The Massive Heart Attack
That day continues to haunt me, all these years later. Although we did not know it at the time, it was the beginning of the of the end. It was a brutally cold winter day. I could not get rid of a cold that seemed to linger on and on. I was scheduled to visit my parents in Los Angeles. Peter suggested that I visit our family doctor since my mother was an invalid and poor in health. “Better safe than sorry,” he said.
It was snowing gently, as we headed to our car. On that snowy day we walked arm in arm as we very cautiously trudged towards the car. There was a thin layer of ice beneath the newly fallen snow. We did not want to slip. Peter drove. As we got onto the highway, Peter began to breath very heavily. He did not look at all well.” Open the windows,” he gasped.
“Peter, perhaps I should drive,” I said, as I hurried to open all the windows!
“No! I shall,” he gasped, as he clutched the wheel to the point where his knuckles turned white from the effort.
Now was not the time to argue. “Dear God,” I prayed silently. “Please, please guard him well. I love him so very much. He is such a good man. Please God! Please, please God,” I silently begged to Him all the way to the doctor’s office in Glen Cove. Miraculously we got there with him still relatively well. Perhaps because of the inclement weather, the waiting room was half empty. I led him to an over stuffed leather armchair. He slumped forward a bit as he sat. My heart was pounding hard from fear. I gently caressed his cheek and hurried to the nurses station.
“I think my husband is having a heart attack,” I said quietly, not wanting to alarm Peter.
“Sit down and we will call you momentarily,” the nurse told me.
“You are not listening to me! MY HUSBAND IS HAVING A HEART ATTACK!” I said in a semi hysterical voice. With that she raised her head and looked at my agitated face and then at Peter sitting in the same slumped position he had been in. It was then that, she realized the seriousness of the situation. The whole office suddenly changed to a hive of activity! It was no longer a quiet snowy day at the doctor’s office. The patients became aware that something out of the ordinary was happening. The doctor was quickly summoned. He rushed to Peter’s side. One of the nurses called for an ambulance. It seemed to be just a matter of seconds before Peter was placed on a stretcher and we were bundled into an ambulance on our way to the hospital. As the sirens screeched their warning of an emergency, so did the panic in my head. “NO, NO! NO! God! God! What are You doing God? Please, please have merci!” The wailing inside my head competed with the loud siren of the ambulance. I held one of my husband’s hands, as I hyperventilated in terror. No! No! This really could not be happening! I prayed incessantly for God to spare his life.
Finally we reached the hospital. There, they immediately rushed him into the O.R. I followed them. I sat huddled in a corner outside the operating room. I was numb with disbelief and terror. I do not know how long I sat or how long the wait was, but finally someone came to tell me that he was out of surgery and was being wheeled to a private room. A feeling of relief washed over me. I was allowed to see him. He was under sedation. They had performed a triple bypass surgery on him. I was told there was nothing I could do for him and that I should go home. I was driven to the doctor’s office to pick up the car. Night had fallen. It had stopped snowing but the weather was frigid. I cannot describe how I felt as I began to drive home. I was emotionally drained and I was very thankful that he was alive. I kept whispering my mantra, “Thank you God! Thank you God! Thank you God!”
As I got back on the highway, I realized it was Friday night, the beginning of the Sabbath. Instead of driving home, I drove to the synagogue. They had just ended the services. Somehow word had spread in our community about Peter’s heart attack. I walked in and asked the rabbi to please open the door to the Torahs. I wanted to kiss them in thanksgiving. Our sweet kind rabbi did not demur. Everyone stood silently and watched as I kissed the Torahs one by one. Salty tears of relief ran down my cheeks unchecked. I kissed the Torahs and whispered, “Thank you God. Thank you God!” With each Torah that I kissed, I whispered the phrase over and over again.
Peter survived that heart attack. The Almighty blessed me by allowing me to have him by my side for a few more precious years, but one June day eight years ago God took him. At his funeral and all that summer long, whenever I went to visit his grave, butterflies hovered about. To me they seemed to be little angels looking after his pure soul. At home Peter had planted a butterfly bush on one corner of the garden. Each day, when he came back from work, he used to bend down and pull down any intruding weeds. Sometimes he would sit at the bench next to it for a little while to relax. After he was gone, I began to sit there each summer morning. It brought me comfort to witness the butterflies hover about his bush all that summer and the summer after that. Eventually they flew away as the rawness of the loss of him abated.
It is past midnight as I finish writing. I feel completely drained. I can hear the sound of Kelly and the pups breathing peacefully in their sleep in his bedroom. I slowly rise from my old armchair and prepare for bed. As I settle in, I close my eyes and whisper, “Goodnight my beloved husband. I miss you and love you…”