Close Call

Feeling hot, flushed, dizzy, and with chest pains on Friday, I went to the doctor, and before I know it, was in an ambulance heading to casualty for a check up there. The doctor rightly said he couldn't take chances with the symptoms, but in the end, it turned out to be a false alarm, and I was discharged. As someone to whom all experience is grist, I decided to write about it, and capture the strange feeling of detachment that occured:

Close Call
 
In the ambulance, the monitor beeps,
But fate has its secrets that it keeps;
The thread unwinding, ready to cut,
Will this be the day for doors to shut?
The chest pains, dizzy, short of breath:
A shadow approaching, ghost of death;
Swiftly it came, at first a stomach pain
But I'm ok, it will pass. To be so vain
As to pass this by. But then the chime,
The clock strikes the hour, nearly time
Or so it seems. The waiting room blues,
As the usual delays leave time to muse
And ponder existence. On lighter notes,
All those musings about election votes,
Seem trivial in comparison, far away,
As the grip tightens, this remorseful day;
The needle in, but no blood in this space;
Another try, more jabbing, another place,
Then found, and soon blood is taken out:
Very nearly an armful, I want to shout;
Strange how comedy comes even here!
Apart from that, resignation, not fear;
Humour lights a candle, not a curse,
And I converse with Nicki, the nurse,
About terrible small chips at the shop
At St Brelade. How quality came to drop:
It was so good, we both agree, now bad;
A takeaway to avoid, and really so sad;
Such is the trivia, as sticky pads go on
Of how such promise turns into a con,
And neither of us go there any more;
Blood pressure sleeve begins to grip,
As we chat, a strange acquaintanceship,
And heart trace spikes upon the screen,
But nothing untoward can yet be seen;
In a little time, the doctor comes round
To tell me that my heart is quite sound,
Lungs are fine, a small hernia giving pain,
Not life threatening, just this my bane,
And allergy, for which he gives me pills;
The sunset touch departs, and all the ills
Are not as bad after all. A warning shot
Of time and decay, of how falls the lot,
When the die is cast, no place to flee;
But now the card is get out of jail free,
And the close call over upon this day,
Not a wrong turning along life's way.