Oh. I get it NOW.

We all have those days (or moments) of perfect clarity. If only it was every day (better if it was every moment). If it was, the word embarrassment and all of its derivatives would become obsolete. 

Lightbulbs usually go on for me when I'm out hiking the hills of our neighborhood. I don't like to listen to music when I am, because I like to think. I cannot count the number of times I've walked back into the house and said, "I did a lot of thinking . . ."

It's hard to walk in the neighborhood right now. For starters, it's about 17 degrees, and it's windy. It snowed on and off since Thursday, so there's ice on the sidewalks and roads of the hills. Today I did the majority of my thinking while clearing the snow off the back deck, the steps leading down to the backyard, and the patio on the lowest level of the house.  And I had one of those lightbulb moments. Epiphany is too strong a word. It was more like getting a joke a week later. And then feeling really stupid because everyone else got it, and knew at the time you didn't.

It isn't as though I can call and say, "By the way, remember that thing you said, I get it now." But I do. And it's okay.

First Love

Frank has a girlfriend. She isn't his first. On the other hand, I think she is. His first love. The way he talks about her. The way he doesn't talk about her. She's independent. She's ambitious. She's smart. When he suggested that one of the colleges he's looking at also offers degrees in her field, her response was "no way." When he told me, I turned my head and smiled. Well done, I thought to myself.

I think all or at least most of us have had first loves. I did. That's the way I remembered it anyway. I was very young. He broke my heart . . . or that's what I thought at the time. Perhaps that's why I always considered him to be my first love. Maybe he was just my first heartbreak. It's certainly logical to say I had no idea what love was at the time. I haven't seen him in over thirty years, but thanks to the magic of Facebook, I know enough about him to know that he most certainly was not my first love. He couldn't have been. I don't think I'd even want to be friends with him if we met up again.

I've always believed in fate. Someone asked me once, "What if we meet our soulmate and we're not ready?" Then what? What if we let them go? What if we missed our one chance at true love? I stood firm on my notion that if something is meant to be, it will be. Thus, whoever it was, wasn't truly their soulmate. I was twenty-five at the time. 

What do I think now? I have no idea. If asked that question again, would I be so certain? How is it with years of life between then and now, that I'm less certain of what I believe and don't believe? Why am I so quick to say "I don't know"? And then to ponder whatever the question was, and often answer with a statement that reflects the possibility of several different outcomes.

Back when we had the wine bar, a book club came in once a month, and one month they stayed far after we were closed, discussing their latest read. I can't remember now what the book was, but I remember that while the book (which I read) WASN'T about "the one that got away," their discussion was. All the women present had a story about the one they believed got away. Many referred to them as their first love.

I worry about Frank's current relationship. If she breaks up with him, this will be heartbreak of a magnitude he hasn't yet experienced. I silently beg the universe to go easy on him . . . no matter what happens. Let it fade gently and quietly, not abruptly with finality. Let neither of them break the other's heart. Let them remain friends. Give them the maturity to handle it in a way that they can both move on from without that gut-wrenching pain most of us have experienced at least once in our lives.

I often wonder why certain books have such mass-appeal, while I find the same book that millions have deemed "the best book they've ever read," to be shallow and vapid. Upon years' later reflection, I think it is because the book was able to invoke an emotion we once felt. So we connect with it. 

Yesterday at the book signing someone read the back cover copy of FALL. "Oh no," she said, "I can't give this book to my friend. She just lost her husband." She set the book back down on the table as though it was burning her hand. She didn't look at any of the other books. 

I would so enjoy having an in-depth conversation with people about why they read the books they read. What do they look for first? Do they avoid, or do they seek out emotions they're feeling or felt? Would someone who recently lost her husband avoid a book about a woman who had lost her husband twenty years prior to the timeline of the book? 

I never understood the appeal of "Bridges of Madison County." The book or the movie. People whose opinions I valued greatly recommended it to me, so I read it. Looking back on it, perhaps the appeal was a connection, a rekindling of an emotion the reader believed he or she felt at one time in their life. The scene where the truck turns, and she doesn't follow. The tear-jerking scene. He leaves. She remains in the life she's committed herself to, letting the man go who the book leads us to believe is the one true love of her life.

