A heart attack is the sort of event that will not be denied, writes Dunedin lawyer Peter Sara.
Thursday, August 6 did not start well. Before a busy day in court, I arrived at work to find a small parcel left outside the front door to my office.
Bending down to pick it up, I split my suit pants.
What followed was the first serious denial of the day: that I could get away with having a large rent in the back of my pants, without anyone noticing.
I reasoned that I would be wearing a jacket in court, the back of which would conceal (I hoped) my sartorial undoing.
At other times, the state of my rent garment would be concealed when I sat down.
The fruits of a tertiary education were borne out when I rang my wife instead and explained my predicament.
Her idea, superior to my own, was to bring in another suit.
This duly arrived and I got changed rather hurriedly, hoping that the people in the DCC offices in the building over the road from mine would not see.
I spent the morning arguing some ACC appeals and returned to my office at lunchtime to eat my sandwich and answer emails, before returning to court for the afternoon session.
Walking back to court, I suddenly experienced a pain, exactly in the middle of my chest.
I reasoned that I had eaten my apple too quickly and kept walking briskly towards my destination.
This must be heartburn, I concluded.
I had never had heartburn before but at 61 such things probably lay before me.
This will pass, I said confidently to myself.
But it didn't.
I was about a minute away from court when I noticed a pain going down my left arm.
At that point, the advertisement about the man having a heart attack on a park bench flashed into my mind, which I quickly extinguished: the second denial of the day.
I arrived at court and found my way to the courtroom.
The other lawyer had already arrived and was organising his papers.
By this time, I had noticed that not only had the pain in my chest not gone away, and neither had the pain down my arm, but I was becoming sweaty.
I pondered just boxing on, but another part of me reasoned that I should at least seek a doctor's opinion about my situation.
I then announced to my colleague that I was not feeling well and the next second the judge walked in.
I heard myself say to the judge that I was not feeling well and that I had chest pains and that I wanted to see a doctor.
The judge, looking most concerned, agreed that was a good idea and the afternoon session was abandoned.
My plan of action was to seek an immediate audience with one of the doctors in the medical centre across the road from the court.
Perhaps I was experiencing very bad heartburn or indigestion.
My third denial of the day.
On arrival, I asked the receptionist if I could see a doctor, and was directed to the urgent doctor's clinic.
When I explained I was having chest pains, a hurried conference took place and I was seen by a nurse, who gave me half an aspirin and called an ambulance.
This was not quite what I had in mind, wanting instead to avoid a fuss.
I certainly didn't want to be carted off to hospital in an ambulance, only to find I was suffering from indigestion.
The nurse then rang the hospital and said there was to be an emergency admission by ambulance.
I recalled my father had a heart attack in his early 40s and was extremely embarrassed about being carted off in the ambulance with grass stains on his feet, from mowing the lawn.
I therefore blame my father entirely for passing on to me the denial gene.
The ambulance turned up very quickly.
The paramedics arrived - younger men with calm and quiet authority - somehow, without saying anything, conveying the impression they had seen and dealt with situations far more dramatic and traumatic than mine.
To my embarrassment, I was conveyed to the ambulance in a wheelchair, with my briefcase in my lap.
Once inside the ambulance, a cannula was put into my arm and electrode patches stuck all over my chest.
I was given a spray under the tongue.
My father was carted off with green feet, whereas I could have been conveyed with split pants.
The hand of divine providence was clearly upon me.
The paramedics told me I should have dialled 111, instead of trying to see a doctor, and gave me a shot of morphine.
Upon arrival at the emergency department things developed quickly.
First I was pushed ahead of all the other people who had arrived on ambulance gurneys.
The electrodes stuck on my chest by the paramedics were ripped off with apologies and replaced by hospital ones.
As blood was being taken from my arm, I was hooked up to a machine.
The big boss of the department came over and had a look at the machine and announced I was having a heart attack.
Somehow I felt slightly relieved it was not indigestion after all.
Things then moved very quickly indeed.
A doctor from the cardiology department turned up and went through the formalities of the informed consent process, explaining the risks, including death, involved in the various procedures I might require.
He had my full attention.
It was explained I was to be taken to the cath lab for an angiogram.
As I took leave of the emergency department, I told the nurses I was seriously impressed and I meant it.
From what I could tell from a prone position, the cath lab was spacious.
The experience of being in the hands of calm and extremely competent professionals flowed seamlessly into this next part of my adventure.
A man introduced himself as Mike Williams.
I later found out he was Prof Mike Williams.
The atmosphere in the room can only be described as chilled.
Everyone was friendly and relaxed.
Prof Williams administered a local anaesthetic at my wrist and explained he was going to pass a tube into an artery, all the way into my heart.
An X-ray machine of some kind was hovering over my chest and this moved variously on command, up and down and around the sides.
I tried not to think about a tube being in my heart.
The whole thing was over fairly quickly.
Prof Williams explained to me I had a blockage in one of the arteries in my heart, but it was too small to put a stent in.
He said he could try to clear the blockage with a wire, but this might cause a rupture in the blood vessel.
He decided to leave it alone. I was very happy with his decision.
I spent the next two days in the coronary care unit, where among other things, I was given an impressive array of written material and booklets about life after a heart attack, and monitored in case I had arrhythmia, which is when the heart beats too fast or too slow.
I now have more pills to take each day for the rest of my life. My brother-in-law said, ''Welcome to the club''.
Because I had a heart attack affecting a smaller blood vessel, the medication I am now on will, according to Prof Williams, reduce my risk of heart attack by 50%.
Two of my siblings have died of heart problems, an older sister and a younger brother.
I have lost 5-10% of my heart muscle.
I am not so enfeebled that I can avoid dishes duty.
I have nothing but the highest praise for the St John Ambulance Service and all the staff at Dunedin Hospital.
In the corridor of ward 7B there are pieces of artwork donated by grateful patients.
One of them is a very fine work by Grahame Sydney.
I am happy I can live some more to enjoy the places he paints.
My family is happy I am alive at all.
