17 May 1996 This is Harlan speaking. This is a very brief, but accurate, and up-to-date, synopsis of what recently transpired with me, medically speaking. All other informants or smartasses pretending to be "in the know" should be disregarded for the gazoonies that they are. One Wednesday, April 10th--on the day of the Babylon 5 wrap party to which Susan and I were going with Joe and Kathryn--I began getting chest pains. I'd had them before, in the four years since the two angioplasties that had been intended to unclog my right coronary artery. Had borne them stolidly, as part of what I supposed was the general condition of living with impaired plumbing. Usually, if I lay down and put my feet up, it would pass in a few minutes and I'd go back to work. On that Wednesday, the pains abated slightly, but continued. I spent most of Wednesday and Thursday between the office and the bed, waiting for the pain to slack off so I could think well enough to beat the dedline work that was putting terrible pressure on me from White Wolf, Dark Horse, and a half dozen other committments. The pressure was killing me, but I didn't know it. Finally, on Friday the 12th, it became obvious to me that what I was undergoing was not a more severe form of what I'd learned to bear with. I told Susan she'd better get me to the hospital. Because Susan doesn't drive, and I couldn't drive, my assistant, Sharon, dorve us down to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills, which is where my internist, John David Romm, is affiliated. But we didn't wait to go in through general admitting, because the pain was getting broader, deeper, and more severe steadily. John Romm had called ahead--as had my agent, Martin Shapiro, who is on the board of trustees for the Cedars-Sinai cardiac unit, and who raises millions of bucks a year for the wing--and they took me straight in through the ER. Long story short. Five hours in the ER, waiting. Complete with screaming junkies in handcuffs. Thrilling experience. finally, the got a vacant room in the cardiac intensive care unit, and they moved me upstairs. Much more comfortable, once they got me on blood thinners and beta blockers. Still in pain, but at least it was mitigated as some blood moved through my jammed arteries. Spent Friday and Saturday there, waiting for my cardiovascular guys to get me my specific doctor who was away on vacation at Lake Tahoe, so it looks as if I wouldn't get tended to, till Monday. On Saturday, Susan brought in my typewriter and, dragging my IV drip behind me, all laced up with tubes and such, I got out of the bed, moved to a small table in the room, and wrote an essay for _SCIENCE FICTION AGE_ about Barclay Shaw that was overdue. As I was writing it, I found myself typing the words..."I'M WRITING THIS IN THE HOSPITAL. I MAY BE HAVING A HEART ATTACK. THIS MAY BE THE LAST THING I'LL EVER WRITE." Cheery thought. Many moments face to face with one's mortality. Not recommended for a sanguine night's sleep. Well, by Sunday the pain was still acute, and I told the nurses they'd better forget Monday, find my damned doctor, and get me on the table posthaste. Everyone sort of fumfuh'd, saying the hospital more or less shut down on the weekends, and they didn't really have the staff to do anything so severe. I fear at that point I assered myself, and told them I didn't give a damn what happened on weekends, that they had best get their asses in gear right this second now. Shortly thereafter, having tracked down my cardio guy in Tahoe, they got authorization from him to contact one of his partners in the thoracic unit, who came in, scrubbed, and reminded me we'd once met. His name is Ron Karlsberg. Nice guy. He went in, did the angiogram--you know, of course, that you're wide awake as the catheter snakes up through your groin into your heart, and you lie there watching it happen on a TV monitor overhead--you did know that dind't you--and he pointed out that I had blockages in four distinct areas. He said doing another angioplasty would be pointless, that I needed bypass, and he got my okay to do the job. So the on-duty surgeon, Robert Mace Kass, M.D., Director of Lung Transplantation and Cardiovascular and Thoracic Surgery, scrubbed up, went in, cracked my chest like a walnut, took 27 1/2" of main vein out of the inside of my left leg--making me look as if I came in a very poor second at Heidelburg--and rerouted me a new arterial superhighway. That was Sunday about One O'Clock. I woke up on Monday. The rest is one or another aspect of living hell. Don't ask. But by the following Friday I was out of Cedars and home. It had been an expected eight day stay, and I'd gotten sprung in four. Now I'm home, and all the folks who said they understood about how weak I'd be, and how it'd take at least six months before I was back in the saddle, have reneged, forgotten, gone back to their old ways...and every day I've got more of the same deadline and bullshit problems that nearly killed me to start with. I'm doing well. The pain is minimal now. A tickle in the throat from fluid in the lungs which makes me want to cough which, of course, makes my knitting chest explodes when I give in to the impulse. I field the calls from White Wolf and Dark Horse, and everyone else who starts out saying "Gee, I hope you're feeling better...do you have time to do a phone interview..." and I'm determined I'm not going to let these people push me into an early grave. Not fans, not readers, not publishers. They'll all have to wait for the work. And if I don't get it all done, well, then, they had my work for more than forty years. Couple of things. No more goddam flowers, please. Save the money. Send a donation to the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund. Also, forget the cards. I'm up to my ass in cards. I appreciate them, the sentiments are swell, but frankly, my attention span at the moment is that of a fruit fly, so all that the mass of cards every day produces in my is a profound weariness. If I tried to answer even half your good thoughts, I'd never have the time to write another short story. You'll just have to believe I've read them all, adore you each and every one for the kindness, and wish you'd sent the bucks to the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund. Beyond that, I'm back at work. Slowly. Steadily. And I will, repeat I will, that is to say yes I will be in Chicago for the Comic Con, and I'll be in New York to serve as emcee at the Horror Writers Association Dinner. We had to cancel out a lot of signings for _Edgeworks 1_ (the book is now in stores), and a convention where I was graciously awarded the beautiful (and I mean elegantly gorgeous) DEATHREALM award, but I never ever said I wouldn't be in Chicago for the Comic Con in June, or that I'd miss the HWA dinner in a few weeks. It'll be tough, but I'll do it. Although I had to cancel most of my west coast Edgeworks tour (I'll make it up to those stores down the line), still on is the signing at: BORDERS ON SATURDAY, JULY 13TH 2.00-4.00PM AT 125 W. THOUSAND OAKS BLVD., THOUSAND OAKS, CA 91380 TELEPHONE (803) 497-8159 Otherwise, my thanks to all of you. Hundreds, and I mean many many hundreds of cards, letters, e-mail things downloaded and faxed to me by Rick Wyatt, a mass of good wishes from the most gracious fans on the Star Trek website, as well as telegrams, floral bouquets, cacti, fruit that will enrich me, breads and candies that will kill me, and phone calls till I wanted to rip the damned thing out of the wall. Rest easily, if you care, because I'm on the mend. As the hospital orderly who wheeled me out to the curb said, "You really ARE a tough little bastard, aren't you?" To which I replied, "Just what I needed to soon after nearly dying...heightist remarks."