I don't like sad movies. Or scary movies. Or dark movies. Or violent movies. I like movies that make me laugh, or at least smile, and leave me with a calm, peaceful, even happy feeling. Today Charlotte and I went to see such a movie. We saw Brooklyn. When Doug asked about it, I said it was nice. And it was. There were a few sad scenes. Not sad enough to make me cry, and I cry at everything. The main character had to choose between two men, two lives. Would she choose her life in America, or would she choose a life in Ireland? It wasn't just about the two men, it was more about her life as a whole. Her decision was predictable. If she hadn't chosen the man or the life she chose, the audience probably wouldn't have liked her, or the movie. 

The things we remember the most about are often things that were very emotional for us to deal with. We believe we remember every detail. When we think about "it," we can still "feel" how we felt at the time. Ironically, it is the very thing we wish would fade away. Not ever think about again. Not ever feel again. Would that we could swaddle our feelings in order to protect us from feeling that pain. Would that we could do the same for our children.

Screen

I do not know why I would go
In front of you and hide my soul
Cause you're the only one who knows it,
Yeah you're the only one who knows it

And I will hide behind my pride
Don't know why I think I can lie
Cause there's a screen on my chest
Yeah there's a screen on my chest

While you're doing fine, there's some people and I
Who have a really tough time getting through this life
So excuse us while we sing to the sky

I'm standing in front of you
I'm standing in front of you
I'm trying to be so cool
Everything together trying to be so cool

We're broken
We're broken
We're broken
We're broken people
We're broken people

—Tyler Joseph

Out of Sorts

Maybe out of sync is a better way to put it. We're in a new house. Our basic family structure has changed. Doug just had heart surgery. I'm out of sync.

Our usual "holiday" routine is different, for all the reasons listed above. We typically decorate for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving. At this point I have no idea when we'll do it. And honestly, it doesn't matter that much to me. I suppose if this was our "permanent" home, I might feel differently. If all goes as we hope it will, we won't be living in this house next Christmas. 

We didn't move our artificial tree. It was old, more than half the lights no longer worked, and it was heavy. So we got rid of it. In fact, I'm pretty sure Doug helped the trash guy load it into the truck. Originally we talked about getting a real tree this year . . . somewhat sketchy in Colorado due to how dry it is. Which was the reason we got the artificial tree to begin with. Doug and I have wavered from looking at new trees, to not setting up a tree this year. Beck is eleven . . . he'll probably care . . . a little. I'm not sure if Frank will care or not. 

We have a couple little trees. The boys had them in their bedrooms. Frank didn't set his up last year. The other thing we discussed was just setting those up. On the other hand, I'm not sure I want to sort through the thousand ornaments we have in order to decorate those two trees with the twenty each will handle.

You can see why I'm ambivalent. Given the other things going on in our lives, Christmas tree "issues" are inconsequential. 

After thirty-three years of having a "Christmas party," this will be the first year we do not. One year, right after we moved to Colorado, we only invited two people. But at dinner that night Frank asked if that was our Christmas party. I told him it was. This year we cannot even consider it given Doug's surgery. He isn't supposed to be around other people for at least three weeks. He can't risk illness or infection. I'm absolutely okay with not having it. But in my whole "out of sorts-ness" or "out-of-sync-ness," I'm just not sure what to do with myself.

I suppose I could work on a Christmas letter. However, given my current state of mind, it would probably be a rambling mess of things no one really cares about. 

When someone is out of sorts in our family, we tell them to hit their re-set button. I need to do that. 

***Update***
Just as I hit the button to post this, I saw that there is an active shooter in Colorado Springs. I knew about it earlier, but now I'm reading there are officers who have been shot. It only serves to reinforce the notion that worrying about Christmas trees REALLY DOESN'T MATTER.

"You have a lot to be thankful for this year."

No one knows that better than I do. There hasn't been a year of my life that I haven't had a lot to be thankful for. Even the tough years . . . there was still a lot to be thankful for. 

I like to think I remember to be thankful every day. Not just the day set aside for Thanksgiving, or the month of November, or the holiday season—but every day. 

This year I am obviously thankful that Doug is home and able to enjoy the day, and the meal of Thanksgiving with us. I'm thankful for our boys, and grandma, who helped me manage the last three weeks. I've had such intense mood swings, with tears of fear and tears of joy.

