afford a Christmas present for her spouse in four months,
quickly called 9-1-1. In a matter of minutes, an ambulance raced up the street,
and stopped in front of our neighbor’s house. My wife ran out and waved them
over to our house, and then made a mental note to go to Home Depot and get
larger numbers to affix to the wall next to our front door.
It turns out I did not have a heart
attack, although my ticker definitely skipped a beat when I looked at that
ambulance company invoice. What I had was an episode of something known as
S.V.T., or as they call it down at the bowling alley, “Supra-ventricular Tachycardia.”
What this means is, my heart decided to
go from 75 beats per minute to 200 beats per minute, and then just stay there,
pounding like a jackhammer. Even though my heart was beating almost three times
faster than normal, not a whole lot of blood was getting to my head. I only had
enough blood flow to think about who I hoped would attend my funeral Mass, and
which songs I wanted played. (On further review, I don’t think Fr. Michael will
approve the recessional hymn being Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”)
The doctors told me S.V.T. is not a
life-threatening condition, although it might be a “life-STYLE threatening
condition.” To which I replied, “No kidding, doc. If I suddenly get so little
blood to my head that I’m about to pass out, it probably will be a threat to my
lifestyle if I happen to be cruising down I-84 at 70 mph or climbing a ladder
at work.”
Anyway, after a battery of tests, my
heart is in surprisingly good shape, especially for someone who should be attending
Donut-aholic Anonymous meetings.
Next week I will relate the saga of
trying to get an explanation from the insurance company as to why the main
ambulance service in my town happens to be “out of network” and therefore not
covered. It’s a story that will make your heart skip a beat.
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