The crushing pain in my chest hit at 3:47 a.m. like someone had placed a vice around my heart and was slowly tightening it with each labored breath I tried to take. I’d been an emergency room nurse for 28 years before my own heart problems forced me into early retirement, so I knew the difference between anxiety and the real thing.
This was the real thing.
I lay in my bed for 15 minutes hoping the pain would subside, that maybe I was wrong about what was happening to my body. But the crushing sensation only intensified, radiating down my left arm with a familiar pattern that made my blood run cold. When I tried to sit up, the room spun violently, and I could barely catch my breath.
At 52, I was having a heart attack.
My hands shook as I reached for my phone on the nightstand, scrolling through contacts for my son, Ethan’s number. The twins were 36 now, both successful in their careers, both living in expensive downtown apartments about 20 minutes from my modest suburban home. They’d been the center of my universe since the day I’d held them as newborns when I was barely 17 years old and terrified about raising two babies completely alone.
“Ethan,” I managed to whisper when he answered on the fourth ring, his voice groggy and irritated.
“Mom, do you have any idea what time it is? It’s almost 4:00 a.m.”
“Ethan, I need you to drive me to the hospital. I’m having chest pain and I can barely breathe.”
“What?”
I heard rustling in the background, probably him checking his phone for the time again.
“Mom, you’ve had anxiety attacks before,” he said. “Remember last year when you thought you were having a stroke, but it was just stress.”
“This isn’t anxiety, sweetheart. This is different. I need to get to the emergency room right now.”
“Mom, I have a major presentation tomorrow morning. I mean, today morning. I’ve been preparing for this client meeting for weeks, and I can’t show up exhausted and unfocused.”
The pain in my chest intensified as I processed what my son was saying. His presentation was more important than his mother’s potential medical emergency.
“Ethan, please, I’m scared and I don’t think I should drive myself.”
“Look, Mom, just call an Uber. It’ll probably be faster than waiting for me to get dressed and drive over there anyway. And honestly, you know how you get worked up about health stuff sometimes.”
“An Uber?” I repeated.
“Yeah, they run all night and you’ll get there quicker than if I have to come pick you up first. Text me when you get to the hospital, okay? But try to get some rest if it turns out to be nothing serious.”
The line went dead before I could respond.
I stared at my phone in disbelief, wondering if I’d actually heard my son correctly. Had he really just told me to take a ride share to the hospital during what felt like a massive cardiac event?
My finger hovered over Isabella’s contact information. Bella had always been slightly more empathetic than her twin brother, though both of my children had grown increasingly distant since achieving financial success. Maybe she’d understand the urgency of the situation.
“Mom.”
Bella’s voice was sharp with annoyance when she answered.
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