Rewind three and a half months. 6:30 pm, February 3rd.
"Hey, Leah, I feel really bad, weird. Anxious and sweaty and nauseous. Oh and my shoulders hurt and my face is numb. I think I'm having an anxiety attack."
"You are, sweetheart. Because those are all the symptoms of an anxiety attack. Anxiety attacks are the name of the game for our family. It's only ever an anxiety attack. I mean I know that's really my wheelhouse, and you don't really get anxiety attacks, but of course that's what it is. Lie down and I'll rub your back and don't worry, I'll stay with you."
*has anxiety attack that's really a massive heart attack for 20 minutes while I soothe him and rub his back. Stands up for a glass of water. Falls down, unable to speak. Reaches out wordlessly and sightlessly. His nose bleeds. I call 911 screaming and can hardly even remember the address for what feels like ages. He dies on the floor before the EMTs can get to him. They try anyway. But it doesn't help. Dead is dead. The End.
"Those are all the classic symptoms of a heart attack darling [as anyone would realize], so lie down very still and we'll get help quick--"
"911, what is your emergency?"
"My husband is NYPD, he's having a heart attack and we need help very quickly. Thank you. Here's the exact address, the door will be propped open for you. I'm calmly helping him in all the right ways. But please do hurry."
Ambulance arrives just before he would have collapsed. They do magical twinkly things and then he has an emergency quadruple bypass and survives. The End.
