Karl T.

I drove myself to Kaiser's emergency room at 2:30am on Saturday because I was having some chest pain that wouldn't let me sleep. I expected that they would prescribe me a heavy-duty antacid and send me away. However, once you utter the words "chest pain" in an emergency room, things start to happen very fast.

Once they did two EKGs, they arranged to have me packed into an ambulance and transferred to St Rose Hospital in Hayward, "because they have the best cardiologists around." That was when I clued in that this might be serious. Attempting jocularity, I asked the emergency intern, "Is this for the heart attack I had earlier without noticing it, or is it for the one that's in my very near future?" His reply was sobering: "It's for the heart attack that you're having right now."

Once we arrived at St Rose, they swept me straight to the cath lab, where a very animated and thorough cardiologist did what is called a "left-side catheterization" (or "left cath" for short.) I was awake for the whole procedure -- local anaesthetic took care of the entry point at my groin, and there wasn't any other pain. Feeling people fiddling around in my major blood vessels was very, very odd, but I wouldn't call it pain.

The cardiologist informed me in brisk terms that both my left-side cardiac arteries were between 98 and 99% blocked, and that they were going to balloon and stent them. "Fortunately, your right side looks like a superhighway -- clear all the way." So I spent 45 minutes or so getting my cardiac pathways roto-rooted, and spent about 24 hours subsequently at St Rose, 10 of them in ICU and 14 or so in a regular room.

And then, amazingly enough, they told me I could go. I have a spectacular bruise on my right groin, two new stents, and who knows how much billing hassle to go through, but the monster that got my grandfather at age 58 in 1970 did not get me at age 51.

So now I am home and safe, and I will be on blood thinners for the rest of my life, just like my grandmother was before me -- her heart attack was in 1988, when she was 75. She lived to be 90. And when she could finally feel the spring winding down, she sat down and wrote a note to her cardiac surgeon, thanking him for 14 wonderful years.

So for at least the next little while, I will be doing my very best to cherish every month, every week, every day that the cheerful cardiologist at St Rose has gifted me. Thanks, doc. You're brilliant.

I went up to FOGcon this morning to have lunch with a couple of friends. Had a marvellous time, but had to come home early to pick my wife up to go to dinner with her family in celebration of her birthday.

All was uneventful until I got to the freeway exit for our house, where I saw a number of police cruisers and a bunch of flares blocking off the off-ramp. That's odd, I thought, and proceeded up to Skyline Boulevard to come around via Hickey and Callan. At the corner of Callan and Serramonte, some blocks from the house, I encountered another group of police cruisers and a half-dozen officers directing traffic, not letting anyone into the neighbourhood. I explained the date with my wife and her family to one of the officers, who replied, "I understand, sir, and I apologize. But you can't go up there." There were about two dozen local residents standing on the various corners of Callan and Serramonte, so I asked one of my neighbours what was going on. His response:

"They've got a fugitive holed up in one of those apartment buildings at the bottom of the block. They say he shot a San Francisco cop." Ah, that would explain why there were so many SFPD cars down here in Daly City. (SFGate story link)

So I called my wife and let her know to call her mother and let her know we were likely to be late. And after milling around for ten to fifteen minutes chatting with people and determining that no one really had a firm grasp on what was going on, I decided to see how far up the hill the police perimeter extended. Eventually, I was able to approach our house from the uphill side and make our dinner date.

So, long story short: we're all right, but our quiet little neighbourhood wasn't so quiet tonight. I thought I had something pithy to say about the event, but I don't, really. I just hope this doesn't become the new normal, and I am uncomfortably aware that in too many places and for too many people, this is just daily life.

Edited later to add: They haven't found the guy, but the news story made the front page on KRON and KTVU.

RIP Dennis Allen McDaniel. Born Nov. 12, 1941. Died at home, Dec. 16, 2011.

My wife's family has always done an extraordinary job of loving me for who and what I am, and Dennis's matter-of-fact acceptance of me as a worthy husband for his step-daughter and a welcome addition to his family was always at the forefront of that love. I could ask for no better model of humanity, decency, and dedication to making a marriage work in the face of everything this unfriendly world throws at us. May memories and stories of him gladden our hearts for many years to come.