Spoiler: I didn’t die.

And now that we’ve cleared that up, the most rebellious thing I’ve done in a while is leave the hospital against medical advice.

But I’ll back up and explain:

Despite my talent for drama, I’m actually pretty hardcore when it comes to my health.

Yeah, I may whinge a little and occasionally wish my mother would come back from the dead to make me chicken soup and tell me I’m brave, but by and large I manage on my own.

Long covid? I write a poem or two about the crushing existential despair of existing in a body made of wet tissue paper and then basically continue with my life.

But last night, after a grueling and anything-but-peaceful bedtime routine with my little one, I finally sat down on the couch.

The kettle was on. Tea was ready for pouring. The apartment was quiet except for the soft nighttime sounds of the Old City drifting through the window.

It felt like my chest and upper back were being squeezed in a giant invisible fist.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not “my heart hurts because life is hard.”

I mean physically compressed like someone was trying to wring me out like a damp dishcloth.

My face tingled. Sweat prickled across my forehead.

Now, I’m a neurotic Jewish woman of a certain age with an advanced medical degree from Google University, so naturally my brain immediately went: Ah yes. Death.

I’ve never had a heart attack before. But I’ve also never had whatever the hell this was.

The vice grip relaxed.

I sat there blinking.

“Hm,” I said to myself in the calm voice of a woman absolutely not spiraling.

Then it happened again.

At this point I didn’t even bother consulting my therapist/rabbi/bff ChatGPT because while I may be neurotic, I’m not stupid, and I know that when your chest starts contracting like late-stage labor, it’s generally considered suboptimal.

The very last thing I wanted was the ER.

Emergency rooms are where dreams go to die and where there’s a very real possibility that moshiach will arrive before you get discharged.

So instead I texted the Jewish Quarter WhatsApp group:

“Does MADA have an EKG machine?”

My thinking was simple: If the EKG is normal, I’ll have my tea (ok whisky), attempt to stop being dramatic, and go to sleep.

I generally refrain from asking people to daven for me. I mean, people are welcome to offer. Or I can just sit here alone in the........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)