"And someone saved my life tonight..."
— Lyrics from "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John
On the morning of my fifty-fifth birthday, I walked through the sliding glass doors of the hospital with my husband. Rob's new cardiologist—an angel in blue scrubs—had found a blockage in one of his arteries and scheduled him for a stent within two business days. The rapidity of the scheduling and the sternness of the cardiologist shook us both as his words sank in: "This should have been addressed ten years ago."
My emotions swung between fury at our previous general practitioner's ineptitude and immense gratitude that this had been caught before a cardiac event. I settled on gratitude—rage required energy that I didn't have. I focused instead on positive outcomes and counted blessings: that Rob hadn't departed for his business trip to India (where an event might have been catastrophic), that we had health insurance through his company, that Rob would soon feel like himself again.
Aden and I proceeded with our State Masters swim meet over the weekend despite our preoccupation with Rob's health. I had relays I couldn't abandon, and Rob came to watch on Saturday so I could achieve the dual objectives of competing and keeping watch over him. By Sunday, though, the stress mounted. Aden and I left the pool early to come home for family dinner, FaceTime with William, and birthday cake—the celebration we planned ahead of the big day.
Walking into the hospital Monday morning felt surreal—plunking down our co-pay, sitting in pre-op for what might prove one of the more impactful events of my life. The waiting, the IV prep, the vitals monitoring all reminded me of William's birth. My labor was induced with William, about ninety minutes of waiting before he arrived precipitously in three pushes. Rob and I had switched roles now, and I kept expecting the nurses to ask me to leave, but they never did.
The procedure lasted maybe fifty minutes. A nurse retrieved me from the waiting room, informed me that everything had gone well with no complications, then took me directly to the surgeon just outside the OR. After the doctor finished dictating his notes, he turned to me: "It was 99.9% blocked—just a thin line of an opening. Fortunately I was able to install the stent and open up the artery, so everything will be fine. But if he had even sneezed wrong..."
I didn't ask him to finish that sentence. Didn't do any research on what-ifs. I was shocked when Rob rolled out cognizant and speaking—he'd been awake for the procedure, had watched the video while the surgeon worked. His color looked good, his reflexes sharp, so different from our poor son after his two lengthy ACL surgeries.
The nurses cared for Rob with practiced efficiency. He ate a meal, dressed himself, left with his arm in a brace by 6:15 p.m. As we walked out those same sliding glass doors almost seven hours later, I couldn't fathom—still can't—the difference that had been made in Rob's life, in all of our lives. Standard operating procedure for the doctors and nurses, perhaps. Life-altering for us.
We are lucky beyond measure. And we've learned two crucial lessons: find a good doctor, and don't ignore chest pains. But there's a third lesson I'm still processing—how quickly everything can change, how thin the line between ordinary Monday and catastrophe. How someone in blue scrubs can save your husband's life on your birthday, giving you a gift no wrapped package could match. The gratitude sits in my chest like its own kind of blockage, one I don't want cleared away. Some weight is worth carrying.
