Severe—my body knew before my mind did.
Onset
A blunt thud deep in the chest. Not a knife-like stab, but a weight that kept sinking inward. In that brief instant I realized the signal wasn’t “the usual discomfort.” It was an alarm.
Signals
Cold sweat. Shallower breaths. Words slightly stumble. I check the clock and note the time. I ask myself—where, how much, since when. I quiet the noise so I can hear what the body is saying.
Decision
Hesitation consumes time. I decide that accuracy and sharing are what matter now, and I jot down symptoms, time of onset, current meds, and history. If I go to the ER, I’ll present them in this order.
Transit
Short breaths, small steps—no pushing through. I send a short message: “Acute change. Going to hospital. Will share updates.” Public transport and taxi, or call emergency—choose the safer side.
Handover
At reception, I hand over the note. I speak not in the order of questions but in the order of relevance: “Onset at hh:mm,” “quality of pain,” “any asymmetry.” I’m not a clinician; that’s why I separate facts from feelings.
Why I write
This is not a medical manual. It’s a memo to preserve what one can do in the first minutes. We are always the “past self” of our future self. I write so that the next time—even if I hope it never comes—will find me readier.
Note: This narrative reflects personal experience. It is not medical advice. If you have concerning symptoms, seek medical care immediately.