On our country drive last night, I never thought today I’d awaken to loud groans and convulsions, followed by flashing red lights and a living room full of EMTs. As they strapped Hubby to the gurney, he asked me to stay home and wait for his call. I made my way to the gurney and we shared a long, still kiss. While that kiss lasted, I laid hands on his forehead; it was then that I began to feel the rise and fall of his chest; he had begun to sob.
As they wheeled him down the driveway, Daughter 2 waved from a distance: “Bye, Daddy! I love you!”
I informed his little mother (not fun). I had D2 go tell my mother. (She later told me my girl had fought back the tears.) We also woke up D1 and emailed the rest of the church family.
I hurried and got a shower, did my chores, typing, and started dinner (I have relatives visiting). I was encouraged by emails and calls, and by observing the clear trust in God shared by my daughters and several others milling around here today.
Finally I got the call: “Honey, can you come get me?” I hit the highway. My MP3 player, which is just as likely to play Keane, Muse, and the Beatles, today was playing this: “Master, the tempest is raging! …The winds and the waves shall obey Thy will, Peace, be still!” -and- “Now Lord Don’t Move My Mountain, But Give Me The Strength To Climb”.
I don’t know who suffered more in that pharmacy waiting room: Hubby, who could barely sit up, or me. Sorry to lose focus here, but seriously: how can people stand soap operas? “If this baby’s yours, I’m going to lose Daniel anyway, and your marriage is over.” And what’s with the mahogany and marble office convo between a white-haired lawyer in a blue suit and a …shirtless tanned dude glistening wet? But I digress.
They were filling an Rx for narcotic and anti-nausea drugs. When we entered the final waiting stage, I told Hubby, “It looks like your time is imminent.” He replied, “Oh, I’m so, so aware of that.”