I need to write about this, if for no other reason than to get it out of my system. Don's hospital stay has by far been the most excruciating experience of my existence. I have never prayed so much, cried so much, hurt so much, or experienced so many emotions in such a short span of time.
It started Monday, February 11th. I was texting Don about my commute home, and that I should be home by 6 pm. He calls me as they begin boarding and tells me that he's in the hospital as of midnight the previous night. He will have his triple bypass surgery on Tuesday morning. A wave of nausea washes over me as an invisible fist punches me in the gut. I ask if he's in any pain, he says "not now." I tell him to get some rest, ask if he needs me to bring him anything, and that I'll see him tonight. I fire off a desperate email to the LOA office at work, and by the time I get to St. Louis, I'm granted the time I need.
Meanwhile, I spent the whole flight to St. Louis wiping the tears from my eyes and trying not to fall apart. I managed to make it to my car and let loose with loud, uncontrollable sobbing. It was a wonderful, much-needed release! There. That should get me through tomorrow, I thought.
I spent the night before his surgery next to his bedside, as the staff interrupted every few hours to scrub him (three times), give him medication, take his vital signs, take his blood, etc. The morning of his surgery, his son Aaron and daughter-in-law Roberta came to the hospital. We met the nurse who would be taking care of him post-op, and a few other people. Everyone who came into Don's room (with the exception of family and myself) seemed really excited for him to have his surgery, like it was a trip to an amusement park or something. His spirits were nervous, but optimistic.
The time came for him to be taken downstairs. Aaron and I left our stuff with Roberta and accompanied him in the holding room, where he would sign the consent forms and be prepped for surgery. The nurse gave him something to relax him and out came the electric clippers. I looked at his beautiful, flawless chest as they shaved his chest hair and legs. I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
The nurse liaison kicked us out and handed Aaron and I each a pack of Kleenex and her personal phone number. She said she'd come out during each phase of the 5 hour surgery and give us updates. Aaron's Pastor and a couple of his friends were waiting for us outside in the waiting room. We all held hands and prayed.
True to her word, the nurse liaison came out. "Surgery has begun." My nervous pacing began. An hour later, "He's on bypass" (where the heart is stopped and he's connected to the heart/lung machine that keeps him alive while the surgeon attaches the veins to the heart).
I was going through Kleenexes at a steady rate, but still holding up better than I thought I would. I looked at the pastor, the friends, Aaron and Roberta - very kind, Christian folks who don't drink, don't swear, and don't make tasteless jokes about farts and body parts. I was so glad to have the company and support, but it was a challenge to keep my company manners and not make an ass of myself while being under emotional stress for such an extended period of time. WHY THE HELL DOESN'T THIS PLACE HAVE A FREAKIN' BAR?!? A sweet friend's amazing mother came by and delivered home-made chocolate fudge to me in the nick of time!
"He's off bypass. He separated from the heart/lung machine very well!" My baby's heart is beating again!!! I felt a wave of relief. I thought the worst was over! "Surgery is complete. Expect to see him in the Intensive Care Unit in about an hour. The doctor will see you in 30 minutes." Everything went well. It was "as cherry of a case as they come." Still angry at having to face this day sober but in better spirits, I busied myself between the time we're told the surgery is complete until we're allowed to see him by concentrating on the idea that if this flying thing doesn't work out for me, I'm going to open a bar at the hospital. I'd make a killing. What shall I call it? I came up with a few names:
The Waiting Room
Stitches
Sutres
SutreSelf (I'm so clever!)
Scrubs and Suds
The Morphine Drip
The Medicine Cabinet
The nurse liaison interrupted my brainstorm, and let Aaron and I walk into ICU to see him. It was tough to see all those tubes in and around him, but conversations with friends who also had loved ones go through this surgery had prepared me for that. I found his face in what otherwise looked like a science fair project. He was sleeping, but I put my finger in his hand and said, "hi sweet baby."
Eventually, the ventilator tube came out, he was in and out of consciousness, and he was able to talk to us a little. When I was confident that the worst was over, I told him I was leaving for the night and that the staff would take excellent care of him. I kissed him and said, "I love you." He croaked out, "I love you, too."
This was big. In the 7 and a half years we've been together, not once has he told me he loved me. Before you get upset, just know that even though he doesn't tell me, he shows me. He just has a hard time saying the words, and so that I don't make him uncomfortable, I don't say them either. I know that I am loved, and he knows that he is loved. We just don't say it. It works for us.
