The "still completely alive" John Palmer's drive from the tenth tee on that fateful Sunday was straight and long, leaving a clear shot to the green. Walking down the lush fairway, he secretly thought of turning pro and leaving his dreadfully boring life behind (particularly his wife; a frumpy, irritable woman he married out of love, a word he found, twenty years later, amusing). It was a perfect fall day. The azure sky, a pristine backdrop to looming oak trees in the rough, a place he knew well. But not today. Nothing could take this perfect tee shot away. Nothing but a vauge feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. Had his mistress accidentally called his home phone number instead of his cell phone? No, she was too smart, too greedy of his substantial material support to risk that. Besides, she was on extended vaction in Florida; a trip he gladly provided her as a birthday present. At middle age, Palmer found the company of women no longer an obsession. But golf was. He played three times a week; more if he could get away with it. There was something about the smell of freshly cut grass, the communing with perfectly maintained nature, and the commaderie with old buddies far more appealing, than the thirty minutes of sex he could stand with his whore, or the ten minutes (once a week) he gave his fading spouse (ten minutes he increasingly resented).
No, it was none of that. Rather, the unease gradually became a pain, originating in the area near the stomach and ascending, as he walked to his perfect drive, to his Diaphragm and seemingly beyond. The pain began to radiate until he had to stop in the middle of the fairway.
He clutched his chest as the pain turned to internal explosion. He collapsed, right there on the fairway, in pursuit of the best shot he had struck in months. His pals (very glad it happened to HIM instead of them, rushed to his side, cell phones, ripped from belts like Colt .45s. Within fifteen minutes, an EMT Response Team was all over him, stabalizing the supposed "heart attack victim", loading him to the ambulance, transporting him to "The Hospital".
Because of his supposed condition, John Palmer was given the same treatment visiting dignitaries recieve just about anywhere. No waiting, no paper work, or the usual humiliating investigation by "the hospital" that "Patient X" was, indeed, insured. None of this for Palmer. A doctor (one John Reed; gold colored name plate, black lettering) and three nurses were on him like a "not yet" corpse. Dr. Reed began the ususal How- are -you- feeling- and- what- kind-of horrible- lifestyle-are-you-living-? questionare.
"Do you smoke?", asked "The Doctor".
"Yes"
"How Much?"
"Less than a pack a day"
"I see", said "The Doctor" (knowing that is what every smoker said).
"Do you drink alcohol?"
"Im a social drinker", Palmer lied.
"Have you ever been diagnosed with hypertension?"
"No"
"Diabetes?"
"No"
Palmer, was finding it difficult to adjust to the change in his environment. One moment, he saw himself with a tap in for the US Open, the next, flat on his back in the middle of the tenth fairway of his OWN country club, the next strapped onto a gurney for a hell bent ambulance to, "the Hospital". Slowly, the shiny tiled examination room, the medical staff, and the realization that he was actually in an emergency room, electrodes taped to his chest, while a strange "Doctor" asked him questions while shining a pen light into his eyes, became real and disturbing. Other things did too. A cacaphony of voices filled the air. Voices he had never heard. Voices screaming distress or complaint, or in answer to some other screaming voice. Professional voices, barking orders, asking questions, delivering answers, all in a strange, technical medical language filled with acronyms, abbreviations.
From down the hall, he heard a voice say,"The mothafucka shot me, HE SHOT ME!!!! (a voice of shocked incredulity). Another voice, a female,(most certainly a nurse) struggling to sound "professional", said "Hold still, you want me to miss the vein?"
"I know how ta hit the vein bitch", said the first voice. "Benn doinit for a long time"
He heard other voices too. Voices of indignation ("What do you MEAN I dont have insurance?!!!!"), or impatience, ("THIS MAKES TWO FUCKING HOURS NOW....I COULD BE DEAD AND YOU SONS OF BITCHES WOULDNT EVEN KNOW!!!!!!"), or suffering, ("I am in pain here!!!!!).
To Palmer the voices blended into noise, a jibberish. He noticed his surroundngs. The curtain seperating him from anyone but the nurses, busily taking blood, scribbling upon charts, monitoring the Electro Cardiagram Machine, reeling off a long paper tape, the ups and down of his soul. He noticed the youth of "the Doctor", the huge gold college ring on his married finger, his exceedingly clean hands, and the seeming lack of concern upon his lineless face.
Then he noticed him smile, and ask,
"What did you have for lunch today?"
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