I drive south down Highway 23 to work – seventy miles away – and at the forty mile mark, ice-caked roads give way to clear. Snow-flocked trees give way to evergreen. My left arm hurts and my left chest hurts a little and I’m scared it means I’ll have a second heart attack even though the doctors tell me I probably won’t, at least for a while, because the first one was a fluke. A genetic fuck up. But I’m still scared every goddamn time I hurt. It’s musculoskeletal. It’s always been musculoskeletal, ever since the first heart attack nine and a half years ago (how many scares? How many ER visits for nothing?). Then I tell Siri to play a “Chill Mix” on Spotify, maybe Michael Hedges or Portishead, maybe calm my nerves. I realize I hooked my phone to my car and told my phone to play some music through my car. The fact that I’m not more amazed by that every day means maybe I should be. Which sparks an idea, so I start writing in my head: I drive south down Highway 23…
Just when I think, Hey, my pain’s gone, is when it comes back again, which is the very meaning of psychosomatic, right?
How will I know if I’m going to have a second heart attack?
Easy.
I’ll have a second heart attack.
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