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The View From the Back of an Ambulance
A Heart Attack Puts the City in Perspective
by Sam Hall Kaplan
Looking out the rear window of a speeding ambulance watching roadside scenes disappear in a fading blur seemed an appropriate perspective for a recent race to a hospital.
While our view of life as immortals tends to be forward, into the future - to the next experience, challenge and celebration - our view as mortals is to the rear, and receding landscapes, and enduring loved ones.
Providing a chorus to these retreating glimpses for me was the urban wail of the ambulance's siren, followed by the coarse cacophony in the emergency room, where clothes and dignity were stripped away so the attending medical team could do what they must.
No one expects a heart attack, especially if they feel particularly piquant, as I did before having one a few weeks ago.
Certainly I didn't expect one, fancying myself as I do an urbane flaneur, ever ready to climb another flight of stairs for a better view of whatever, or walk that extra mile for a second cappuccino and croissant, followed by a good cigar and animated conversation, punctuated with ardent opinions.
It is this perspective I believe that lends my architecture and planning commentaries distinction. I view design not as sculpture but as places and spaces for human endeavor; how we experience and use them, for work, play and pleasure.
Pursuit of this perspective over a lifetime, I felt, leant a lilt to my step. I didn't get heart attacks, friends joked, I gave them, to arrogant architects, pompous planners and pandering politicians.
As a result, I considered myself immortal, more vital than ever in my late 60s and once again in the midst of shifting careers, returning to the demanding design and development arena while, as always, continuing to dabble in the media.
And this as I reveled in an exuberant family life embracing a singular wife, four exceptional children, two engaging grandchildren, several dogs, cats and birds, and a wanderlust mitigated by a demanding garden.
Coating this hubris is that my large and loving extended family - headed by my soon-to-be 102-year-old mother - is the subject of a longevity study being conducted by the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. She suffered a heart attack 17 years ago and, bless her, is as feisty and independent as ever. We like to think it's in the genes, and pursue life accordingly.
I had in fact just returned from seeing her, as well as much of my family and a few friends, during a typically hectic visit to New York City that involved racing here and there to attend the theater, visit museums, check out properties for a client, and indulge in boisterous dinners. There also was an excursion to Montreal and McGill University, and a long trip home, interrupted by a layover in Chicago, where in keeping with the gourmand traditions of the city I had an ill-advised giant cheeseburger and a heaping side of French fries. I considered it comfort food, to help deal with the aggravation of questionable airport security procedures.
When I awoke back home on Saturday morning - the first in 10 years I did not have to report to FOX as a member of the weekend news teams - the garden beckoned. There were weeds to be pulled, roses to be pruned and specimens to be transplanted.
I felt tired but good after several hours of toil, and was about to reward myself with a cigar (my last?) when the nausea began, followed by a band of pain across my chest that only got worse as I struggled for breath.
Ever in denial, I babbled to my concerned wife as I writhed on the floor that it must have been something I ate. (Later I was told it was my heart spasming in search of blood; an artery was clogged by a rogue piece of plaque.)
After actually believing me for a few minutes, she called 911. A cadre of firemen arrived, hooked me up to an EKG, and this being Malibu, a comfortable roost for well-off first wives and widows, engaged my wife in casual chitchat.
I could have been the chair I was sitting in as they admired the sweeping view of the water from our living room, asked when we had moved to pricey Point Dume, and seeing an Emmy on the mantle wondered what television series my wife had once appeared in, no doubt thinking we had bought early and sustain our appreciating real estate with residuals, as do some of our neighbors.
Their cloying curiosity ended when the paramedics arrived to focus on a failing me. This no-nonsense crew took readings, applied nitro to try to open my blocked artery and morphine to relieve the pain that was getting worse. Then, ignoring my vain protests, they packed me off in an ambulance for the race to Santa Monica Hospital.
Within an hour I was spread eagle on the operating table, a catheter being snaked up my femoral artery to implant a stent into my heart. Within two hours I was wrapped in a web of wires and tubes in the Intensive Care Unit.
There I met my new best friend and cardiologist, Dr. Robert Levin, who filled me in on the gory details of my cardiac episode. He announced I was about to embark on a new life: A regimen of drugs, exercise and a special diet, one that includes neither Cuban coffee nor cigars.
I also am supposed to take things a little easier, cut a little slack for myself, and others, too. Me, yes. But as for the others? I wouldn't count on it.
Kaplan is the author of L.A. Lost and Found. He is the former design critic for the Los Angeles Times and a former Emmy Award-winning reporter for FOX 11.
page 10, 4/18/2005
© Los Angeles Downtown News. Reprinting items retrieved from the archives are for personal use only. They may not be reproduced or retransmitted without permission of the Los Angeles Downtown News. If you would like to redistribute anything from the Los Angeles Downtown News Archives, please call our permissions department at (213) 481-1448.