I'm thankful too for all the family and friends who prayed for Doug, me, and our family. I appreciate you all so much.

Happy Thanksgiving! 

Heart Murmur

Doug has had a heart murmur since he was little. That murmur and the murmur his doctor told him he had before we moved from California to Colorado, and then his doctor here in Colorado told him he had, may not be the same one. But it doesn't matter. If your doctor tells you that you have a heart murmur, ask for an echocardiogram. That is the only way to determine if you have an issue with your heart valve.

And if anyone in your family has had valve replacement surgery, particularly a sibling, or one of your parents' siblings . . . be sure your doctor knows to add that to your medical history.

One of the conversations Doug and I had with his cardiologist was about our two boys. He told us that statistically one of the two may have the same heart issues Doug has. Doug's heart valve would've deteriorated NO MATTER WHAT, because his heart valve was what is called bicuspid rather than triscuspid. It was congenital. Meaning he was born that way.

If Doug hadn't had his valve replaced, he would've died. Probably somewhere between six months and two years from now. After seeing the photo of the valve the surgeon replaced, I'm guessing it would've been more like six months. And neither he nor I would've had any idea anything was wrong. 

We were LUCKY he collapsed. Lucky he went to the emergency room, because now he's got another thirty/forty years instead of six months. 

Don't ignore it. It won't go away. I won't lie, the surgery isn't easy, but a few weeks from now, Doug is going to feel back to normal. And he'll still be here. That's the important part.

November 20, 2015

Yesterday Doug had surgery to replace his aortic heart valve. Along with that, the surgeon removed a section of his aortic arch that had pinched and then below the pinch, expanded. Originally we'd hoped that part of the surgery wouldn't be necessary, but in the end we were thankful it was.

After the five-hour surgery was over, the surgeon came out to the waiting area to tell me how it went. He said Doug's heart valve was in the top five worst he's ever seen in terms of calcification. He asked if I wanted to see a photo of it, and I did. It looked like a stalagmite. Rather than red and pink, it was almost all white, with spikes of calcium growing all around and in it. He showed me where one valve was, and then showed me how the other two had merged together. And that was why he had the problem in the first place. There should be three tissue membranes in the valve and there were only two. It wouldn't have mattered what Doug did or didn't do in his life, the valve replacement would've been inevitable.

The surgeon also told me the calcification had spread down the walls of his heart chamber, and that he'd removed it. If he hadn't been replacing the portion of the aortic arch, he wouldn't have had the room to get in and scrape the calcium away. He did. So he did.

Doug and I were very anxious yesterday morning, as you would imagine. The surgeon did several things out of character when he arrived at 5:30 in the morning. First, the nurse told us we wouldn't see him until the very last minute before the surgery. And it was unlikely I'd still be in the room when he got there. Instead, he came in an hour and a half before the surgery and sat down and talked with us. Before he left, he shook Doug's hand, and then instead of shaking mine, he hugged me, and told me he'd take good care of Doug and "bring him back to me." The nurse asked if we knew him before the surgery, since she'd never seen him hug a family member, nor make any promise other than he'd take good care of the patient. 

After the anesthesiologist and the perfusionist talked with us and the surgeon left the room, it was time for me to leave. It was so hard to leave. I hugged Doug so hard, and kissed him a hundred times. His eyes didn't leave mine until I was out of the room. 

I was alone in the waiting area for about five minutes before my friend Carolyn walked in, Starbucks in hand, followed by a big hug. A few minutes after that my other friend Cathy walked in, who had stopped by the house to pick up the Xanax prescription that came in  VERY handy yesterday. 

And then we waited. For five hours. There were three updates during the surgery, which I appreciated very much, followed by the surgeon's post-surgery visited I talked about above. Before he left he said it would be an hour or more before Doug would be in intensive care and before I'd be able to see him. He suggested that if I hadn't eaten, it would be a good time to do so.

On our way to the hospital earlier that morning, we drove by Johnny's Navajo Hogan. Doug said, "If everything goes okay today, you should do a shot in my honor at Johnny's." So I did. Two in fact. The second brought by the waiter, who said to congratulate my husband and give him his best wishes for a speedy recovery.

