I was rubbing my chest when he walked in because, just 20 minutes earlier, a medical assistant had plucked a grip of those sticky EKG pads from the geography surrounding my nipples. I keep things natural, so those little bastards got to keep some of my chest hair. He introduced himself as Dr. So-and-So before asking me directly, “Why are you here?” Cops appreciate directness, so it was all good. Before I could respond, he explained that my EKG results were “perfect.” “In fact,” he said, “I would be happy to have those EKG results myself.”

Neither of us knew that about five months later, I would have a massive heart attack at work.

Symptoms

Things had started about a year earlier. My blood pressure had been ticking upward, and I was just worn down. My primary care provider had been suggesting weight loss and a healthier diet. Of course, he was right. My original Class A uniform, stiffly hanging in my closet, had become a reminder of how much things had changed. Shirts that had as many X’s as some of those VHS tapes in a back room at Blockbuster had taken their place (if you’re a Gen Z-er, hit me up offline and I’ll get you up to speed). But I had a hunch that something else was going on.
Dr. So-and-So listened patiently.

“I want my heart completely checked out. And I keep hearing about that widow-maker artery … I want that checked out too.” I would need to submit to a CAT scan with contrast, he explained. It was the only way the widow-maker would allow itself to be seen. We scheduled one. It was painless, which was good because this hairy-chested cop is a big wuss when it comes to pain.

Prognosis

The results were in, and Dr. So-and-So wanted to discuss them face-to-face. He got straight to the point and used three fingers to model the major arteries supplying blood to my heart. He wiggled his pointer and middle fingers and told me those two were fine. He then wiggled his ring finger and told me they believed my left anterior descending (LAD) artery (aka the widow-maker) was about 50% blocked. “We need to get you in for an angiogram,” he explained.

Stent

July 7, 2025: The angiogram was painless as well. We learned my widow-maker was more like 80% blocked. A stent had been deployed to open things up. I would need to take it easy for about a week. With some medication, I would be good to go. After about a week, I felt great! You hear people talk about a new lease on life. I was determined to be a model renter. I had learned some difficult lifestyle lessons, and I was going to fix my weight and diet.

Heart attack on duty

August 13, 2025: After making it to work, I decided to join a couple of friends for coffee. A throbbing started in my left shoulder. I tried to shake it off. Then I started feeling pressure in my chest. Something wasn’t right.

I excused myself and made a beeline for my car. I started driving home. I’m not sure why. I made it about a half mile when things started getting worse. I distinctly remember telling myself, “Don’t be a tough guy, Dave. If it’s just indigestion, let them tell you that at the ER.”

I made a quick right. Thunderbird Hospital was about six miles away. I could get there. A mile down the road, I was on the phone with my wife. “I’m having chest pains. I’m driving to T-Bird,” I told her calmly. I was starting to panic, but I didn’t want her to hear it. She told me she was on the way.

Another mile down the road, I caught a red light. Things were getting worse. I wasn’t going to make it to T-Bird. Another right would take me to a much smaller emergency room less than a mile away. It was one of those outfits that looked more like an urgent care, but I knew I was running out of time. I parked right up front and walked through those front doors as quickly as I could.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I told her. “Identification, please,” she answered from behind lobby glass. I don’t remember her even looking up. While pulling plastic from my wallet, I thought to myself that I should have tried for T-Bird because I was going to die in this place. At least they’d be able to identify me. I flicked my ID through the cutout in the glass, sending it across the desk toward her.

Now, I’m normally not a total butthole. Truly. But cut me some slack, because just a few minutes later, they had me in a back room hooked up again to those sticky pads. This time, things were far from perfect. “Dave, you’re having a heart attack,” the nurse told me. “You need to lay down flat.” I was sitting up. I wanted to fight it.

I prayed out loud, telling God that if it was my time, I was ready. But I asked to be saved. It’s true. A couple of the nurses even prayed with me. One of them jabbed me with something that took the fight out of me. So I was flat on my back when she, the tiny Indian doctor who would save my life, walked in.

Complications

“I just got a stent about a month ago,” I told her. “Widow-maker.” She started hitting me with blood thinners. I chewed and swallowed I don’t know how many baby aspirins. “Nitro (glycerin),” that tiny doctor would order, and a nurse would stick a little pill under my tongue. “Dave, are you feeling any better?” I would tell her no, only to hear the command repeated: “Nitro.” This happened a few times. I heard again. “Nitro.” The nurse looked at her and said, “He’s already had three.” “Nitro,” the doctor demanded without hesitation. I started to feel better.

I was well enough for a 15-minute ambulance ride to another hospital that had staff and equipment on hand to fix me (and, interestingly enough, it wasn’t T-Bird). They sent a catheter up to have a look around. It turned out the stent hadn’t been fully inflated. Blood clots had caused a 100% blockage of my widow-maker artery — the one that supplies half of your heart’s blood flow. The heart attack had been “massive.” That little Indian doctor had opened things up just enough to get me to the intervention I needed.

Lessons learned

Eat well. Manage your weight. Exercise. These are all things I should have been better at. But please understand that the
widow-maker has been known to take out even the fittest of first responders. And the first symptom is often a heart attack. You’ve all heard the stories. So get things checked out. Pay attention to your body. If something isn’t right, get to the bottom of it. And love your friends and family each and every day.

A year later, I’ve lost 55 pounds. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had as much energy. And as my career in law enforcement enters its twilight, new challenges are on the horizon. I’m going to devour them. I thank God for modern medicine. And for that little emergency room that was just around the corner, with that little Indian doctor and her bold decisiveness. God bless you all!