His consciousness came back shortly, but he still wasn’t sensical. I eventually succeeded in hoisting his body back into the comfort of our bed, but from there, things are a bit blurred. He wanted ice for his back; I wanted to get him to a hospital. Immediately. This isn’t my area of expertise, but as a nurse, I knew enough to be concerned. A healthy, thirty-one-year-old, former athlete doesn’t just drop. After some coaxing, and securing childcare for our two babies, we went to a free-standing ER. I left with nothing but my purse and wouldn’t return for weeks.
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The condition was called: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, and although rare, my husband had an ever-rarer version of it, something you only see in textbooks. Doctors flocked in from all over the state to lay eyes on the man with the never-before-seen heart. They couldn’t believe it and didn’t want to miss a chance to study him in real life.
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My husband was diagnosed through too many details to recount. Let’s just say: his body was opened, and explored, and put back together again. Injected, and implanted with an internal cardiac device. There were physicians, and nurses, and physical therapists. Occupational therapists for his broken (yes, broken) back. He was taught to walk again, and how to put on his socks with a metal instrument my two-year-old coined, ‘The Picker.’ We had to order specialty toilets, bedside commodes, and bathing equipment. I fed him, and cleaned him, and tried to learn my way around heart disease. I pocked too many physician’s cards to count, forgetting all their names and their complicated titles. I laid on a tiny bedside couch for weeks, dosing myself with Benadryl to sleep through the nightly nurse rotations and vital sign checks. I ate if someone brought me something, and if they didn’t, I didn’t. I wouldn’t leave because I thought I’d miss something pertinent, and I needed all the information I could gather to try and save my husband.
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I remember his co-workers coming to visit, trying to crack jokes, and my friend meeting me in the lobby, suggesting I sit in the front seat of her SUV for a change of scenery. So, I did, and I bawled. I missed my babies and my old life—even though I knew that life was gone now. One nurse picked up on my panic, the circling idea that if my husband never left this hospital, he may never really know his son, so she let me sneak him in through the back door of the ICU one afternoon. My husband was too weak to hold the baby, so we just placed him on his chest, amongst all the wires and cords.
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We now belong to a select group of people who can say, ‘My entire life changed in an instant.’ But I didn’t want to belong to those people. I wanted the safety and security my husband offered me when I offered him my hand in marriage. It was one of the traits that attracted me to him the most: predictability. After a life of chaos and turmoil, I could rest at ease with this man. What you saw was what you got—and I got a lot with him. But now? Now my future was one big question mark and relying on a piece of machinery to keep him alive until a heart transplant could be had.
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