A warm, bright morning, a soft breeze floating in through the windows wide open for once, lots of twittering birds. It’s supposed to get into the 80s today, the Indian summer we usually get mid-September arriving late this year.
I’ve been out on errands, trying to dispel the dark mood I woke with. A lot of drama yesterday, starting with a pre-dawn trip to the emergency room because my husband was having weird feelings in his chest. He’d had a dream that he was in the hospital having chest pain, had gone to the nurses’ station to tell them, and no one was there…then woke up with heaviness in his chest. We take these things seriously, as he had triple coronary artery bypasses a few years ago, and so did the ER docs.
Our granddaughter was in tow–she’d been spending the night–so I couldn’t stay with him, but managed to get hold of one of our sons who’s an ER nurse in another hospital. He came right over and stayed with my husband all day, interpreted what was going on, joked him out of anxiety, and was altogether wonderful. I went off with my granddaughter, feeling wooden and numb, all eye, trying not to unnerve her, wanting to be with my husband, catastrophizing about all that could happen, flashing back to the nightmarish scenario of the triple bypass, ignoring what I needed to do to take care of myself and ending up in pain with sky-high blood pressure.
Mid-afternoon, they let him go, with the proviso that he return for more tests today. That’s where he is now. And I am sitting here with a mug of coffee, remembering how I used to come home from visiting him at the hospital and drink myself into a stupor. It stuns me I could’ve done that. They might’ve called anytime to tell me he’d gone into cardiac arrest. How can we just turn off that sense of what’s right, like flipping a switch? Daytime, I was a mature, responsible, caring person. Nighttime, my bottle of wine was the love of my life.
On the other hand, I’m not exactly enjoying feeling the way I’m feeling now. I’ve meditated and done my exercises and gone for a walk, and now I’m sitting by the phone waiting to hear whether they’re admitting him for more surgery or sending him home with a clean bill of health. Creepy, creeping anxiety, like the fog that insinuates itself into a sun-filled San Francisco day.