Sam has had atrial fibrillation (an occasional irregular heartbeat) for some time. Recently, his doctor recommended having an ablation, wherein doctors feed a catheter through a vein in his groin into his heart. The catheter has an electric tip and is used to deaden the nerves in his heart which are causing the irregular heartbeats. He underwent this procedure last Thursday.

As an actor, it's usually about me. This time it was all about Sam. Calming him, preparing him, transporting him, representing him, medicating him. While we were in the waiting room at the excellent NYU Coronary Care Unit on the 13th floor, we met a man whose 45-year-old partner went in for his first of three angioplasties. Every few minutes as he was telling his story, his face would tense, his eyes would well. He did his best to keep himself from bursting into tears in front of a room of strangers. I understood his reaction, though I thought it was extreme since angioplasties are a fairly common procedure which 80-year olds pull through without a problem.

The patient rep called Sam's name. Sam changed into his johnnies: one open in the back, one open in front as a robe; we stored his clothes in a closet and rolled Sam to the 5th floor "Cath Lab." It looked like the subterranean hallways of Disneyworld. No decor. No signs. Forget about windows. Bleak hallways with quiet doctors in surgical wear avoiding eye contact. We had been there the week before when I was expressing myself at a receptionist there after we were misdirected through two hospitals, three elevator banks and seven hallways. Bad person to yell at before your loved one's procedure. But you get like that when someone you love may be in danger of being mistreated.

We arrived at the 3 chairs they provide to discourage loved ones from waiting there in the hallway and our angioplasty friend was there. His partner was being brought into "recovery" and passed by us. Our friend smiled and put on his "I love you and you'll get through this" smile. As soon as the gurney left his face tensed and eyes filled.

A minute later I watched Sam walk down the hallway to the procedure room (it's not surgery. It's not surgery. It's not surgery). His new, rubber-bottomed slipper socks; his makeshift pajamas which will be up around his waist when they wheel him back. He looked very accepting as he turned the corner. I turned around to face Our Friend who looked at me with that look. I put on my hat, buttoned my coat and walked as quietly as I could to the closest elevator that would take me to the nearest exit that would allow my escape. I had to be away from anyone who would say anything to me or look at me in any way that would force me to look at them that way.