This Old Gay Man Took in a Stray Cat Then Almost Died: What I Learned
Plus a dash of performative Christianity that drove me to tears — just to spice things up
“He’s vomiting probable arterial blood. I can barely get a pulse! You want me to push epi now or wait?”
I couldn’t hear the static-crackled reply as the paramedic fussed with my IV with one hand and held a bag under my mouth with the other.
I opened my eyes. His kind face swam in and out. How could he stand my smell?
“No, doc,” I whispered. “Not blood. Ate cherries.”
I barely heard his reply over the screaming siren: “Let me be the judge of that, buddy. But you’re in good hands.”
“Am I going to be okay? Like, am I gonna …” I let the word “die” strangle in my throat.
His reply, “We’re taking the best care of you we can,” lessened my fear. Some.
The universe faded to black, then faces haloed in harsh light glared down at me with frightening intensity. I was on a gurney clattering fast into the ER. Somebody jabbed in another IV line. Somebody attached EKG leads to my chest. A razor, dull and dry, ripped chest hair out.
Then:
