Not A Widow

Morning comes earlier than usual. Just a few minutes past 8, yet I am unusually alert. I get up and leave the children sleeping as I dress, find a drink and reach for the laptop to check hubby's direct deposit and pay the bills. He barrels in the front door, not an unusual occurrence around here. Yet, something is different about his energy even before I can see him. The bedroom door swings open and he utters the words I dread.

I'm having radiating chest pain, I need to go to the ER.

Flashback to 1997, when he was only 30, too young to have a heart attack. Yet, he did, and later a double bypass operation. Since that time I have lived with a vague but insistant sense of fear, the fear of becoming a widow.

I close my laptop and follow him into the kitchen where he is searching. I reach above the fridge and find it. A prescription bottle, and inside it another smaller bottle filled with tiny little white pills. Little micro life-saving pills. He puts one under his tongue and lays on the floor. I ask questions, he answers. My EMT training tells me we can gather the children and drive to the ER. No need to call 911. Still, in my heart, I am dialing 911. J-E-S-U-S.

Please don't let this be a heart attack.

I head down the hall and wake Ashley urgently. Get up, Daddy's having chest pain, we need to go to the ER. She complies. Back up the hall, a quick check on him and then it's back into my room to rouse the babies. Aspen first, and she cries. She hates to be woken and does not do well when rushed from sleep. I talk to her through her tears.

Daddy needs to go to the ER. You can be my helper, just like on Emergency, ok?

She cries harder, but I coax her, telling her what a great helper she can be and she comes around and begins to cooperate. I give her clothes and she tugs off pajamas and pulls on shorts, a t-shirt and dirty orange flip-flops. Abby has been woken by the crying and is whimpering, her eyes begging for more sleep. I pull her into my arms and search for a diaper, simultaneously calling out to hubby on the living room floor. Are you okay?

Yes, the nitro is working.

Flashback to 2005. I am 36 weeks pregnant and sitting in the waiting room of a cath lab, contemplating raising three children on my own. Considering that my baby might not know her father. Grace is on our side though. An artery is blocked but a stint placed in it will keep it open. No repeat heart attack, no repeat bypass surgery. No becoming a widow.

Ashley emerges, dressed. We pull together needed items. Diapers, wipes, bottles. Toys. A collection of prescription bottles and OTC things he's taken in recent days for the crud. Wallet. Car Key. From the living room he prompts us.

It's still hurting we need to go.

And then we're going. I'm glad the hospital is just a few minutes away. I wish I had lights and sirens like I did 15 years ago as a member of Ocean Park Rescue Squad. 15 years is a long time. So is the 5 minutes it takes us to drive to the hospital.

The next nine hours involve EKGs, IVs, bloodwork. The pain subsides and is replaced by a throbbing headache thanks to a nitro patch on his chest. The heart monitor alarms obnoxiously and frequently, claiming PVCs and other bad things. It's claims are blessedly false, caused by electrodes not sticking well to chest hair. The “silence alarm” button is our friend throughout the day.

We watch cable TV, and play with the little ones, the passing hours punctuated by tests, bathroom breaks and trips to the cafeteria. Test results are negative for a heart attack, the symptoms do not reappear, and a doctor with a charmingly thick accent gives us a get-out-of-jail-free card at 5ish in the evening. Discharge takes another chunk of time and then, at last, we are free.

The cool evening air and gentle drizzle of rain caresses us as we make our way to our car, a family, together still. Driving home I think of words I blogged yesterday: a partner who sometimes is not. Guilt looms but I ask my Jesus forgiveness and He grants it unconditionally. And I forgive myself, unwilling to feel badly for expressing what is true. Still, I ponder, a sometime partner is better than no partner, right?

I breathe a quiet prayer of thanks to my Jesus. I am not a widow. Not today.