HOMETOWN Part 3 of 5 Parts

CORRECTION: On the previous posts HOMETOWN  was listed as a 4 Part article. In actuality, it is a 5 Part article.

Part 3 of  "HOMETOWN" by guest author Tim Landy is a biographical story of his hometown, Mt. Pleasant, PA., and his experience with heart problems. This piece is filed in the category BW Visitor Writings 

  I was born at the old Frick Hospital on October 7, 1956.  The three-story yellow-brick building with its white colonnaded porch used to sit on the left side of Main Street, heading west. According to my mother and my birth records, I was delivered just before midnight by Dr. William Levinson, a pudgy, red-faced general practitioner, whose head always reminded me of a baby’s.  When my brother Scott was born eight years later, I was startled at his appearance: He was a smaller, redder version of Dr. Levinson!  In fact every baby looked like a smaller, redder version of Dr. Levinson.  Though I was still sexually naive, I began to wonder about the cabbage patch stories my parents had told us.  Clearly someone was messing around.   Shortly after Scott was born in 1964, the hospital was demolished.  Soon a new-and-improved version opened several blocks to the south, just off Church Street.

    By now my pace is brisk.  Recently my heart specialist at Mercy Hospital in Pittsburgh gently warned me in his soft, liquid Indian dialect, “Mr. Landy, you need to get some more exercise to strengthen you heart.”

    I didn’t know I had a heart problem until I was taking a routine walk up Chestnut Ridge one cold Saturday morning in December of 1989.  Turning onto a side road at the top of Kreinbrook Hill, I suddenly felt a pulsing sensation in my left shoulder.  At first I thought it was a muscle spasm; then I felt faint.  Suspecting there might be a problem with my heart, I turned around and walked the mile and a half back home.  After a quick shower, I picked up my cousin and her son as planned to do some shopping in Ligonier. 

   Four hours later I walked through the automatic doors of the emergency room at Frick Hospital. 

   “Can I help you?” the nurse asked, barely looking up from her paperwork.

   “Yeah, my heart seems to be beating fast.  I think I have tachycardia.”  I remembered the term from a college physiology class long ago and thought she of all people would appreciate it.

    “Sit down,” she said unimpressed.  She put her stethoscope to my chest.  “Do you know your heartbeat is 240 beats a minute?” she asked, looking up with alarm.

    “I knew it was fast.”

    “How long has it been like this?’

    “About four hours.”

    Within seconds I was flat on a Gurney and being whisked to an operating room.  I was scared, mostly because I was alone and mostly because my family had no idea what was happening.  But then, neither did I.  I had never been in the hospital before, except to visit sick relatives.  For the next hour the staff worked to save my life.

    “We need to give you some anesthetic, Mr. Landy, and then we’ll shock your heart back into a normal rhythm,” the blond-haired nurse said, trying to sound as calm as possible.

    “Okay,” I said, my voice wavering. 

    Then an unexpected calm flooded over me.  I felt as if someone had just stepped into my consciousness and jettisoned a massive load of junk.  I was out of control and I felt light.  I felt free.  And then the drug kicked in.