While our view of life as immortals tends to be forward, into the future - to the next experience, challenge and celebration - our view as mortals is to the rear, and receding landscapes, and enduring loved ones.
Providing a chorus to these retreating glimpses for me was the urban wail of the ambulance's siren, followed by the coarse cacophony in the emergency room, where clothes and dignity were stripped away so the attending medical team could do what they must.
No one expects a heart attack, especially if they feel particularly piquant, as I did before having one a few weeks ago.
Certainly I didn't expect one, fancying myself as I do an urbane flaneur, ever ready to climb another flight of stairs for a better view of whatever, or walk that extra mile for a second cappuccino and croissant, followed by a good cigar and animated conversation, punctuated with ardent opinions.
It is this perspective I believe that lends my architecture and planning commentaries distinction. I view design not as sculpture but as places and spaces for human endeavor; how we experience and use them, for work, play and pleasure.
Pursuit of this perspective over a lifetime, I felt, leant a lilt to my step. I didn't get heart attacks, friends joked, I gave them, to arrogant architects, pompous planners and pandering politicians.
As a result, I considered myself immortal, more vital than ever in my late 60s and once again in the midst of shifting careers, returning to the demanding design and development arena while, as always, continuing to dabble in the media.
And this as I reveled in an exuberant family life embracing a singular wife, four exceptional children, two engaging grandchildren, several dogs, cats and birds, and a wanderlust mitigated by a demanding garden.
Coating this hubris is that my large and loving extended family - headed by my soon-to-be 102-year-old mother - is the subject of a longevity study being conducted by the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. She suffered a heart attack 17 years ago and, bless her, is as feisty and independent as ever. We like to think it's in the genes, and pursue life accordingly.
I had in fact just returned from seeing her, as well as much of my family and a few friends, during a typically hectic visit to New York City that involved racing here and there to attend the theater, visit museums, check out properties for a client, and indulge in boisterous dinners. There also was an excursion to Montreal and McGill University, and a long trip home, interrupted by a layover in Chicago, where in keeping with the gourmand traditions of the city I had an ill-advised giant cheeseburger and a heaping side of French fries. I considered it comfort food, to help deal with the aggravation of questionable airport security procedures.
When I awoke back home on Saturday morning - the first in 10 years I did not have to report to FOX as a member of the weekend news teams - the garden beckoned. There were weeds to be pulled, roses to be pruned and specimens to be transplanted.
I felt tired but good after several hours of toil, and was about to reward myself with a cigar (my last?) when the nausea began, followed by a band of pain across my chest that only got worse as I struggled for breath.
Ever in denial, I babbled to my concerned wife as I writhed on the floor that it must have been something I ate. (Later I was told it was my heart spasming in search of blood; an artery was clogged by a rogue piece of plaque.)
After actually believing me for a few minutes, she called 911. A cadre of firemen arrived, hooked me up to an EKG, and this being Malibu, a comfortable roost for well-off first wives and widows, engaged my wife in casual chitchat.
I could have been the chair I was sitting in as they admired the sweeping view of the water from our living room, asked when we had moved to pricey Point Dume, and seeing an Emmy on the mantle wondered what television series my wife had once appeared in, no doubt thinking we had bought early and sustain our appreciating real estate with residuals, as do some of our neighbors.
Their cloying curiosity ended when the paramedics arrived to focus on a failing me. This no-nonsense crew took readings, applied nitro to try to open my blocked artery and morphine to relieve the pain that was getting worse. Then, ignoring my vain protests, they packed me off in an ambulance for the race to Santa Monica Hospital.
Within an hour I was spread eagle on the operating table, a catheter being snaked up my femoral artery to implant a stent into my heart. Within two hours I was wrapped in a web of wires and tubes in the Intensive Care Unit.
There I met my new best friend and cardiologist, Dr. Robert Levin, who filled me in on the gory details of my cardiac episode. He announced I was about to embark on a new life: A regimen of drugs, exercise and a special diet, one that includes neither Cuban coffee nor cigars.
I also am supposed to take things a little easier, cut a little slack for myself, and others, too. Me, yes. But as for the others? I wouldn't count on it.
Kaplan is the author of L.A. Lost and Found. He is the former design critic for the Los Angeles Times and a former Emmy Award-winning reporter for FOX 11.
page 10, 4/18/2005
© Los Angeles Downtown News. Reprinting items retrieved from the archives are for personal use only. They may not be reproduced or retransmitted without permission of the Los Angeles Downtown News. If you would like to redistribute anything from the Los Angeles Downtown News Archives, please call our permissions department at (213) 481-1448.
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