Well, big deal. Really, millions and millions of people have had bypass surgery. In fact, according to the American Heart Association, nearly half a million people have one or more blocked arteries “bypassed” every year in the United States. I mean, look at Bill Clinton, for Pete’s sake. So what’s the big deal?

Here’s the big deal: I’m not the type. I don’t fit the profile for having heart disease at all. I’m physically fit (I work out almost every day); I eat healthfully; I’m a high-energy, optimistic (most days), extremely active person who never smoked. And thanks to the wonders of modern-day, uh, “cosmeceuticals,” I look like the last person in the world you’d tag for having heart disease. The very last. Even if you were in the medical profession.

But that, it turns out, is not good. In fact, had I not in the end ignored the other voices around me and followed my instincts, Dr. Iyer might have had no good news to report. This is what happened: A few weeks before I found myself in Lenox Hill Hospital, I began to be bothered by a sort of dark, pressured, achy feeling in my chest. I referred to it as a “bad feeling.” It would show up in the middle of the night or when I was climbing the subway stairs or when I was sitting at the computer. It would last only about a minute and was always accompanied by really tired arms. Then, a week before I ended up having surgery, I was walking along East 52nd Street toward my office and suddenly felt as if I was about to faint. But it was a hot, steamy July day in New York City, and I said to myself, “Well, I bet everybody feels like fainting about now.” But the bad feeling lasted longer than usual — and there were those tired arms.

Interestingly, for years when I’d had my annual physical, I’d mentioned to various doctors that I had occasional heart palpitations and shortness of breath. Inevitably, one of them would hand me a list of specialists but say, “I wouldn’t worry about it. Women get palpitations. It’s probably hormonal. Your electrocardiograms are perfect, your blood pressure is right on the money, and — look at you — you’re the picture of health!” (My parents had both had bypasses, but they had also smoked their whole lives and still lived to a ripe 87. Anyway, the doctors knew that, too.)

“Yeah, you’re right,” I’d say. And that was always that.

But there I was on 52nd Street with the bad feeling. I barely made it back to my office. At one point, I thought of stopping at a deli and asking them to call an ambulance. But I didn’t, and the bad feeling went away. When I walked into the office, my assistant, Jane, said, “You don’t look so hot,” and handed me a cold bottle of water. I sat quietly at my desk for a few minutes staring out into space. Finally, I called out to Jane. (And this was the turning point, my friends. This was when I went from a cavalier, arrogant, and entitled woman who took her good health for granted to a humble person who actually, for one brief shining moment, decided to listen to what someone, something — her own body? — was trying so hard to tell her.)

“Hey, Jane,” I said. “Where’d we put the name of that cardiologist?” I made an appointment for the next day.

Nino Marino, the cardiologist, did an electrocardiogram, which was, of course, perfect; took my blood pressure, which was perfect; and did a chest X-ray, which was — guess what? — perfect. “This ‘bad feeling’ of yours,” he said, “it comes with tired arms, right? I don’t like the sound of it. I want to do a stress test. Immediately.”