About fifteen years ago I called 911 because I was having a heart attack.

Apon arrival at the hospital,(a small, local hospital, not the trauma center), an ancient doctor examined me. He sent me for x-rays because he saw in my records that I had previously had bursitis in my left shoulder.

I was in a lot of pain, couldn’t even remember getting the x-ray.

I asked him if he was going to do something about the heart attack. He said, “I think that you’re just having a bursitis attack”. I said, “What about the pain and pressure in the center of my chest?”

He said, with a condescending smile, “Oh, I think that’s just “sympathetic pain” from the bursitis. You’re too upset. Just calm down. You don’t want to get hysterical 😂!”

They took me to an ED bed. A minute later, a PA came to give me iv Dilaudid. I said, “You’re a PA?” He said, “yes”. I said, “Take some blood. Run a test for a heart attack.”

He was fairly young. I didn’t ask him. I told him. He did it.

Ten interminable minutes later, the old doctor came to my bed and said, “You’re having a heart attack! We’re going to transport you to the regional trauma center, the Heart Center!”

I was at the heart center, the cardiologist came in my room and told me that my, (two), catheterizations showed that my arteries were perfectly clear. “Could have been a virus, or stress.”

The look he gave me, and his tone of voice, were dismissive, like he was holding back a smile.

The blood tests had shown, beyond a doubt, that heart muscle was dying. The very definition of a heart attack, yet he clearly was dismissive and was holding back laughter! You know, as if it were somehow my 'fault’. If I hadn’t been a “hysterical female”, I wouldn’t be having heart attacks.

“Silly girl!”

Aarrggg!