You had a heart attack a couple of years back.
Undeterred, you're still smoking every day.
But you had chest pain the other night.
So you came to the ED.
No, not by paramedic ambulance called to your house, with all the latest technology and pharmaceutical wonders at their fingertips right there in your in your living room.
(Too easy, right?)
Instead, you waited a few hours - to make sure this was really something - then had your wife run a few red lights driving you in to see us.
Then you came in, went to the bathroom, and then waited to register to be seen.
Without telling anyone why you were here.
Of course, your full arrest in the waiting room a minute later kind of let the cat out of the bag.
Lucky for you it was late at night, during the slow time, and we all came running.
And somebody jumped on chest compressions for you in about 10 seconds.
And kept on doing it until we got you onto a gurney and into the code room.
And you were in V-fib, of course.
So we zapped you a couple of times, cranked on your rib cage for a few cycles in between, and pumped you full of code drugs, sunk an ET tube on the first try, and got a pulse back.
(Did it sting? Do you remember any of this now? Just wondering...)
And then we shipped you off to the cath lab, and then they sent you to the ICU.
Who fixed you, and sent you home again.
As much fun as we had, we hope next time you'll call 9-1-1. First.
And not risk your wife plowing into a vanload of innocents when she's running red lights on the way to the ED.
Or you arresting in the passenger seat 10 minutes away.
Or dropping somewhere between the cars in the farthest reaches of the parking lot, and us playing hide-and-seek in the dark after your wife runs inside and tells us about it.
So maybe it's time to lose 50 pounds and ditch the Marlboros for good, eh?
Because you did nearly everything wrong, and evidently God's not done with you. Yet.
Happy New Year.
Oh, and you're welcome.