The first of August. Now, I am not superstitious, except for triskaidekaphobia, but my track record when it comes to August is not good. I was run over by a driverless car in August of 1974, I tested positive for HIV on August 1st, 1997, in August of 2006 I suddenly began limping in what was the beginning of the end of my walking days, I developed pulmonary emboli (blood clots in both my lungs) in August of 2013, spent six days hospitalized with pneumonia in August of 2024, and of course last year, August of 2025, was when I began dealing with my new diagnosis of lung cancer.
So let’s spin the wheel and see what this August brings.
It began Wednesday night. I am rewatching all seven seasons of LAPD police procedural The Closer, a show I read the pilot script for in 2004 and predicted would be a huge flop. Of course it became the TNT cable network’s highest-rated drama. The only other time during my career that someone asked my opinion on a script for a pilot, I also gave a big thumbs down – and that was Tim Allen’s long-running sitcom Home Improvement which made 208 episodes over eight seasons. So if you’re working on a pilot and I plug my nose at it… you’ve probably got a hit on your hands!
Last Wednesday, I had just finished season 4 of The Closer and climbed into bed for the night when I started having the strangest sensation. It was as if the inside of my rib cage had been fitted with a corset and someone was drawing the strings, thus compressing all my internal organs into the shape of a straw running from the base of my neck to my pelvis. It was unpleasant. But it seemed to go away when I sat upright, so I returned to my recliner and watched the first three episodes of season 5, and looked up my symptoms online.
Heartburn or even acid reflux (GERD) seemed likely, so I popped open a 7-Up; I always keep a single can in my fridge for emergencies because my mother believed that not only did it cure every ailment known to humanity, but you could pour it on a spilled glass of red wine to keep the stain from setting in. I went back to bed around 2 am; the sensation wasn’t gone, but it was far less noticeable, so I drifted off to sleep.
Thursday morning started out normally. I popped a K-Cup in my Keurig, brewed a nice cup, and added hazelnut creamer. I ordered room service – before you jump to conclusions, nah, it’s not all fancy; if you’re not feeling well, you can tell your caregiver you’d prefer to eat in your room… my inners were still out of sorts, so that’s what I did. I ordered the Regina Special, our head chef’s take on a McDonald’s Egg McMuffin, fired up my laptop to access a news site to see what Bozo the President was up to, and sipped my coffee. All things considered, I felt pretty good. Gordon emerged from under the covers on the bed, and took up his favorite spot next to me, between my leg and the arm of my recliner. The morning could not have been less remarkable.
When my Regina Special arrived, it was on a plate wrapped in cellophane; the kitchen had written “FOR GORDON’S HUMAN” in black marker on it. I removed the cling film and took a big bite – I love Egg McMuffins more than any other food in the world, and Regina’s copycat is just as good! As I swallowed my first bite, it was as if someone had poured burning hot sand down my throat. So I stopped eating. My entire body, every inch of skin on it, became instantly wet – not moist, but covered in liquid like I’d just gotten out of the shower. It was sweat, but I was not hot. I actually felt quite cold.
I had the sensation that I was gasping for air, but I was actually breathing normally. It hurt, so I started banging my fist violently on the arm of my recliner. This frightened Gordon, who leapt to the ground and gave me a look like WTF?
And then it was over as quickly as it began. I set my tray of food on the side table, and Gordon jumped up in my lap and began licking my face wildly. I picked up my phone and dialed my doctor’s office – option 4 on the automated menu is Nurse Triage, so I pressed it right away, bypassing the whole “Welcome to…” greeting and the “Please listen carefully to the following menu options…” When the nurse came on, I identified myself and she said, “so what’s going on?”
I have a tendency to minimize medical things, especially those concerning my own symptoms. When I told my doctor in 2013 I thought I pulled a muscle in my back and maybe he could give me a nice muscle relaxer, it turned out to be life-threatening blood clots in my lungs and I spent 15 days in the ICU. So a diagnostician I am not.
I told the nurse on the other end of the line, “Hi, goodmorning, yah, so I had an everything bagel last night with a tuna salad plate, and it gave me heartburn or really bad indigestion, should I take some Tums or Maalox or something?” She quizzed me about my symptoms, and I described exactly what I shared with you, thoughtful reader, above.
“Okay Mr. Wilkinson, you need to go to the ER now. Do you have someone who can take you or should I send an ambulance to your address?” These trips to the ER over the last month have started to get on my nerves, so I said, “Really? Isn’t that a bit over-dramatic? I’m sure it’s just heartburn.” She encouraged me to let a doctor decide that. Here is the record of our phone conversation:
Ricky, our driver, is a Med Tech on Thursdays, so they pressed him into service and the Resident Care Director covered for him in the Med Room. When I got to the ER, which Eisenhower calls the ED (Emergency Department), they were expecting me. I was immediately stripped to the waist and hooked up to an EKG machine.
“Guys, guys… calm yourselves… it’s just heartburn.”