I go to the grocery store, pick up a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine, with the intention of pigging out and getting drunk, because that is how I handle stress. No sooner had I put the pizza in the oven when Aaron calls me..... Don's blood pressure dropped significantly, his heart rate slowed to a crawl...... there's a team of people helping him....... I pull the pizza out of the oven, slam a glass of wine, and head back to the hospital.
My Donnie had "coded." I was in shock and denial. But, his surgery went well! He had surgery to prevent this from happening! How can it happen now?!? He has the best surgeon in the region!! Later, we would find out that it's because one of the bypasses failed. Luckily, he didn't have to go back into the operating room. They reintubated him with the ventilator, and inserted what's called an Intra-aortic balloon pump through his leg all the way up to where it rests against his heart - basically it's a balloon that inflates during a certain part of every heart beat to 1) help the heart rest and 2) help it deal with the cocktail of medications coarsing through his system. There is a nurse assigned to watch him and only him the rest of the night.
His surgeon, who had also gone home because everything was a-ok, came out to the waiting room to talk to Aaron and me. He asked and answered the questions we were thinking, because neither of us was capable of intelligent conversation ourselves:
"Was it a heart attack? We're pretty sure it was.
Why did it happen? We don't know.
How much did it damage his heart? We won't know until this is all over. Perhaps months.
Is there the possibility that he won't make it? Yes, a very real one."
Later, when we were allowed to see Don again, I walked into his room by myself. I looked at all the machines, displaying all kinds of numbers and waves, and heard the rhythmic clicking of the balloon pump. It was night time. As long as he was sleeping, he wasn't hurting. I gently closed my hand around his foot and softly told him that Aaron and I are just around the corner. "You're not alone, sweet baby. Just rest and get better." Over the speakers in the room, I heard the sweetest, saddest, most beautiful music..... classical.... strings.... is that? Brahms' Lullaby!? Giant tears flooded my eyes and streamed down my cheeks as I held my breath. I looked at his face.... all those machines keeping him alive..... him sleeping peacefully... and that music... that fucking music! The music was what set me over the edge. It was so sweet and so beautiful and so cruel. I quickly walked out of there and into the waiting room. My legs were unsteady, so I rested against a pillar. I squeezed my eyes shut and my mouth gaped open in a silent scream. Why God, WHY?!??!? I finally breathed again and managed to make it to the ladies' room before having a complete emotional breakdown.
I screamed at the walls, I screamed at God, I screamed at Don. Don, my world, my everything! The one I want to share every beautiful thing that life has to offer..... and there's a chance he won't be coming home!?? I left the restroom feeling no better, just beaten, exhausted, and utterly heartbroken.
Aaron and I spent the night in the cold waiting room of the ICU. Neither of us got any sleep. The following day, not much changed. He remained on the balloon pump and the ventilator. He was awake enough to let us know how much he hated the breathing tube. Aaron and I left the hospital long enough to shower and get a meal, only to return to the hospital again. We spent another night in the ICU waiting room. In between cries, we'd get coffee or hot chocolate.
The next day was Valentine's Day. I bought a small sequined heart to hang in his room. I showed it to him, and through all the tubes, he smiled. They gradually weaned him off the balloon pump. When he handled that well, they weaned him off the ventilator. They fed him ice chips. He no longer needs a nurse with him 24/7. It was a good day.
Followed by a bad night, of course. His heart went into Atrial Fibrillation, or Afib - or irregular heart beat. He has a history of it, and I hear that it's "normal" after heart surgery. His pulse was racing - 150+ beats per minute. Especially terrible because we were trying to rest his heart! I'm allowed to "sleep" in the recliner next to his bed, which makes him feel better. After several nights of this, I determine that there's no way that anyone gets any rest in the hospital. The endless parade of professionals begins around 4:30 - 5:00am and doesn't end until midnight. Once people start coming in to his room, you can kiss any sleep goodbye. Thank God the coffee was complimentary.
By day 7, doctors determine that he's well enough to get out of ICU and into a private room. Days are good, nights are full of anxiety. Finally, a week and a half after he entered the hospital, he was discharged!
