A critical illness story, part 2

In March 2011, my company sends me on a Western tour for two weeks beginning in Vancouver.  I meet my boss and our local rep for dinner in to launch the tour.  We plan to have dinner at Joe Fortes, some three blocks away from the hotel. One block away, my chest pain is so severe, I stopped, told my partners to go ahead to the restaurant; I will go back to my room to rest.  I attributed this to jet lag or simply to the fatigue after a long flight from Toronto.  They refused to have me go back and so we stayed on that corner for 5 to 10 minutes so I could catch my breath.  We moved on, ever so slowly and finally arrive at Joe’s only to find the place packed with a waiting time of some 45 minutes.  There is no way I could stand there for that amount of time and again I offer to go back to my room.  They decline my suggestion .  We then proceed across the street to the Keg and finally sit and relax.  After a lovely meal, we head back to the hotel and this time I feel much better.  The rest of the trip is basically from hotel lobby to a taxi to another place for a meeting and back again, via taxi, to a new hotel. No exercise, no pain.  We finally reach Calgary near the end of March where I spend the weekend, in the snow.  It’s spring!  It’s not supposed to snow!  But we’re in Calgary, I’m told.  The restaurant of the hotel is not opened for breakfast or lunch during the weekend which forces me to go across the street to find a pub style place.  In my mind and in my chest, across the street is a long way.  I make it slowly and everything is just fine.  The rest of the trip is without incidents and when back to Toronto, my drive to the office is in steps: Apartment to the car and rest as I’m sitting at the wheel, driving.  In the indoor parking lot, at York and Bay, I take an elevator to the main floor of the mall.  Half way to the office elevator, I sit on a bench nearby, where at noon, people sit there and chat away their lunch hour. I need the rest.  From there, I walk to the elevators of our building.  On our floor, I enter through the kitchen, where again, I rest before taking the last steps to my office.  I talk with Anna about my ulcers as she offers to call the St Mikes’ hospital.  No point, it’s probably stress.  In the coming summer, I look forward to driving my scooter to work.

To be continued