On Tuesday, I forgot a lunch date for the first time in my life. That night, I again dreamed that I was fainting-and was.

On Wednesday, I wondered whether to engage in my regular tennis game. "Oh well," I thought. "When in doubt, exercise." Afterward, to my surprise, I felt much peppier and less forgetful.

On Thursday, however, while walking the dog, I had to sit down on a rock and put my head between my knees. Even so, I nearly passed out.

When I got home, I phoned my internist and described the symptoms. In addition to the black scrim descending in front of my eyes, I had the sensation that a cape of ice was being laid across my shoulders, with the chill descending to both elbows. The internist said that the problem sounded neurologic and gave me the name of a specialist to call. I called, but the neurologist could not see me until the following Monday.

On Friday, the frequency of the attacks increased; Saturday, even more so. For the first time in all the years that my internist and I have been together, I phoned him at home to ask whether the tennis that had proved so beneficial on Wednesday might now actually be dangerous. He was in the shower, but his teenager took the message. He never called back.

By early afternoon, I was miserable and phoned a friend, a retired internist. "Doesn't sound neurologic to me," he said. "Call your cardiologist." The cardiologist was out of town at a meeting, but his colleague would get in touch with me. Some 6 hours later, the colleague phoned and told me to go immediately to the emergency department.

Once there, I was wired for sound and sent to a heart monitoring floor. By then, it was 2:30 a.m. Just before 7 a.m., the two residents who had cared for me the night before burst into the room, their young faces alight. "We've got it!"

"Got what?"

"What's wrong with you."

"Oh. What?

"Your heart stops."

"Oh."

Later that day, I was moved to the cardiac intensive care unit because the staff there had more experience with external pacemakers. I was in my cubicle, with my husband sitting by my bed, when I said that I felt another episode coming on.

As I spoke, he turned toward the heart monitor. His face went pale, and he raced from the room. I looked up at the monitor. Absolutely flat. Not a ripple. Wait a minute, I thought. I'm dead, but I'm observing it, too.

My husband had a much harder time. At the central section of the intensive care unit, he grabbed the first physician he saw. "Help," he said, "my wife's in trouble." The physician looked at the number of my cubicle. "Not my patient." Then, taking pity, he said, "Look behind you." Out from the nurses' station, at a run, came a technician, a nurse, and a resident. They switched on the current of the external pacemaker, which I didn't like at all.

"Knock it off," I yelled. "I'd rather have the episode."

"No, you wouldn't!" They persisted.

Finally, my cardiologist surfaced and suggested that I spend the rest of Sunday in the intensive care unit. On Monday, I could have a permanent pacemaker.

The physician-wife of my internist also came to the intensive care unit to visit a patient. She popped into our cubicle and explained why I had felt so much better after the tennis: It had provided what my poor oxygen-starved brain was yearning for. She also said that her husband had not thought that any message about tennis was likely to be serious.

A year later, I went to the surgeon for a checkup. I placed a doodad against the left side of my chest while he fiddled with his computer. "What were you doing yesterday at 11 in the morning?" he asked.

I thought a moment. "Tennis."

"Good."

"Why?"

"Your pulse went up to 150."

So here I am, with a chaperone in my chest, an improved tennis game, and a wonderful new internist. Why did I change from my distinguished physician, who is active in both teaching and administration in one of the leading hospitals in the United States?

First, his wrong diagnosis endangered my life and, because there was no warning not to drive, perhaps the lives of others. Second, not returning my phone call further undermined my trust in his medical judgment. After all, I had scrupulously never bothered him at home; he should have known that I would not do so frivolously. Finally, he was too busy to follow up when I was still in the hospital for the postoperative afternoon and night and when I went home.

Should I have phoned and discussed all this with him? I thought about it, but it would have been painful and made my heart pound. I figured that if he was a good doctor, he could figure it out for himself.