"There are two little bumps in his artery, one about three times as large as the other."
"Bumps?" I said, frowning. "I'm not sure I know what that means, Pheola."
"Well, remember how I told you that your own arteries were nice and clear?"
I nodded.
"His coronary artery isn't like that. It's sort of caked and crusty. And I think some of that coating has broken away in a couple spots, and they are like scabs on the sores, only they aren't hard."
This was as close to a classic description of coronary clotting as I figured I would get in nontechnical terms. What her words mean to me was that Maragon's coronary artery, as in many men his age, was somewhat choked with deposits of cholesterol. In a couple places the deposit had broken away, exposing the raw surface of the artery. But instead of scar tissue forming to heal the open spot, clotting had taken place. And if either of those clots broke loose, and plugged one of the minor arteries in the heart, we'd see a coronary attack as that part of the muscle was starved for blood and died.
The information was useless, in a medical sense. There is no surgery for the condition. There was, however, something untried that could possibly be done.
"Where is it going to happen?" I asked her. "The heart attack?"
"In the hospital," she said.
"And what will I have you do?"