Buckle Up, Buttercup

Life's about to get rough with you

Spoiler: we’re all alive.

This publishes mid-week, but on Sunday the fun started. My husband, best-beloved of my heart and First Reader, came to me in the kitchen and complained of indigestion. I was working on a yellow squash relish, and we’d had a heavy breakfast, so I asked him if he wanted me to find the tums. He said he’d have a glass of milk, and we went on with life. Not much later, he came back, sweating, and asked me to drive him to the doc-in-a-box. He was having chest pain radiating into his arm and hand, nausea, and a headache.

I took him to the ER, instead. We walked in, my hand supporting his elbow, and I took a heartbeat to orient myself to where the triage nurse was in the unfamiliar space. As we walked toward the triage nurse, another nurse standing way off across the ER lobby practically did a bird-dog point, and started towards us with intent. As he started to tell the triage what was going on, the second nurse, never rushing, just moving with terrifying intensity, deftly maneuvered a wheelchair under him, and we never did finish telling triage what we were starting to say.

An alarming quickness later, I was clutching his shirt and telling doctors that yes, I was his wife, and no, he hadn’t been to see a cardiologist in recent years following his first heart attack, so I don’t know anything about the first one other than it was a big one. My heart was in my throat, and I managed to choke out the words I really didn’t want to say.

“He has a DNR.”

There are pauses, in life. Some really do last time, while things are processed in the human brain. Others just feel like they last forever. This one wasn’t even long enough to click a stopwatch, had there been one. Just the entire room full of the controlled chaos of competent people stilled enough to be perceptible, then went on.

The doctor asked my husband to confirm, which he did in a breathless voice. The doctor came very close to the end of the bed and locked eyes with my beloved. “Do I have your consent to suspend the DNR during the procedure? There is a chance your heart will stop momentarily. With a DNR we cannot restart it.”

“Yes.”

I slumped in relief. They started to unhook the bed to roll it, and him, up to the waiting cardiac lab. The doctor turned to me. “There is a very high risk of death or serious complications during the procedure. Your husband is having the kind of heart attack they call the widowmaker.”

I nodded, and fought back the tears that hadn’t been there until he’d started talking. I followed them up to the lab, and the nurses pointed at the waiting area, telling me it would be more than an hour until they finished. They then said, “You should say goodbye before we take him in.”

I told him I loved him, and I don’t know if he’ll remember that, because he was on painkillers and gray from lack of circulation as his heart was shutting down. Then they took him through the doors and out of sight. Friends came, and sat with me, after that first terrible segment of time where I sat alone in a corner clinging to his Hawaiian shirt they’d handed to me. Finally, after far too much time it seemed had passed, they called me into another room and we all crowded in. The procedure had been a success. The doctor came after a time, and told me that they had put in a stent, but there were still blockages, his heart was very weak, and he added abruptly,

“It’s touch and go.”

Then he was gone, and I went to see my beloved. My husband is a strong man, and within hours was able to sit up, and alertly talk although very briefly before tiring. The next two days were a blur of waiting, trying to find out what was going on, a faithful friend staying with me to write down things I couldn’t remember, and to nudge me towards food and coffee at appropriate intervals. Finally, sooner than anyone had expected, they let him come home to me, so he could sleep in his own bed and truly start to recover.

Our story is not an uncommon one. It is, however, a good chance to remind all of you of a few things. Because during this ordeal, I realized that some of the stuff I’d been putting off, or letting him take care of alone, was essential and had to be dealt with, or could have made a huge difference in the outcome. Firstly - he did the absolute right thing in not lying down for a nap when he wasn’t feeling well. If he had, this would be a very different post. He would never have gotten up again. Because we went immediately and got care, he’s sitting at his desk while I type this, smiling at a silly joke.

The other thing we realized, as I was gathering information and paperwork to return to the hospital on the second day, was that he didn’t want a DNR. What he wanted (and we now have in place) was an advanced care directive (ACD). Do not resuscitate (DNR) means that if his heart stops, no means will be taken to start it again. His long-standing order meant that I wasn’t even supposed to do CPR, had he collapsed at home. When I was looking for the paperwork we’d started and set aside, months earlier, I realized I had an advanced care directive for him, and brought that to talk to him. While reviewing it, I pointed out that this was the plan for what he feared. The ACD forbids that extraordinary measures be taken to extend his life, such as being on life support machines. The DNR wasn’t what he wanted, after all, and to my infinite relief, is no longer in place per his wishes. Everyone is different, but please, review carefully what the options are. The ACD can be modified, if you like.

Also, don’t do what we did. We’d printed up the forms to do the ACD, a DNR, and medical power of attorney for both of us. Then, they got put aside as I was busy and Texas is, in this as in so many other things, different. We have to get things witnessed and notarized and it’s not as simple as filling out forms and filing them. We will be taking care of the Medical PoA this week, though. Yes, we are married. That should not be an issue. Still, having the ability to say that I can speak with his voice, when he is unable to speak for himself (and he for me), is reassuring. I should have done all those things before the crisis, but I didn’t. Thank the good Lord that I was given a chance to sort my shit out. I will not waste that.

Finally, I fell down on my wifely duties. I had been letting him take care of his own medical stuff, appointments (or lack thereof), medications, and such. I should have been more up in his business. He is a proud and stubborn man, and I am not his mother. I am his wife, and I’d like to keep him at my side for some time, so going forward, I will be able to go with him to appointments, and see his records, I will ensure he doesn’t randomly stop taking meds that make him ill, rather than telling his doctors about those side effects. I will be his advocate, because that’s my pleasure and duty as his wife.

I am so very, very grateful I can say that, still. He’s alive, and although his heart is incredibly weak, we have a future together and we can work on his strength together. All else is petty stuff.

Here’s where I give you homework: get your shit sorted, people. Don’t do what we did. If you aren’t married, find someone you trust to speak for you when you cannot. If you are in a relationship with no legal basis, get the medical PoA set up. If you don’t have that, the ER staff can, and likely will, bounce your happy butt during a crisis. Even if they are compassionate and don’t, someone’s toxic parent can come in, and you can find yourself on the wrong side of a locked door knowing that your loved one is having things done to them they don’t want. Get your ducks in a row, on file with the doctors, and in a file where you can quickly lay hands on them. Do up a will, while you are at it. Read through the DNR and ACD carefully to make reasoned decisions on what you want, rather than waiting until you are fogged with fear and pain.

Also? This one may take time. Establish a support system. I moved us to Texas because I knew that eventually I was going to need people in meatspace to hug me when I badly needed that. I did not realize how soon I would. Nor did I realize how much help they could be if I let them. I’m eternally grateful for that. If you are in a place with no support, start figuring out how to go where there is one, or if that’s not possible, how to cultivate one where you are. Be willing to be that support, in return. It might mean sitting in a hospital waiting room with angel food cake, blackberries, and a can of spray cream, trying to make someone who is frightened out of their mind laugh. It might look like offering a hand to hold while the doctor talks to them. It might just look like answering the phone and silly questions patiently while someone learns how to navigate again after a crisis. You can be that person. When you need it, if you have taken the time to draw near to true friends, they will come nearer to you.