Of all the laws we learn through our studies and daily living, there is one that is unbending: you never know when the day will not unfold as anticipated.
It all started with a simple attempt to reach Nirvana.
Looking back, the seeds for the catastrophic divergence were sowed years ago when my wife convinced me I was in need of a personal growth course. There was a woman in the course, Cindy, who was so hyperactive it was exhausting being around her.
I was feeling sorry for her when the instructor pointed to Cindy, and, looking at me, said, “You are just like her.”
This was so disturbing I decided to quit — no, actually, I decided to listen to what he was trying to teach me.
The instructor suggested meditation. That silly thought had never crossed my mind. I don’t think I knew what meditation was, other than having a vague concept of robed followers chanting “om,” which didn’t seem likely to help me brief legal issues more effectively.
Nevertheless, I told him I would try.
I found the ritual quite relaxing, and it became a part of my lawyerly stress management program. Seven years after the course, I am still meditating every morning.
Recently, it seemed like I was contemplating my greater purpose, but in retrospect, I might have been contemplating the jerk who refused to answer the interrogatories I sent him in an antitrust case.
At any rate, I had finished my yoga exercises and begun reciting a Buddhist passage when I perceived a little pain in the left side of my chest. It radiated toward my left arm (which, needless to say, instantly transformed my thoughts from bliss to less euphoric mental states).
I decided if I laid down it might be more calming than sitting upright in the lotus position contemplating my cholesterol count. One of my daughters came in. I didn’t tell her why I was laying down. A father never wants a daughter concerned about his health.
Laying around didn’t make me feel any better, so I decided to go to work, where my mind would be distracted from what I presumed was a pulled muscle. Unfortunately, at work, the pain crept toward the center of my chest. Otherwise, I felt fine — as long as I didn’t breathe.
My secretary insisted I call the doctor, “just to be safe.” He told me to come in. A client, Adrian, was on the way to bring me a document for her case. Adrian is a nurse, and, when she arrived, she insisted that I shouldn’t drive; she would take me.
On the elevator I was joined by one of my partners, who had recently fallen off the curb while trying to keep up with his younger wife. He now has pins in his elbow.
I couldn’t resist making fun of him.
I didn’t tell him I was going to the doctor.
The doctor said it wasn’t muscular; it was probably tendinitis. However, to be sure, he ordered an EKG and a chest x-ray.
Two young women came in to do the EKG. One was training the other. For those who have not had an EKG, they put about 10 sticky pads around your chest, which are attached to electrodes. They turn the machine on for a few seconds, and, if you don’t get electrocuted, you’re done.
Actually, if you do get electrocuted, you’re done.
However, in my case, the machine didn’t work. Fortunately, I wasn’t electrocuted. Nothing happened, repeatedly.
The trainer kept wondering which one of the electrodes was malfunctioning and repeatedly muttered something to the trainee about a hairy chest. She kept ripping off the tapes to try different places. Each time she would sweetly say, “This may pinch a little.”
“Pinch” was a considerably less expressive word than I would have used to describe the sensation.
Repeating my mantra didn’t even help. Nevertheless, the trainee received a good lesson in EKG and pain administration.
Eventually the machine worked.The doctor read the tape, said, “Everything looks fine” and sent me to x-ray.
Unfortunately, the waiting room was packed with people. I asked the attendant, Larry, how long it would take. He said, “Thirty minutes.”
I said, “Well, then, I’ll just go next door and get some coffee and be back in plenty of time.”
That panicked Larry. He looked over his left shoulder, grabbed a few forms and said, “Well, there are really only two people ahead of you, so it will just take about five or 10 minutes before you get registered, and then you’ll go right in.”
I said, “OK, then I’ll wait.”
My nurse/client, Adrian (you remember Adrian) decided to go for coffee.
Forty minutes later, long after the coffee was gone, we were still sitting and waiting. Adrian has what some might call an excitable personality. Unlike me, she had not meditated that morning.
Adrian went to the desk to complain. She pointed out a large sign that said, “If you have been waiting more than 15 minutes, let us know.”
She definitely let them know.
Larry said there had been a mistake, that I had “slipped through the cracks” and assured Adrian that I would be next.
Adrian’s complaint, however, received the attention of the assembled waiting room masses. Everyone else started telling Adrian their stories. One older man from West Africa had been waiting 90 minutes. It got nastier from there.
About 10 minutes later, Adrian was back at the desk loudly complaining, asking why I was still waiting, and addressing the now-agitated crowd about the “health care stranglehold.” She said if you get bad service at a restaurant, you don’t tip, and if you get bad service at a retail establishment, you go somewhere else.
With health care, Adrian lectured, you’re sick and caught, so “they treat you like cattle, because they know leaving is not a viable option.”
At one point, a woman who was supportive of Adrian’s rebellion, said, “You don’t have an Uzi, do you?”
The woman was enjoying the revolt but had some trepidation about its culmination. When I was finally called, I thanked Adrian for her help and told her my only concern was whether they were now going to give me a lethal dose of radiation.
The technician turned out to be a nice lady who proved to possess her own diagnostic skills. She asked me where the pain was. I showed her. She asked me when the pain started. I told her this morning during meditation.
She concluded, “Well, you must have meditated too hard.”
— Mark Levison is an attorney in St. Louis and a member
of The Levison Group, which provides columns for this
newspaper. He may be reached at [email protected].