The same doctor who had initially seen me when I was brought in for explosive diarrhea and vomiting two weeks ago walked in and said, “Hello again.” Oh great, I’m gonna get a reputation around here for wasting everybody’s time. So I said, “Hi, nice to see you. I think everyone is overreacting. I had a dodgy bagel last night that was probably a little too rich for me, and now I’m paying the price.” Their machine printed out a long sheet of paper with lots of squiggly lines on it. The doctor studied it, then looked up and rather matter-of-factly said, “there are some troubling abnormalities with your heartbeat, why don’t you just lay back and relax and let us run a few tests.”
A big, burly guy came in and the doctor said, “This is Trevor from Transport, he’s going to move you to where we can keep you under observation while we run tests.” And off we went on a magic gurney ride into the heart of the ED. It was an impressive sight: a massive center workspace the size of a basketball court with lots of men and women in scrubs buzzing around, sitting in front of computer screens, talking on the phone, and talking to each other. Around the edges of the room were arrayed lots of smaller rooms, each with one of those sliding glass doors you might see in a hotel room leading to your balcony, but as I was whisked into one I realized these were treatment “areas;” Trevor rolled me into “G1” which was going to be my home for the day.
The floors were all a light oak Pergo and very clean, and the walls a quite tasteful creamy gold with just a hint of light green added to soften it, giving the room a very muted, calm feel despite lots of equipment with impressive graphic screens displaying information that I have to imagine meant something to somebody. I was hooked up to some of these machines, and then my arch-enemy, the phlebotomist, arrived with her little cart of needles, vials, cotton gauze, bandages, and tourniquets.
She was pleasant enough. “Hi, I’m just gonna get some blood that will help the doctor make you feel better.” That’s how it always starts. Before you know it, she’s poking you with one of her needles and sternly telling you, “don’t move.” Prisoners under interrogation at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba after 9/11 were treated more humanely. I really hate phlebotomists.
Once the bitch witch phlebotomist had gone, a very handsome Latino man rolled in some kind of contraption that was humming. He introduced himself as Fernando, and said he needed to x-ray my chest. I was only too happy to comply as he put his hands all over me, sitting me up and positioning me just right to get the best possible x-ray. Sometimes, and I know you’ll find this hard to believe, I can be a bit of a dirty old man – let’s just keep that between us, umkay? But he was gone almost as soon as he arrived, and I was alone for the first time since I’d left Gordon crying in my apartment that morning because I was leaving. He really is a very sensitive creature.
A new doctor came in and told me that my job, for the next several hours, was just to relax. I was “under observation” for an as yet undetermined cardiac event. “A heart attack?” I anxiously asked. “No,” he said, “we’re not sure yet, but given your medical history, we’re being cautious. We’ll repeat tests on you throughout the day to see if anything changes – for now, just relax, take a nap, would you like some water?”
About an hour later, the phlebotomist was back – she was a different one, but it doesn’t matter, they are all the spawn of Satan. And EKG lady was back, pumping out more papers with squiggly lines. A nurse came in and asked me if I was in any pain; I told her no, but I’d describe my whole chest cavity as “sore.” She poured several powder substances into a cup, filled it with water, mixed it with a stirrer, and then handed me her potion and said, “drink this, it will numb your mouth and your whole chest.” And that is exactly what it did, though the initial taste was like liquid chalk.
As I laid there with nothing to do but worry about Gordon being left all alone and confused, I was overcome by this tremendous, profound feeling of gratitude. Everywhere I looked, I saw people who just look after other people all day, coming in and out of my room, scurrying around in the big center workspace outside it, every one of them professional and absolutely giving 100% of themselves.
There were some serious cases, from the looks of it, that rolled past my room throughout the day; the guy in the room next door to me was rolled out at one point, but returned not five minutes later – his doctor, which was the same as mine, appeared, and a nurse told him, “we sent him for the CT scan, but he threw up all over the tech, so we couldn’t get it.” There were no recriminations, no sighs, no huffing and puffing, no disrespectful laughter; the doctor just said, “okay, get him cleaned up and start him on a drip for the nausea.”
It was genuinely uplifting to spend six hours among the best of us who are thinking of nothing but what is good for the person in front of them – and doing everything they can to comfort and care. If you want to regain your faith in humanity, spend six hours under observation in an emergency room – but make sure you do the observing.
In the late afternoon, the doctor came in and said, “your tests give us cause for concern, but they have remained stable all day, so it’s nothing emergent. I’m making an ambulatory referral to our cardiology clinic, and recommending you undergo a coronary stress test as soon as possible to check for underlying heart disease … for now, you should just go home and rest.”
And thus another August begins. I swear this month has it in for me.
Did you know?
For a fear to be considered a phobia and given a name, the fear must be irrational, and far greater than the actual threat. So if you have a fear of falling off the edge of a crumbling cliff – not a phobia. Fear of the month of August? I guess we need to think up a name – augustaphobia?