When we got back to the hospital, I checked in at the ICU desk. After a few minutes the receptionist told me that Doug's nurse was just about to call me to tell me I could come see him. The woman handed me a badge and gave me directions to find him. I walked down the hall of the unit and could see him through a window at the end of the hall. When I got close enough that he could see me, he smiled. 

The other thing the surgeon had told me in his post-surgery visit was that the anesthesiologist said Doug was doing so well, he planned to take the breathing tube out before he went to ICU. Previously we had been told it would be five or six hours before it was removed. It was GREAT to see Doug without it, breathing on is own, and able to talk.

We held hands, talked, I explained what I knew, and Doug grumbled about how his two nurses wouldn't give him any water, only ice chips. His diatribe was peppered with enough swear words that I knew his recovery was going be quick. My experience is when you're feeling well enough to complain that much, you're on the road to being better.

Around five Doug insisted I go home so I wasn't driving in the dark. I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open, so I agreed. I think I was sound asleep before seven last night, and woke after six this morning. It is probably the best night's sleep I've gotten since November 2.

I talked to Doug this morning. His voice is still a little slurred, but not much. They were about to get him up and have him sit in a chair. I can't get into the ICU until eight, so as soon as I finish writing this, I'll head over. 

I don't remember who texted me yesterday, or who posted Facebook messages, or commented on the status updates I posted throughout the day, but I do know I appreciate every single one of you. I couldn't have gotten through the day yesterday without my friends and family . . . or without knowing that Greg and Vicki were at the house, watching YouTube videos about how to get the new snowblower put together so it was ready for last night's impending storm.

Thank you all for covering my sweet husband in prayer. And for loving and caring about him and our family. I can't say thank you enough.

And Then He Said . . .

Doug and I were talking tonight, both of us tired, stressed about tomorrow. At one point he said, "If anyone can take care of grandma, and deal with a husband having heart surgery, it's you. But try to remember to take time to take care of yourself too. Will you do that for me?"

If there were any words that would bring me to tears, these would. And did.

Seven Long Minutes

On Monday, November 2, Doug and I went for our usual walk in our neighborhood. Later that morning I was scheduled to have lunch with my sweet friends and book publicists/editors/supporters, Vicki and Carolyn, prior to speaking to the Tri-Lakes Women's Book Club, who had read AND THEN YOU FALL.

As we walked, we made plans for errands we'd run when we got back to the house. I was trying to decide what to wear, and mulling over answers I'd have for questions (or challenges!) that I had been told to anticipate. The sun was shining brightly, the weather unseasonably warm for this time of year.

When we got to my usual halfway mark on the walk, Doug turned around with me. This is the first time he's ever done so, or at least the first time I remember. He usually walks another couple miles further down the hill.

The trek back up that first incline is long and arduous, even doing it every day. Doug wears a heart rate monitor when he walks, and there have been times he's stopped to let it go down a little.

We were about fifteen feet from the summit of that particular incline, when he stopped. It wasn't unusual, so I kept walking. When I reached the top, I turned around to walk back to where he'd stopped. I watched him sit down on the sidewalk, and then lie back on the grass. I was within a foot of him at that point, poised to say, "Goodness, how high is your heart rate?" Instead, I realized Doug had passed out. 

I remember kneeling next to him, my hand on my cell phone, hitting the HELP button, the first on my favorite's screen, before I was actually on the ground. I called his name, put my hands on him, and then I remember screaming for help. I also remember yelling at him, telling him not to leave me. 

His eyes were wide-open, but not focused on anything. He was making a horrible noise, like snoring and gasping at the same time. He was clammy, and suddenly his eyes closed and his head fell to the side. I was listening to a recording on 9-1-1 telling me not to hang up when I started chest compressions. The operator finally answered, and all I can remember about that conversation is her yelling at me. Doug appeared to be breathing on his own, although still unconscious. I was able then to tell her the address on the house we were in front of. She was asking me lots of questions about Doug's condition and appearance, but all I could think about was how soon the paramedics would arrive.

By that time two people had approached from nearby houses after hearing me scream for help. The first yelled from her driveway, asking if she should call 9-1-1, but somehow I communicated to her that I had. I have no recollection really except the two people running toward me.

