OPINION

By Michael Wilbon

Columnist

updated 3:38 p.m. ET Feb. 1, 2008

Michael Wilbon Columnist

SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. - The site of Super Bowl XLII, the gigantic steel-faced stadium that looks like a spaceship plopped down in the desert, is only a 35-minute drive west around the beltway known as the 101. The center of Super Bowl activity is a 25-minute drive south to downtown Phoenix, a quick trip past a residential oasis called Paradise Valley, past Camelback Mountain.

It's just outside my door, really, but I can't get there. Couldn't get to Super Bowl media day on Tuesday. Couldn't get to the Patriots' and Giants' interview sessions Wednesday or Thursday. Couldn't mingle with former coaches and former players in the lobbies of the downtown hotels to find out what they think about the Patriots being undefeated. Can't do any of it because I had a heart attack in the wee hours of Monday morning.

Since then it's been no reporting, no writing, no TV, no fighting with Kornheiser, nothing to do with football or the Super Bowl. What would have been my 21st consecutive Super Bowl assignment for The Washington Post has instead included my first ambulance ride, a trip to the emergency room, angioplasty, and a dramatic lifestyle change that now calls for heart medicine, insulin injections and daily blood-pressure checks . . . or else die early.

I landed in Phoenix late Sunday night, drove to my home-away-from-D.C.-home in Scottsdale, looked at some e-mail, and went to bed at 1:30. At 3:15 a heavy pain in my left arm and on the left side of my chest woke me. I thought it was indigestion, and started drinking water, but the pain persisted. Took some Advil. The pain got worse. Tried to go back to bed, but it became unbearable. They were classic heart-attack symptoms, the pain up and down the left arm and in the upper-left chest, stuff you see on TV dramas and sitcoms. It was after 15 minutes of denial that I woke my wife and told her, "I know this sounds insane, but we've got to drive to the emergency room. I'm having a heart attack."

Within six hours, after nitroglycerin pills, morphine drips and an ambulance transfer to an intensive care unit, a cardiologist to whom I will forever be indebted conducted an angioplasty, using a balloon to open a blocked artery. For the first time in my life, I was admitted to a hospital and stayed there for two more days -- and found out that not only wasn't I indestructible but that I now would be a full-fledged, insulin-dependent diabetic.

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Until very recently, I'd never missed a big assignment of any kind because of illness. My father grew up plowing fields and picking cotton and bailing hay in the deep South during the Depression and his sense of work was you don't miss -- ever. If you do, it's a sign of weakness or frailty, and he didn't tolerate it from his two boys. And though that has overwhelmingly served us well and I believe in that work ethic wholly, the fact was this was a permissible exception, make that a mandatory exception. And I had any number of people, some friends and some professional associates and many who are both, drive that point home, that I needed to smarten up and look at life differently from here on out.

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