The sounds of early morning are trickling in from outside. I have been up for hours and already feel exhausted before the day has begun. Crying and pounding my fist into the bed, I find myself bent over yelling, you are going to die, please listen to me, please. The words of anguish fell on to no one's ears but God's. Unbeknownst to us, the stopwatch had started, and we were in the race of his life.
Several minutes later, he emerged from the shower, saying, " I think you better take me to the hospital." In that instant, my old self stepped into high gear. Over the past several months, I had envisioned this moment 100 times, and my instincts knew precisely what to do, my internal 911 protocol began clicking through the steps.
As the dispatcher asked what my emergency was, I began calmly dressing and systematically walking through the needed steps - I hear myself stating the emergency and my assessment of his condition. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see, hear, and have a sense that he is scared and angry that I am calling for help. "No No, just take me; don't call them." I shut off all emotional connection to the situation and proceed with my inner protocol. I unlock and open our front door.
I place the dog behind closed doors. I put his wallet and cell phone in my purse. I am now, handing him four baby aspirin and telling him to chew them per the dispatcher's instructions, I try not to look at his eyes or to feel the terror emanating from his being. I must stay in the space of disconnect; I must remain in the disconnect.
Within a few minutes, two Magilla Gorrila Sheriffs are walking into our home. Their presence feels intrusive and frightening. This picture is getting too real, and the seriousness of the situation is beginning to escalate. The sheriffs engage him and ask what's going on. His angst and resistance to the inevitable have heightened; for a nanosecond, I question myself if I made the right move in calling for help. He had all the signs but did not have the crushing pain. Maybe this isn't anything. NO, I tell myself, you must stay in disconnect and proceed with the protocol.
The paramedics arrive next, two extremely young muscle men hauling their equipment burst into our sanctuary and begin to do their job. From the place of the observer, I answer the questions, DOB, list of medications, the beginning of the symptoms, known allergies, health factors, etc. He is still fighting and not wanting help, as they connect the leads for an EKG, I step out of the room. I must remain disconnected. I continue with my inner protocol.
I make the needed calls, his work, my daughter in law, to tell her I won't be there to watch my granddaughter and then the dreaded call to his oldest daughter. I want to crack; I want to cry, but I stay in the disconnect and state the facts. Four minutes later, I walk back into the room. One of the young bucks is saying, "your EKG is normal, so it's not a heart attack, but your blood pressure if very high, we should still take you in." I want to scream at the man, DO NOT SAY THAT TO HIM. This is serious; this is a heart attack!
Then the unwanted guest arrived with a crushing entrance. The preverbal Elephant had made its presence known, and the scene takes on a new sense of urgency. They prepare him for transport. I can't look at him, under my breath I say, I love you and grab my purse. They have instructed me to take my car and not to follow too close. I head out the back door as they are loading him into the ambulance.
From the car, I make the second call to his oldest daughter. This time to inform her that we are headed to the hospital, and it doesn't look good. Somewhere during the past 15 minutes, I had called my daughter and my best friend, they both call me back as I am sitting suspended in the wait (weight) while they prepare him in the ambulance. I'm starting to crack, and I struggle to maintain my state of disconnect. I wish I knew what was happening. Will he make it? The stopwatch is ticking faster.
Arriving at the emergency room, I step up to the counter, it is early morning, and no one is there but me and the young man behind the reception desk. I state that my husband has been transported there by ambulance. The young man picks up the phone and says the following. "Hi, uh, yeah the cardiac arrest's wife is here, oh OK, I will call the chaplain." The room tilts, I feel like I'm going to faint.
Did he say cardiac arrest? Chaplain? Someone starts screaming in my head Noooo Noooo Nooo, but the outer me remains in disconnect and moves towards an opening door and the lady who is introducing herself as the hospital's chaplain. She says that she will take me to the family room where I can relax. My inner screaming voice is booming, RELAX, RELAX; what the hell do you mean Relax? The disconnected me turns to her and says, where is my husband, and what is his status? She casually states that she did not check on him before coming to get me and that she will check on his condition now and return in a few minutes. I could have punched a wall, but I maintained my composure. I must stay strong and composed; this is going to be a long haul.
An eternity later, the chaplain walked back in and said to follow her; she would take me to him. Now standing in an ER exam room, I see my husband writhing in pain. His eyes are tightly closed; I step over and caress his head and whisper in his ear that I am there and that I love him. His skin feels foreign to me; he is clammy and cold. I look up and realize that the faces, words, and energy in the room were screaming; THIS IS AS SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK.
The ER doctor approaches me and says your husband is having an acute heart attack and we are doing everything we can to save his life. He then explains that the Cath Lab will be coming to get him shortly, and we are waiting for them now. Once again, I caress his head to reassure him or maybe myself, I then step outside of the room. This time the call to his daughter is made with emotion and urgency, her significant other is on the receiving end of the call. I state firmly and with intense emotion that this is serious. I am hoping that he would understand that it was life and death. I make sure that someone has called his other daughter to inform her. I was reluctant to make that call myself because she was at home with her newborn twins.
I step back into the room. My husband had heard the words of my phone call and is now crying out that at least he got to meet his new granddaughters, the twins. I touch him again, holding back tears and the urge to start screaming, I firmly state, YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DIE! At that moment, the Cath Lab team arrives, and we begin running through the hallways towards the next phase of this race. As we make our way through the corridors I am aware of the extreme urgency, and it is palpable in every dire step; I feel like I have left my body. An eternity had passed since I made the 911 call and now the stopwatch is ticking in a hyper mode.
As we reach the Cath Lab, someone grabs me and redirects my steps, and I watch as the team races away with my husband. My knees begin to buckle as the immense sense of separation overtakes me. Once again, I find myself in a designated family room. The unit's supervising nurse hands me a stack of pamphlets and explains what will be taking place in the procedure room, then leaves me to my thoughts. My head is spinning; panic has begun to set in.
The nurse returns to the entrance of the area where I am sitting and says the cardiologist would like to speak to me before he starts. I walk with her to the big doors that say NO ADMITTANCE; they swing open, and a small man garbed in scrubs and mask stands before me. He says that he wanted to introduce himself to me before he started. He too says the same scripted words told to me by the ER doctor, "we are doing everything we can to save his life. " This interaction takes maybe 20 seconds, and then the doors close. Once again, I am left with the screaming voice in my head... no no no no this can not be happening. The stopwatch has now broken the speed of light.
Sitting alone in the designated family area with my internal screams and tears, I find myself blessed by an angel of Mercy. Just when I think I could not contain myself and was rapidly approaching hysteria, my dearest friend Marianne arrived. I had told her not to come. I did not want her to miss work, but there she was, stating she could not have let me face this alone.
As Serious As a Heart Attack - An Observer's Perspective Parti 2
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