The other thing I remember is her saying, "What is taking them so long? They're just at the bottom of the hill." I said those exact words to the 9-1-1 operator who told me they might not have been at the station.

I remember thinking how much precious time we were losing. But much, much worse, I remember thinking that I was losing Doug. There, right before my eyes, he was slipping away from me, and I was powerless to do anything other than pump on his chest. 

Suddenly Doug's eyes became focused and he sat up. The first thing he said was, "Heather, hang up. I just passed out for a minute." Right about then, a fire truck pulled up, followed by an ambulance. I suppose the fact that he was sitting up, and talking to me, led them to believe there wasn't any real emergency. I can tell you however, that I wanted to scream at them to get out of their damn trucks, and run . . . not saunter . . . to where we sat. They seemed unhurried, unconcerned. They probably were anything but. However, that's how I remember it. 

Seven minutes. That's how long it took them to get to us. How do I know? I looked. Later, after Doug was in the emergency room being tended to. That's how long I was on the phone with 9-1-1 . . . waiting. All the while thinking Doug was dying. Seven long minutes. The longest seven minutes of my life so far.

They checked his vitals . . . they looked okay. Everything sounded good. Doug kept telling them he just passed out for a minute. No honey . . . it was over four minutes. They told him he needed to go to the hospital, and asked if he wanted to go by ambulance or if he wanted me to take him. He told them he'd be fine . . . inside I was screaming that he isn't fine, that we were still at least a mile from home, and how the hell was he going to make it back to the house in order for me to drive him to the emergency room. He was actually saying he'd just walk home. 

I pulled out my phone, called Vicki, and asked her to just get to us, as fast as she could. If I could keep the paramedics talking to him long enough, perhaps she'd get there in time to prevent him from trying to walk home. 

Doug tried to stand . . . I think the paramedics told him to, and was pretty shaky. They suggested then that he better go in the ambulance, and he relented. Once he was in the ambulance, I went from shock-adrenaline mode into total meltdown. I remember not being able to stand up straight, and literally sobbing. I didn't think Doug could see me, but later he told me he could, and that was when he realized how bad it had been.

They ran tests, they poked and prodded at the hospital, and then they told us they were admitting him overnight. There was a part of me that started agreeing with Doug . . . that he was fine . . . but there was that pesky four minutes of unconsciousness that still bothered me. 

I left the hospital after making sure he was settled in his room, and picked up Beck from school. I knew that once I told him something had happened and dad was in the hospital, he wouldn't relent until he saw him. I was right. He wanted to go straight there to see for himself that his dad was okay. We did.

When we got back, Doug told me they'd done one echocardiogram, and were going to do another. They'd also done a chest X-ray and brain CT. He also said they told him they'd be waking him at four in the morning to do another test, and thus, he wanted to rest. 

Frank called and said none of his swim lesson kiddos showed, so he was off work early. I asked him if he wanted to see his dad, and he said he did. He met up with Beck and I while we grabbed something to eat, and then went over to the hospital on his own.

The next morning, Charlotte and I went to see Doug early, right after dropping Beck off at school. When we entered the room he was sitting in a chair, but he didn't look good. As it turned out, we missed the doctor by seconds . . . the one that told him he had severe aortic stenosis, and needed surgery, pretty much immediately.

I have no idea how Doug was feeling then, he may have felt as I did. I remember feeling as though time stopped, everything was a blur, and all I could do was listen as the nurse practitioner explained what was wrong and what the surgery entailed.

That was fifteen days ago. In between we got a second opinion, chose a cardiologist we both feel comfortable with, and spent a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms. He's had an angiogram, more echocardiograms, more chest x-rays, a transesophageal echocardiogram, more CT scans . . . and the conclusion remains the same as it was that first day. He needs his heart valve replaced. Why? It's congenital. Instead of having tricuspid flaps in his heart valve, he was born with bicuspid flaps. What happened to him on our walk was inevitable. As the cardiologist told us today, people with a bicuspid valve typically have to have surgery in their fifth decade. 

Over the course of the last fifteen days, we've talked a lot about our lives. As I'm sure I would, Doug feels as though we need to talk about what will happen should he not survive the surgery. There are a lot of nuts and bolts of life things we've had to talk about. It hasn't been easy. It wouldn't be easy for anyone.

