Irony dripped from the fluorescent lights—a true story. Gabriel Jeroschewitz, April 11th, 2025
The Royal Jubilee Hospital in December. It sounded like a party was going on somewhere, a muted, distant celebration filtering through the sterile corridors. Irony dripped from the fluorescent lights. My name is Gabriel, and frankly, parties weren’t my thing anymore, especially not with a bum ticker and a history of strokes that had messed with my optical cortex. Good times.
This adventure began with a familiar tightening in my chest, a dull ache that blossomed into a full-blown panic. One of my arteries had decided to embrace the season’s spirit by completely shutting down. Hence, the Jubilee. Therefore, the Quick Stay unit was where hope mingled with the lingering scent of antiseptic and fear, in a situation where the outcome was far from certain.
They wheeled me in, prepped me for the angioplasty, and explained the procedure with the detached efficiency that only medical professionals can truly master. Catheter, balloon, plaque-squishing – the whole shebang. It sounded… unpleasant.
Then the cardiologist, who looked like he hadn’t slept properly since med school, made his pronouncement. “I don’t know if I can do this. You may need open-heart surgery.” He delivered the news with the same tone he might use to describe the weather: partly cloudy with a chance of cardiac arrest.
My stomach dropped. Open-heart surgery? I pictured myself splayed out on a table, my ribcage cracked open like a coconut, not precisely how I envisioned spending my December.
Then, he backtracked in a move that defied all logic and inspired a flicker of hope. “Well, let me try. I’ll see what I can do.” It wasn’t a rousing declaration of medical prowess, but it was enough.
And so began the three-hour catheter odyssey. I lay there, strapped to the table, as the doctor and his team navigated the tiny tube through my veins, inching closer to the blockage. Above me, a massive screen displayed the inner workings of my heart in glorious, gruesome detail. It was like watching a particularly violent episode of a medical drama, except I was the star, and the stakes were considerably higher.
It turns out that a previous stent had decided to get all scar-tissuey and complicated, turning a simple procedure into a vascular obstacle course. Catheters went in, and catheters came out. I lost count somewhere around catheter number seven.
“So,” I croaked at one point, “I think my heart is about to stop.”
The cardiologist cheerfully, peering intently at the screen, said, “Oh boy, it looks like you’re right.”
And he was. My heart rate plummeted, and the monitor started beeping frantically. I heard the distinct rumble of the crash cart being wheeled in, like the sound of impending doom on rubber tires.
This, I thought, was it.
And then things got weird. Weird.
Suddenly, my life flashed before my eyes. Not in a montage of happy memories, mind you, but in a series of regrets. I saw myself as a flawed, insecure man. I remembered all the times I’d acted out of fear, the moments I’d let my anxieties dictate my actions.
I thought about my children. Had I been a good father? Had I been present enough, supportive enough? The answer, a resounding “no,” echoed in my head.
And then I saw her. An angel. Not the cherubic, winged variety you see on Christmas cards, but a radiant, androgynous being radiating pure, unconditional love.
I poured out my heart to her, confessed my failings as a father. “I should have been there more,” I lamented. “I should have been better.”
The angel listened patiently, her expression serene. She didn’t offer platitudes or assurances. She just… understood.
And then, bizarrely, I heard them. Other angels. They were making coded jokes that I couldn’t quite decipher with my rational mind, but I understood them on an emotional level. It was like hearing a symphony of cosmic chuckles, a divine roast session happening just for me.
All this, mind you, took place in what I perceived to be an eternity. But in reality, it was only five minutes.
Suddenly, a voice jolted me back to reality. “Looks like everything’s okay now,” the cardiologist announced, sounding almost as surprised as I felt. I guess we’ll continue.”
They continued. They wrestled the stubborn artery open, restoring blood flow. The monitor beeped a steadier rhythm. The crash cart retreated to the shadows.
The feeling of the angel lingered, a warm, comforting presence, which was perplexing, to say the least. I’m more of an atheist, or at least an agnostic, maybe spiritual but not religious. I wasn’t expecting a celestial encounter. I thought maybe I’d have my moment with Buddha, Yahweh, Jesus, God, or some higher intelligence. Instead, I got an angel and a celestial comedy club.
I felt small and insignificant, humbled by the experience. I felt terrible for some things I had done in my life. I wish I had been a better person, a feeling magnified by the humbling experience.
As they wheeled me out of the Quick Stay unit and back into the muted chaos of The Jubilee, my mind raced. What did it all mean? Was it a near-death hallucination? A subconscious manifestation of my guilt? Or had I caught a glimpse of something… more?
I may never know. But one thing was sure: I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been given a second chance—a chance to be a better father, friend, and human being.
And a chance to finally pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a writer. A dream I’d buried deep beneath layers of insecurity and doubt. Over the years, I’d written countless poems, short stories, even a play about Nietzsche and Kafka. But, crippled by fear of failure, I’d burned them all. Reduced them to ashes.
But maybe it wasn’t too late. Perhaps the angel, the cosmic jokes, and the near-death experience were all a divine nudge, a reminder that life is too short to waste on fear.
It may be time to stop burning my stories and start telling them. Even if they were as messy, flawed, and utterly ridiculous as the angioplasty, and my own heart, that had just tried to kill me. The Jubilee, I thought, wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe everyone was having fun, and so could I.
