There I was, wired to monitors in a hospital bed, my team of cardiologists standing together at the foot of the bed, explaining to me that the only viable treatment for my atrial fibrillations and frighteningly irregular heartbeat required that I agree to electro-shock treatment scheduled for the following day.

     I reluctantly consented, not knowing that my wife had stepped out of the room to call Morgan, who said to my wife: “Don’t worry, I’ve got it. In a few minutes, he’ll start to feel warm, and then his heartbeat will return to normal.”

     When my wife returned to the room, the cardiology team had departed. She asked how I was feeling. I said I was okay but that my chest was beginning to feel warm. She smiled.

     Minutes later a nurse came into the room, worried that something must be malfunctioning on the monitor. It was suddenly indicating that my heartbeat had returned to normal rhythm. That could not be. I hadn’t undergone the scheduled shock treatment.

     Obviously the nurse knew nothing about Morgan. I knew nothing about what she had done. I was about to learn. Two hours later I was released from the hospital with an entirely normal heart rhythm.

     At my follow-up appointment with my cardiologist the next week, he could only shake his head. He said I should arrange to check back with him in a year. I did.