My birthday was last week. I spent most of it in the hospital.

See, I started feeling chest pains early in the week. I’d moved some furniture over the weekend and just assumed that the pains were from being out of shape and sore.

As the week went on, my pain increases and I had episodes where it felt like my heart was racing. Finally, we went to the emergency room. They quickly told me I’d had a heart attack, soon took me to surgery, and fixed the problem within a matter of minutes.

They kept me overnight, and at fifteen past midnight, a medical technician came in to check my vitals. When she looked at my records, she said “Hey, it’s your birthday. Happy birthday!”

Yeah. It was not the birthday I was expecting. Not to be sappy, but the gift I’d been given was that the episode hadn’t been worse. I was in the hospital for a day–slightly over twenty-four hours. In that time, there was a diagnosis, surgery, tests and a long night of little sleep.

Now, a week later, I’m back at work, eating healthy, and setting up physical therapy appointments. It’ll be a big lifestyle change, but again… it could’ve been worse.

I had my phone with me so I could have music and podcasts to keep me calm, and save me from cable tv. I usually take a lot of pictures anywhere I go. I thought about things in that room that I might take pictures of–my heart monitor, the weird little socks, the food, the lines going into my arms, but I didn’t. I didn’t really want to remember any of it all that much.

I did take one picture. Just one.

This is the carpet in the area where we sat and waited for the valet to bring our car around so we could leave. The pattern was mesmerizing. We probably only sat there a couple of minutes, but it seemed longer.

This isn’t a post about how I turned my life around and got healthy and lived happily ever after. This is a post saying it’s a week after my birthday and I get to keep working toward the next one.