I asked a nurse why I heard Brahms' lullaby. Evidently, they play it every time a baby is born. Isn't that sweet? They said that it's broadcast throughout the whole hospital, and that they'll often have elderly ladies (on lots of drugs) walk down the hallway as it's being played, convinced they're dying and headed into the light. I guess I'm not the only one who was touched by that music.
It is so good to have my Sweet Cheeks back home. I am forcing him to eat my healthy cooking. He even likes some of it! I am acting wife, mother, nurse, chef, cheerleader, and personal trainer. I am exhausted! But, I am ever so humbly thankful that he's back home with me. There will be doctor appointments to find out what his heart attack means to him - how much of the muscle was damaged, see if he can get a stent for the failed bypass, etc. The nights are still full of anxiety for him, and at times I feel so useless because I can't help him. He's not convinced he's going to recover sometimes. But, we know the recovery process is a slow one, and I do my best to remind him of how far he's come already. Every day, I see an improvement in him. Baby steps add up to great strides.
One thing I will never forget - how many of my friends and family prayed for us, sent us "good vibes," and otherwise gave their emotional support and encouragement. I am truly touched at how many of you helped me when I had trouble keeping it together emotionally.
Thank you. Please take care of yourselves.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Momma said there'd be days like this.
Most of the time, my job is rather dull and routine, sprinkled lightly with minor annoyances...... pretty much like every other job out there. However, last week I had a day that left me wondering which of the fates I had inadvertently angered. Did I step on a butterfly? Kick a puppy? Bitch-slap a cripple? I don't know. While I've cut down on the drinking, I've been taking melatonin at night, so there's really no telling what I do. As the monkeys of life kept lobbing one sticky handful of shit in my face after another, I thought of the reviews for Les Miz (the stage performance.... not the movie). It's true. I laughed. I cried. It was still better than Cats.
The day I left for work to begin two consecutive 2-day trips (a Friday), my boyfriend (after near continuous nagging from yours truly) went to a doctor to see about the increasing frequency and magnitude of chest pain and episodes where he just feels..... weird.... for months. MONTHS! Of course, the doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. This was a Friday, and the kind of test Don needed to determine what, if any, blockage is present couldn't be performed until Monday. The good and bad of it was that while my worries were heightened, in an odd way I felt more at ease than when I usually leave - knowing that he was being cared for and help, should he need it, was just outside his door.
I flew an uneventful Friday and Saturday, then reported Sunday with a new crew to fly the second two-day trip. The first day consisted of only one leg: Cleveland to Philadelphia. It was a sunny, beautiful, smooth, just downright gorgeous day to fly! A friend of mine was deadheading in the back. He was taking the plane back to Cleveland after we arrived in Philly - and it was going to be his first flight as a captain! Because we had a kickin' tailwind, we arrived 20 minutes early, leaving him plenty of time to get set up. I slapped him on the back, wished him good luck, and the 3 of us went to the hotel. I chuckled to myself and thought, that was awesome. We're probably gonna pay for this tomorrow.
All I meant by that thought was that we were scheduled for 5 legs the next day, with tight turn-arounds all day, in weather that was going to involve snow, ice pellets, freezing rain, and low ceilings. But it didn't matter.... I was going home!
Our easy day took a turn for the worse several hours later at the hotel. I was watching tv in bed and all of a sudden the power went out. And stayed out. My room cooled off quickly. I gave it about 30 minutes, then called the front desk. They don't know why the power went out or how long it will be, but someone's working on it. At the hour mark, I go downstairs and find out that a neighborhood close by just got their power back, so I was hopeful. I toyed with the idea of calling work and refusing the hotel, but I figured the power would be back on soon and I didn't want to bother the crew with gathering their shit in the dark and switching hotels, only to have the power come back on.
It didn't come back on. I drifted off to sleep, shivering under the covers until I heard my phone ring. Scheduling calling! They have a new hotel for us! The FO had the good sense to get us a different hotel.
Early morning comes. I realize I've left my aviation headset at the old hotel. They're not answering the phone. GREAT. Donnie has his cardiac catheterization test today (the test that will determine blood flow/blockage in the chambers of the heart), the results of which determine how long his current hospital stay is, and what happens to him in the future. So, I know I'm going to be a little distracted and forgetful.
The first leg, Philly to Cleveland is uneventful until the taxi in. The ramp is a solid sheet of ice. I taxi at what I thought was a snail's pace. When I moved the tiller to the left to make a left turn, my heart leaped into my throat as the aircraft kept going straight. I applied the brakes.... no good. SHIT! I got the result I wanted with differential thrust reverser. I figured it would be better to suck unwanted debris into the engine than to plow into the terminal building or any of the vehicles between us and it.
