Epitaph

Tonight Jeff came downstairs and asked if I ever had acid reflux and what did it feel like. I said if he was going to talk sexy to me, I expected dinner out and a glass of wine first. When I realized he was serious, I asked him to recall that baby I had seven years ago, that one now trying to light things on fire with a magnifying glass on the front step, and how he played banjo with my internal abdominal bits for the better part of nine months. So, yes, I've had that before. How come?

In the middle of a sentence, Jeff clutched his chest and balled his fist to the middle of it.

"OWOWOWOWOW ... ahh, OK ... gone now ..."

I used my super sixth intuitive psychic senses to infer that he might be having some sort of chest discomfort. After he tells me this has been going on for ten to fifteen minutes, and seeing how my CPR skills are rusty and the CLEAR!!!!! resuscitation paddles are packed in the attic in a box with the Christmas stockings, I thought it might be wise to call the doctor.

Jeff refuses, citing "reflux." He graduated summa from Harvard Medical School so he knows such things. Oh wait, actually he went out for BBQ ribs and half-price pitchers of Coors Light with a woman from Harvard (Law). Once. Totally the same thing.

I decide to take the medical intervention in to my own hands and summon my powers of Web MD. The news is not good. I inform Jeff gravely, firmly, that based on my three-keyword search, he has about twenty minutes to live. I (almost) stop kidding around and suggest that I could drive him to the ER, just in case.

The looming threat of medical care causes a divinity of miraculous healing. Just like that, his symptoms downgrade from "OWOWOWOOWOWOWOWW" to "probably he just needs to burp." I reply calmly that according to Dr. Oz, burping is not a medically-sanctioned treatment for heart failure. I appeal to his sympathetic side by reminding him that he has a family to think of, and that if he dies, I will have to carry out my own trash cans to the curb and that is not going to work for me.

Jeff then explains the root cause for his chest explosion with a poker face that would put Lady Gaga and her VMA meat outfit to shame. "He ate carrots for lunch."

Blank stare.

"Carrots!"

Blank silence.

Louder now, because it is the volume of his statement that is the issue here.

"You know ... CARROTS ... "

At this point, I am all, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! I KNOW WHAT CARROTS ARE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE SPEAKING GERMAN! OR SARAH PALIN! WE CANNOT SEE RUSSIA FROM OUR HOUSE AND CARROTS ARE NOT A TRIGGER FOR HEART ATTACK! CALL THE FREAKING DOCTOR BEFORE YOU TURN BLUE!"

This is going nowhere ...

Not. Going. To. Budge. Because, apparently, emergency rooms are for the weak and for those who are not intelligent enough to recognize that the simple consumption of vegetables can bring on potentially life-threatening symptoms that should be ignored by those who are smart.

One more offer for a ride to the ER. Refused. I then do the only rational thing I can come up with and take Ethan to Home Depot to buy mums because they are on sale and I want our porch to look nice for Jeff's wake.

Before I leave, I ask Jeff to please call me in 20 minutes to check in and assure me that he has survived his carrot attack. And that if he does not, I will assume he is on the floor and that I need to send for an ambulance. And if I have to do that, I tell him that while I will be sad and that he will be missed, he will have left me no choice but to inscribe the headstone:

SHE TOLD ME SO.