Connie Cox - When the Cameras Stop Rolling...

Maybe, just maybe, she had her doctorate in journalism or television. Could a person get a degree in talk-show hosting?

But this woman with her long, dangling earrings and cleavage deeper than the Grand Canyon would probably faint at the sight of blood.

Mark read the first bullet point. Shortness of breath.

He looked into the lens like the public relations specialists in his university’s athletic department had trained him to do during his football years and flashed the camera’s blinking red light a smile.

“Here are the top signs of having a heart attack.”

Mark ignored Eva’s raised eyebrows.

“If you feel like you’ve run a marathon and haven’t taken a single step, or if you can’t draw in a deep breath, go to the emergency room. You might be having a heart attack.”

His quirky tone drew a small laugh from the audience. Laughter meant they were listening and listening meant they were learning.

And education was the only reason he’d agreed to be on this show to start with. His own beloved grandmother had died of a heart attack. If only she’d known, if only those around her had known, maybe she would still be here for him and for his sister.

She had been their only reality in the world of fakeness for appearances’ sake where his socialite parents had insisted they all live.

The audience waited for the next sign on the list. Mark reached for the sense of humor most people thought was too quirky.

“If you feel weak in the knees and your world is spinning around you and you’re not about to walk down the aisle and say ‘I do’, go to the emergency room. You might be having a heart attack.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dr. Veracruz sit back in her chair, obviously giving him the spotlight.

Mark had to do some quick thinking to phrase the other symptoms the same way.

“If you feel nauseous and it’s not from overindulgence in the French Quarter, go to the emergency room. You might be having a heart attack.

“If you feel upper abdominal indigestion, don’t even try to blame it on that spicy Creole dish your sister-in-law made, go to the emergency room. You might be having a heart attack.”

He paused, going blank as the remaining symptoms blinked on the monitors.

Dr. Veracruz gave him a quick glance then sat forward, giving a subtle off-camera sign to the camera operator, who pulled back to get both of them in the shot.

Smiling, she said, “If your back muscles are in spasm, as if you’ve spent all night dancing the tango and you haven’t even lifted a teacup, go to the emergency room. You might be having a heart attack.”

She gave him a conspiratorial look, as if they’d planned this out ahead of time as she finished off the list.

“And the classic symptom. If you feel like an elephant is sitting on your chest, go to the emergency room. You might be having a heart attack.”

Mark nodded toward her, silently telling her he’d take it from there. “At the first signs of a heart attack, chew an aspirin. Crush it with your teeth as you may not be able to swallow it.”

Dr. Veracruz dovetailed with her own comment. “And after you take that aspirin, go to the hospital. Because …”

She pointed to the audience, who all called out in sync, “You might be having a heart attack.”

Mark steepled his hands and gave the camera a dead-serious stare, wanting to make his point as strongly as he could. “The second biggest problem with women having heart attacks is that they don’t want to bother anyone just because they’re not feeling well. Take a lesson from the boys, ladies. You’re important enough to bother people. Even if it’s a false alarm, you’re worth the bother. Your family would rather have you alive and embarrassed about a bit of gas than dead because you tried to not be a bother. So, at the first signs of a heart attack, go immediately to the emergency room.”

Eva gave the camera an equally serious stare. “And remember. Don’t drive yourself. If you do, you’ll put everyone on the road in danger. Call for emergency transport. Right, Dr. O’Donnell?”

“Right,” he said on cue. No one would ever accuse him of not being a team player.

Eva gave Mark an affirmative nod of her head. “And now a word from our sponsor.”

As they cut the microphones, Eva looked over at her guest with a very revised opinion of him.

“Nice job. We didn’t have a chance to introduce ourselves.” Not able to resist the jibe about his lateness, she held out her hand. “Eva Veracruz.”

“Mark. Sorry to be late. I had an emergency right before I left.”

“Since you work in E.R., I’m thinking that’s a typical job hazard, right?”

“Yes, it is.” He put a hand on the leg of his scrubs. “This time it required a wardrobe change. That’s a suit I’ll never wear again. I didn’t think you’d want me showing up wearing blood and guts.”

“You’re right. Scrubs are a better choice.” Again, she had to revise her opinion of him upwards. If he kept this up, she might actually end up liking him. “We have a short question-and-answer session with the audience and then we’re done. Maybe we could—”

Before she could set up a coffee date he cut her off. “How can you answer medical questions without being a real doctor?”

“Not a real doctor? What do you mean?” But Eva knew what he meant. She’d heard it from too many people before.

She didn’t look like most people’s typical stereotype of a doctor and the studio make-up and hair department didn’t help, playing up her sexuality for the ratings.

But, then, why should she have to de-emphasize her femininity? Wasn’t it about time for women to stop having to prove they could have both brains and bosoms?

Her producer waved his hand for her attention. “Live in …” He made finger motions for five, four, three, two and then pointed at her.

Gesturing for Mark to stand, she did the same, self-conscious that the skirt of her clingy dress could use a straightening tug where it had crept up her legs. Usually, her lab coat covered problems like that. But adjusting her skirt length now would only draw attention to the problem.

Microphone in hand, she said to the camera, “ Ask the Doc is back and ready for our live audience’s questions. If you would like to be a member of our audience, send an email to the address now on your screen. We’d love to answer your questions in person, too.”

This was the tricky part of the show and required great time management from her.

The producers saved it to the end so they could adjust the time if the guest speakers went long—which they had with Mark’s inventive way of presenting heart attack symptoms. But he’d made a dry list of symptoms memorable and that’s all that counted for such a frightening and deadly medical emergency. The audience would be wildly receptive to him and have many questions for such an approachable man.

But there was always at least one, often more than one, in the audience who got too personal for public television. That same person usually rambled, hanging on to the spotlight as long as possible. Eva’s job was to divert them while seeming sympathetic. Some days this worked better than others.

This was the only part about her job she would avoid if she could.

She walked toward the audience, feeling Mark right behind her, obviously not needing her cue to move center stage. “Now, who has questions?”

The first hand up was from a staff member the producer had planted in the audience. He set the tone of intelligent yet brief questions. Eva wasn’t too thrilled about her producer’s subterfuge, but show management wasn’t her job, as they often reminded her. She was the expert—the talking head—not the boss. And her paycheck paid many bills, including her grandmother’s nursing-home supplements and her huge student-loan debts.