But for me, every single time he starts talking about what-ifs, I flash back to him on that sidewalk. His big brown eyes wide open but not seeing me. I remember exactly how I felt, thinking he was dying. I can't get that image, or that feeling out of my body whenever he talks about "the things we have to talk about Heather."

He told me in the emergency room that he remembered not being scared. He remembered feeling warm, and wherever he was in that time he was unconscious was "nice." I've asked him that if he feels that way again, or finds himself in that place again to come back and get me.

Reflection

I'm sitting here waiting while Doug lays on a gurney, also waiting, for an transesophageal echocardiogram. The chatty nurse assigned to him today shares our high opinion of Doug's cardiologist, and while she doesn't know much about his surgeon, she does know that Dr. Sherry is very particular about who operates on his patients. It is reassuring to hear so many positive things. 

Doug asked me earlier if I had kept track of the events since November 2, and while I hadn't written them down, most are still fresh in mind. I did get confused about which day he had which procedure, so I'm glad he asked. I wrote out a timeline, and will update it and add to it as I look through all our notes. We also came up with a list of questions for his doctor, that I hope we'll be able to get answered today. 

As with any of life's bigger events, I am in reflection. I have been shown how much Doug and I matter to our friends, and I've gotten in touch with others who I don't speak to often enough, but when I found myself on the edge of tears, their faces came to mind. I've also let go of some. Friends that is. Not many, but a couple. And it's okay. It isn't really necessary to say so, or make a big to-do about it, it's more like letting go of a hand you're holding, and then walking away. Simple. Calm. Over. I suppose I'm making this sound dramatic, or mysterious, and it isn't either of those. It's just having a good reason to stop being patient, or understanding, or forgiving. 

I get a lot of texts from people telling me to let them know what I need. Or what we need. It's so hard to say. I don't really know. So if you're one of those people who have asked, and are thinking to yourself, "I bet they really needs this," I invite you to have at it. I welcome your suggestions with open arms and gratitude.

As a good friend of mine, and a man who I admire very much said recently when I was chatting with him and his wife, "this is the first time I've ever done this, I don't always know what I'm doing." He was talking about being the father of someone his oldest kids' age. He's actually a father of twins, so he gets to learn two for one.

It's a good way of looking at life. I've never done this before, so I don't really know how to do it. I don't necessarily know what to expect, or what to feel, or even know what I need. Up until now Doug has been a pretty low maintenance guy in terms of his health. This is the first time he's been hospitalized. In fact, he hardly ever gets sick. He gets colds, but that's always been the worst of it. So this is the first time I've sat by my husband's bedside, the first time I've had to ask questions regarding heart valves, the first time I'll see him in the ICU . . . so many firsts. I have two friends who have been through this with their husbands, both of whom have offered great insight. The surgeries needed were different, but when we're talking about a heart, I guess it's essentially close enough.

I don't know what I'm doing, but I do know that I appreciate all those who have stepped up and offered to help us through this. It means so much. And I guess if you see me and aren't sure what to do or what I might need . . . I can tell you this . . . I'll always need a hug.

Fine Time for a Blizzard

I didn't get much sleep last night. Every couple of hours I'd get up and peer out the blinds, hoping the predicted snowfall didn't materialize. It did. Last night before I went to bed, I told Frank that I'd only wake him up to help me with the driveway if I couldn't handle it myself. I think I lasted about twenty minutes before I gave in and allowed myself to go wake him. There isn't any way I could've shoveled the driveway alone, it was ridiculous to think I could. 

It took the two of us an hour and a half, finishing just in time for Doug and I to leave for his first test of the morning. He was scheduled at one hospital for the first two tests, and another hospital for the third. There is a fourth test that we still haven't heard about. It has to happen tomorrow or Thursday though, since the surgery is officially scheduled for Friday at 7:30am.

In the end, the doctor couldn't make it to the hospital for the third test, so that is now scheduled for tomorrow.

Frank and Beck did a great job keeping the driveway clear, although none of the streets in our neighborhood have been plowed, and aren't likely to be anytime soon. Fortunately the  Mazda does great in the snow, and we were able to plow through on our own. A little too stressful for me, and I'm sure for Doug too. 

