Desperately Seeking Herb Weinman

Minor chest pains that woke me early one morning--and which did not go away three, four, five, six hours later--landed me flat on my back at a local emergency room, a perversely comforting beep beep beepissuing from the monitor hanging precariously over my head.

Frankly, I didn't really think that I was having a heart attack--as a former EMT, a devoted watcher of medical television, and a cultural cousin of Woody Allen, I'm ridiculously well versed in the symptoms of a myocardial infarction. However, after I'd endured a morning of chest pains at an age where all warranties have lapsed, it was prudent to go to the hospital. And since my wife was out of town--and my grown kids off with their kids--I drove myself over to the ER.