Piece of My Heart


I fade in and out of sleep all night, and every time I come to there is this same fucking episode on VH1 called Remaking Vince Neil. He gets “sober,” gets a nose job, and tries to rebuild his career. Jesus. Then I’d nod off and my minorly retarded nurse would come banging into my room to draw blood. The shit that rumbles around your brain when you wake up like this, “Who could scream louder, Billy Mays or Vince Neil?”

Again the nurse starts digging around in my hands and arms, and again, I yell, “Get somebody else.” She shuffles off with her head down. This time, a husky white guy comes in, “Hey, what’s up big guy? I’m going to draw some blood from you, cool?” Oh yeah . . . cool as hell.

At around 8:00 am the next morning my father-in-law George walks in. I’m happy to see somebody that doesn’t want to poke me with needles or fill me with shit-inducing drugs.

He asks me about my diagnosis, and what I’ve heard from the doctors, I tell him “Nothing, I haven’t heard anything since being admitted.” He makes a face and then scurries to the nurse’s station. He isn’t playing with these Pillsbury shaped broads. He wants to know what happened to me, when the doctor is coming, and when my tests are going to be performed, and when can I leave. They stutter and stammer and call this person and that. Finally, the head nurse comes into my room and explains that “the doctor will be here within an hour’s time, he is in the middle of a surgery.” I nod, and she continues, “And you are scheduled for a treadmill test for tomorrow at 10:00 am to determine whether you suffered a heart attack, and if so how severe.” I nod again. She smiles back and asks if she can get me anything, I shake my head and say “No.” She leaves, and my father-in-law, shakes his head and says, “How long are they going to make lay here without telling you what’s wrong?” I have no idea.

They wheel in breakfast. Since I’m diabetic, the food is absolutely terrible. Oatmeal that is very mud-like in its texture, decaf coffee and a slice of toast, hell yeah I’m living it up!
My father-in-law pushes the tray away once I consume my feast. We watch the news and my father-in-law starts to tell how horrible of a coach Phil Jackson is, and how he just sits there and never calls a time-out when his team is doing bad, and how Kobe is the one coaching the damn team. I nod, fade, and nod again.

By mid-morning the doctor comes in shakes my IV plugged hand, and looks at my chart and basically repeats what the nurse in the morning told me “You are scheduled for a treadmill test for tomorrow at 10:00 am to determine whether you suffered a heart attack, and if so how severe.” Again, I nod; I’ve been doing a lot of this. The doctor quickly leaves.

My boss calls, “Hey Mike, Virgil here, how are you doing young man?”


“Well, that’s not good. Stop fooling around in that hospital, and come back to work, ha ha.”

“Will do.”

“All right, you get some rest, and calls Sasha when you can, and let her know when you’re coming back.”

“Will do.”

My dad comes in just as George leaves. We hang out for a while, watch some TV, he checks his watch and says he’ll be back tomorrow for the treadmill test. I nod and try to sleep before they turn me into a pincushion again.

I give more blood. My wife comes into the room, I ask about my boy. We hang out, I tell her about my visitors and the treadmill test and how they don’t know what’s wrong with me. Then we watch Vince Neil.

My dad shows up the next morning around 8:00 am, he hangs out for about forty-five minutes, then gets agitated because he finds out my treadmill test isn’t until 10:00 am. For whatever reason, that’s what he wanted to be here for. He leaves.

‪#‎michaelessington‬ ‪#‎lifewontwait‬


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