No snow predicted between now and Friday, thank God. 

One foot in front of the other.

Another Day

Today was another day of doctor visits. Actually one doctor. The surgeon. The most important doctor. I like him. Or better put, I believe he is the best man for the job. Important when we're talking about a heart. 

Tomorrow, while everyone else is snuggled warm in their beds, or in front of their fireplace, Doug and I will be traveling from one hospital to another getting tests in preparation for Friday's surgery. I'm thankful that the district has already called a snow day, so I don't have to worry about the boys getting to and from school. Now my biggest worry is getting the driveway clear so we can get out and on our way by 6:45am.

I'm still tired. I'm still on edge. I'm still taut with stress, but at the end of the day, it's Doug who this is happening to, not me. I tend to be the one who gets stressed about things, and he usually tells me not to be. And most of the time I listen. 

My shoulders carry a lot, no question. But his carry more. 

France, Joey and Lab Tests

My world is small these days. It consists of waking, putting one foot in front of the other, and attempting to make sure the four other people in our house are okay. I ask the question a lot. “Are you okay?” or “How’s it going’?” Either way, the question is met with a variety of answers . . . from “Yes,” or “Fine,” to a glare and “Are you okay?” I’m sure answering the same question countless times a day grows tedious. I’m just not able to come up with much else.

Most of the time I’d rather not speak at all for fear my eyes will fill with tears, as they are now. I’m tired, and honestly, I’m sad. I hate that my husband has to go through what he’s going through, and while the surgery has quantitated low risk, and a very optimistic outcome, just the fact that he has to go through it is something I wish I could fix another way.

I wrote on Facebook yesterday that if I could have a superpower it would be to heal those I love. No question. My husband, my kids, my bigger family, my friends . . . no pain, no sickness . . . all of it gone. I can’t. So I ask if everyone’s okay.

I see the images on television of last night’s carnage in Paris, and I am horrified. My eyes once again fill with tears. Would that I could heal both those hurt and those who hurt them. What sickness must reside in the depths of their souls? I cannot fathom it. 

And then I get on Facebook and read about Joey Feek, because I cannot help myself, and once again my eyes fill with tears. Her soul is the antithesis of what must reside in that of a terrorist. She is a sweet, loving, gifted woman, whose time here on earth is limited by a disease that has taken the lives of so many I love. Frank had a poster on his bedroom wall that said, “Fuck cancer.” Yes. Do so. I hate it. 

I think about the disease while I’m sitting and waiting for my husband to get through yet another lab test, and I am thankful that his heart is repairable. And that he doesn’t have cancer. I listen to his cardiologist talk about the preliminary things he’s doing to give the heart surgeon the maximum amount of information so that the surgery is as effective and as efficient as possible. 

I close my eyes and turn my head away so he can’t see me crying. I remind myself that in a few short weeks, Doug will be well on his way back to normal, if not already there. Something is broken, something can be fixed. I pray to God that he watches over Doug and those who are and will be caring for him, so the promise of him being back to normal is realized.

A friend asked me yesterday if I was okay. I couldn’t answer. Right now, no, I’m not.  And if I forget something, or make a mistake, or a thousand mistakes, or somehow inadvertently hurt your feelings, or tell you the same story three or four times . . . know I’m sorry. I hope to be on my own way back to normal very, very soon.

If All Else Fails . . . Cook

I'm feeling powerless today. It's understandable, but I'm not one who can easily set aside feelings that make me uncomfortable. So I'm cooking.

Doug will unlikely want me hovering, but I probably will anyway, and don't want to worry about what grandma and the boys have in the house to eat, nor do I want to eat junk food because I'm too tired or lazy next week to cook.

So far I've made spaghetti sauce and chili. Later today I'm making white greek chili, chicken parm, and roasting a beef. If I hadn't just made grandpa's stew, I'd make some of that too, but I think we're all tired of it now.

I have minestrone soup in the freezer and am contemplating making chicken noodle soup, mainly because it sounds so good right at the moment.

If you have any recommendations about other food I can make in the next couple days that will freeze well and heat up easily . . . I'd love the suggestions.

