The EKGs

In May of 2023, as my husband and I visited my mother outside of Lyons, we called up my Uncle Lamar Lanier and my cousin, Martha Ann Farrow, and asked them to meet up with us for an impromptu dinner at Bevrick’s in Metter. They both accepted our invitation.

Bevrick’s didn’t disappoint. The spread was classic Southern comfort foods: crispy fried chicken, fried catfish, fresh greens, rice and gravy (or stewed tomatoes if that’s more your style), tender green beans, and creamed corn that tasted just like the corn that blessed my grandmother’s table.

After our plates were cleared, Uncle Lamar, then in his mid-80s, started talking about some health concerns he’d been having. “They say I have AFib,” he declared with skepticism, “but I don’t know if they know what they’re talking about. You know, doctors just want your money.”

“I can tell you right now if you have AFib,” I said, reaching into my pocketbook. I pulled out my KardiaMobile device, about the size of a credit card, and explained how it works with my phone to take accurate EKGs that I can send to my doctor.

“All you have to do is put your fingers on these metallic squares for thirty seconds,” I demonstrated, taking my EKG reading first. We all watched as my heartbeat created waves with tall, pronounced peaks across my phone screen. Uncle Lamar’s eyes grew wide.

When it was his turn, he placed his fingers on the electrodes, and we watched as his heartbeat formed a pattern — noticeably different from mine, with much smaller, irregular peaks. He looked at me, then down at the weak wave, then back up at me.

“Hell, I’m dead!” he exclaimed. I quickly shushed him, explaining he needed to stay quiet and still for an accurate reading. His eyes were as big as saucers when the device displayed its verdict: “Atrial Fibrillation.”

“Where did you get that thing?” he asked. I explained how we’d ordered it for about $100 a few years ago, keeping it handy because of my heart murmur. But Uncle Lamar wasn’t done. “Take it again,” he insisted, already placing his fingers back on the metal pads.

Then again. And again. And again. Each reading showed the same result, and each time, Lamar would announce he was “dead” or “almost dead” with a few choice cuss words thrown in there in such an exaggerated way that made all of us laugh. Finally, after multiple readings, he conceded, “I better get myself to a doctor fast and see what they can do to help me.”

My cousin, Martha Ann, immediately offered to take him, promising to help him schedule an appointment, and she did.

We said our goodbyes that night in the parking lot, and as he got into his red Ford F-150, he waved and said, “I better get home and rest, because that thing says I’m ’bout damn dead!”

After that evening, every time I saw Uncle Lamar, he’d ask for another reading with “that thing.” Without fail, he’d cuss and declare his death or imminent death with theatrical flair.

He passed away last June. We miss visiting him and witnessing his classic Lanier brand of craziness. It’s funny — the things you think about after someone dies. Now when I pull out my KardiaMobile device, I can’t help but remember his dramatic declarations of being “dead” or “almost dead” at Bevrick’s that evening. In those moments, sitting with a few family members and laughing, we weren’t just checking his heart rhythm. We were recording heartbeats of a different kind — and memories.