When trauma strikes

Having a heart attack is not for sissies. I had mine some years back soon after I got out of bed. A colossal pain gripped my chest and almost dragged me to the floor. Naturally I shouted for the missus, who just happened to be in the loo.
“Lovey,” I gasped.
“Come quick! I… I think I’m having a heart attack!” I yelled as hard as I was able. Her reply was almost as staggering as my heart attack. “You’ll have to wait a bit, sweetheart. I’m not finished yet and I need another toilet roll.” The ghastly pain persisted, and when the missus finally appeared, she took one look at me and said, “I’ll call an ambulance. You are sick my boy. Get dressed and put on clean underpants.”
“Clean underpants? What’s that got to do with my heart attack?” I queried. “Nothing!” she snapped. “But we can`t have you looking like a tramp when they take ‘yer clobber off.”
“Oh,” I replied, hating the thought of some pretty young nurse might having to do the honours. The pain under my heart (left-hand side) had travelled to my left arm by the time the missus made the call to 911 and I was feeling awful. “How long do you think they will be?” I asked. The missus glanced at her watch and then up at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Give or take half an hour, Ducks. I’ll stand in the road and flag them down.” Another searing pain struck me in the chest. “Lord, don’t do that, lovey. They’ll take one look at you in that frilly nightgown and drive on past!”
“Don’t be rude, I bought this when we were first married.”
“Yes,” I replied, knowing that it had had its ups and downs. The ring on the doorbell interrupted our conversation. “They’re here,” muttered the missus. “I’ll help you to the gate.” By the time we got to the ambulance, the pain in my chest had completely disappeared. I got in and sat next to the driver, hoping that I might strike an item off my bucket list, which was to sit in an ambulance and operate the siren.
The driver greeted me. “Ooo are you, mate?” he asked. “Er… I’m the patient. I’m having a heart attack.”
“You gotta get in the back, mate. The medics will have to prep you for the journey.”
“Prep me?” I exploded. “Its less than a quarter of a mile!”
“Don’t matter, they’ll have to take ‘yer vital statistics.”
I got out and said goodbye to the missus. “If I don’t come back, lovey, there’s a fiver in Uncle Charly’s cremation urn on the mantelshelf.” The missus begged to differ. “No there ain`t, Ducks. I spent that last Christmas on your bottle of Scotch.”
So I find myself lying down on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance. “Are you a bleeder?” the medic asks politely. I think back 50 odd years when old Ms Tarbox caught me scrumping apples off her tree. She called me a little bleeder.
“Yes,” I replied, “I think I must be.” He placed a nitroglycerine pill beneath my tongue and connected a few leads
here and there on my chest. “I’m feeling better,” I tell him, “Can we go home now?”
“Not a chance sir, we must stabilise you before we even move the vehicle.”
“But… but honestly, I am feeling fine.”
“You are in shock,” he informs me. “We must get you to hospital immediately.” We eventually moved off down the road. Alas, no “wee-wa, wee-wa, wee-wa!” siren blasting its head off. We drove sedately all the way. Laying there in
Ward B, connected to the ECG, the doctor asks, “What did you have for dinner last night, Mr Kennell?”
I’m puzzled. “For dinner?” I ask. “Yes, for dinner,” he says. “Err… fried onions and pork sausage,” I reply.
“Hmm, thought so,” says the doctor. “You have suffered a mild attack of indigestion. I would go easy on the fried onions in future.”