The Size of an Eraser

Today we met with Doug's new cardiologist. He confirmed what Doug was told in the hospital . . . that he needs surgery . . . immediately. His aortic valve, which would normally open to the size of a quarter, opens to the size of an eraser on a pencil. When put that way, I wonder how my husband has managed all he has the last few weeks and months.

We moved. And that meant he moved half our belongings by himself. We'd get to the old house to help with something only to find that he moved it already. I'm talking things like refrigerators and washers and dryers. 

On top of that, he walks six miles a day, at least. I walk the hills in our neighborhood everyday . . . and usually hit the five mile mark. He walks all the way to the bottom of Gleneagle and then walks all the way back up. While my walk clocks fifty flights of stairs on my fitbit, his is probably closer to 100. And he does this in a little over an hour. 

So . . . can you imagine what he'll do when his heart is functioning properly? 

He'll have an angiogram on Friday, surgery next week. Continued prayers are appreciated. 

“It’s been a horrible year for you, hasn’t it?” she asked.

I’m not sure those were her exact words. She could’ve said, “not a good year,” or “it’s been a terrible year.” I can’t remember specifically. What I do remember is not knowing how to answer the acquaintance I ran into at the grocery store over the weekend.

My first reaction was to ask, “What do you mean?” I didn’t. I almost agreed with her, but didn’t do that either. Instead I spent the remainder of the day thinking about her words, and how I felt about them. 

Has it been a horrible year? I suppose some could label it so. Our year began with the news that Doug’s father had a stroke two days after Christmas. Better put, last year ended with that news. 

In early January, Doug and I went to see him, and Doug’s mom in Florida. In February, he passed away. We were very sad when he passed, but on the other hand, Doug’s father was 90. He lived a good and full life. The days between his stroke and his passing, he was in the rehab portion of their retirement community. It looked, and felt, like a nursing home, albeit a very nice one. In the twenty years I knew Doug’s father, I knew that was the last place he’d want to spend the end of his life. His own father had, and I knew Roy would want to avoid those same circumstances at any cost. While he wasn’t in a lot of pain, as far as I could tell, he was limited in what he could do. His speech, even eating was affected. The way I look at it, the fact that he only lived another couple months was a blessing for him. 

Doug’s mother came to stay with us in June of this year.  By September, she decided she wanted to live with us for the rest of her life. Was that something else this acquaintance considered to be horrible? If so, she rightly earned the label of acquaintance. Anyone who knows me, knows that Charlotte being here is a gift. She and I have always been close, from the day we met. Having grown up with my grandparents, I also know what a gift it is for my boys to be able to spend every day with their grandmother. Doug, too, is especially close to his mom. It is a very positive thing for all five people who now form our immediate family.

And finally, the reason she used the words she did, was Doug’s collapse a week ago today. Yes, it was terrifying. He has encouraged me to write about it, to help process it. And while I am writing it presently, I don’t know how deeply I can dive into my feelings on this blog. I know this . . . I was certain I was losing him. With every scream for help that came from my mouth, I also yelled at Doug not to leave me. It was horrible. That is a good word to describe how I felt at the time. But with seven days hindsight in my pocket, I say this instead.

Doug doesn’t usually walk with me. We start our walk to together, but he usually goes further. We separate at a particular corner, and he walks another couple of miles. Last Monday, he turned back with me. If he hadn’t been walking home with me, I don’t know what might’ve happened to him. 

Another point. The day before we hiked up to the Palmer Lake reservoirs, and then on, almost to the ridge along Chautauqua Mountain. If he had collapsed there, I don’t know what might’ve happened to him. I didn’t have cell coverage, and I certainly wouldn’t have been able to get help quickly.

Because he was with me, because he got help quickly, because he went to the hospital, Doug found he had a condition that could’ve killed him. He needs surgery, and he needs it soon. In the meantime, he is still with us. Our family didn’t shrink to four, it remains at five. I get to hear his voice, and feel his hand in mine, and rest my head on his shoulder. We get to argue, and laugh, and spend time together. 

I’m not sure what else this person added in to come up with the determination my year has been horrible . . . all I know is that the way I look at it, it’s been a wonderful year. There have been challenges, but what could’ve been instead, would’ve made it so much worse. 

I am known to talk about how much I love my life. And I do. Bad and good. Because the bad isn’t necessarily bad. It’s all a matter of how you look at things.