Pushing the Dragon’s Panic button

Throughout my wife’s pregnancy (our first) we have prayed and asked the Almighty that it be as smooth and comfortable as possible, for both mother and child. God answered our prayers in that my wife’s pregnancy has been relatively easy with no morning sickness or other botherations.

However, God it seems, likes to play tricks on me from time to time and also has a weird sense of humour, which is almost always directed at me and at my expense. He likes to make fun of me it seems. To make me look foolish. How else can I explain what happened to me last week?

You see, things were going as cool as ever in the Clan of the Chee Hings, until last Tuesday night at 10.30 pm, when out of the blue, I started having trouble breathing and began to feel faint. My wife, trying to be clever, also tried to make fun of me by asking if I was experiencing labour pains.

When I started to hyperventilate and my chest felt as if it was imploding, I thought, "Joke is joke, but this is no joke." So I telephoned a trusted friend of mine who happens to be a very experienced doctor and hysterically told him I could not breathe. "Go to Mount Hope Ken, tell them I sent you. Go to the Accident and Emergency Section," the doc said as he could clearly hear my gasps over the phone.

At this time, my good wife was on the verge of concern and we set off for Mt Hope at a fast pace.

When we arrived, the doctor on duty took one look at my heavily pregnant wife and dead-panned, "All yuh in the wrong place, the maternity hospital up the road," before resuming his busy chatter with a good-looking nurse. Never mind the fact that I was clutching my chest and panting like a dog without water. I was actually seeing my short life flash before me. My wife explained that it was I who was ready to deliver — my life. They quickly found me a bed.

While I lay on the bed making peace with my Maker and at the same time admonishing him for his timing — I mean here it is I am on my death bed and at the same time, expecting my first child in a matter of days — Nurse Alvarez busied herself taking my blood pressure, checking the heart rate and other mundane medical procedures.

"Ok nurse, don’t hold back on me, how long do I have to live," I asked looking at her in earnest. She laughed and told me everything appeared normal. Some minutes later, the doctor came over and gave me some earth shattering news. I had suffered a panic attack.

In between my gasps, the doctor who must have thought he resembled Tommy Joseph, told me to "push," before letting off a loud laugh. Ah these wannabe comedians.

Panic attack? Macho man me? Hell no! I told the doctor this could not be true. After all, I am Ken Chee Hing — former crime reporter par excellence — and the world’s greatest unknown cricketer — it just could not be possible.

Never in all my life have I suffered a panic attack. Not I. Not when I was having the living daylights beaten out of me by a teacher in primary school. No panic attack while I was at hundreds of crime, murder and accident scenes.

I have photographed headless corpses in the dead of night, without so much as a wheeze. Examined rotting corpses as I gave my CID partners advice as to how the unfortunate person may have been killed. Not one cough.

Heck, I have gone to terrible, gory murder scenes at night only to go home afterwards to a hearty dinner with visions of death and dismemberment dancing in my mind as I planned my story for the next day’s issue. And never once did I have any damned panic attack.

So you see, it just could not be possible. I showed the Doctor my Newsday press badge and literally ordered him to do other tests, saying it was not a panic attack but had to be something worse.

But he was more obstinate than I was and boffed me up in front of my wife. "You need to keep quiet and breath Mr Chee Hing. Only then will the panic attack subside," he ordered.

But I did not take him on and continued babbling between short gasps for air. In the end it took just one cut-eye from Mrs Chee Hing for macho man to boil down like bhagi and stay quiet and take deep breaths. And would you believe, after a while, everything went back to normal?

"This is he first chile he expecting nah?" a nurse asked my cool-as-cucumber wife, who nodded wisely.

"Ah could see that. Poor fella getting anxiety attack over the pregnancy. Careful he don’t start to get contractions before you do. Oh look, he water bag just buss," the nurse exclaimed, as she and other nurses cackled like rabid hyenas. My wife well aware of my ego, watched sympathetically, and only smiled. Half an hour later, they told me to get the hell out of the hospital.

But that was not the end of my woes. No siree. I woke up Wednesday morning to hear my wife chatting away on the phone as if she was a big time reporter, telling her best friend, "And he was gasping for air and I tell you it was so funny...Nah I eh go want he in the delivery room, he go collapse and the nurses will have to tend to him instead of me. He could stay home yes." Laughter filled the room.

Mrs Chee Hing, the woman I had sworn to love in sickness and health, was chatting merrily away on the phone, making a real pappyshow on the man she promised to love and obey. I tell you, these modern day women are something else yes.

Ten minutes later, she returned to bed and asks me sweetly, "Good morning hon and how are you?"

"Woman, who is that you was speaking with on the phone?" came my pleasant reply. "Oh just a friend from the bank," was her reply.

Before you could say ‘Panic,’ the telephone rang and my wife’s best friend in the whole world, who is now my sworn enemy, called to say that everyone, down to the security guard and the messenger boy, were having a good laugh at my expense. I tell you, I started to breathe heavily once again and the chest pains came back one time. It’s not often you are made the laughing stock of the entire branch of a commercial bank.

I take comfort in the fact that according to Google.com and Yahoo.com, for first time expecting dads, it is quite a common phenomena.

God alone knows what will happen to poor innocent me, if ever a second little Chee Hing comes along. I can only pray He keeps his pranks to himself and leaves me alone.