We board up and depart again, headed for Washington DC, where the freezing rain and ice pellets are reported to have ended, with good ole rain to take its place. It is my first time to fly a complicated arrival procedure into the DC area. It requires diligent planning and attention, so that you make all the crossing restrictions (altitudes and airspeeds). There is always a tailwind that adds to the challenge. I laugh to myself at the irony that the most restrictive arrival known to man is named the FREEDOM 1 arrival. We shoot the approach into DC..... We hear the aircraft ahead of us go around. I go through the go-around process mentally...... when we reach the point where we make the decision to land or fly, I look up and see ZILCH. I execute a go-around and missed approach. We begin to receive vectors for another attempt. I note the fuel with a frown. We could either 1) shoot the approach again and land or 2) go to our alternate airport of Baltimore.
But not both. The freight dawg in me implored me to try it again. The guy behind us made it!! The guy behind him made it!! It's go-home day!! The FO kindly and passive-aggressively also noted the fuel aloud. I sighed and said to the FO, "tell ATC we need vectors to Baltimore."
We get on the ground. Supposed to be a gas-n-go operation. Grab the paperwork, gas it up, pull the jetbridge, drop the brake, thank the ground crew, ask for clearance to push back...... GROUND STOP in DC. Update in an hour. Turns out, aircraft are holding and no one is getting in. I feel better about my decision to divert. I give the people the bad news and kick everyone off the plane where they will feel more comfortable so our flight attendant doesn't have to babysit them.
Hours go by. The flight cancels. Wait for more paperwork. In the meantime, I talk to Don. Bad news, significant blockage in not just 3 main arteries, but lots of little blockages that make him a bad candidate for stents. He's being treated with nitroglycerin and has to stay another night in the hospital. His cardiologist is going to try medicine first, but thinks ultimately he'll need a triple bypass. He has a case of bronchitis that makes the heart surgeon wary of operating anyway. I stay strong on the phone and tell him to get some rest and I'll see him tonight. I hang up as a few tears escape down my cheeks and see our paperwork has finally arrived. Dammit.... I have to keep my head. No time to freak out emotionally. Swallow the fear, doubt, the emotional panic welling up. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to get on the first plane home.
Instead, I put on my sunglasses and get back into the cockpit. I tell the FO I'm going through some shit at home and to please help me not to F--k up.
We fly empty back to Cleveland to pick up the rest of our trip. I run to get the paperwork and find the ops guy shouting a string of obscenities at the computer and cursing CHQ's system. It takes 20 minutes to print up the paperwork and I sprint athletically down the jetbridge to a plane full of disgruntled passengers. The jetbridge is slippery because of the melted snow. I slide ass-over-elbows and hit the ground so hard I see stars. Shake it off, jump in the plane, apologize to the passengers for our tardiness, and get to the process of leaving.
On pushback, the damned #2 engine won't start. We try it 3 times. No igniters, no fuel flow. We return to the gate, I again apologize to the passengers and call maintenance. They jiggle some wires, pull some circuit breakers, we're good to go. Round trip to Charlotte, while significantly delayed now, experiences no further problems.
Once safely back in Cleveland, go-home leg competed, the last passenger gets off. The crew and I sigh in relief that our day is over. Just then, some strange man with an ID boards the plane, sticks his head in the cockpit and says, "I'm looking for Captain Willes for her random drug test." I throw the checklist at the guy and say, "Are you ffffffffff----reaking kidding me?!?!?? Do you know the day I've just had?" I tell the flight attendant I'm being drug tested and the plane practically shakes itself apart from our laughter.
The walk to the restroom took a turn for the awkward when I smile and ask the man for a funnel, seeing as how I'm a female. He turned the loveliest shade of red when he handed me the cup and said, "just do the best you can."
An hour later, I sit in the gate area, waiting for the flight I will attempt to take home. The gate agent tells me there are several mis-connects, and that I will certainly get a seat in the back. Finally some good news! As I sit and wait for the boarding process to begin, I prop my feet on my bag, lay my head back, and feel all the energy leave my body. The simple act of breathing seems to require more energy than my body has to give. Only 6 more hours until I get home. Ugh.
We board. I force a smile and turn on what little charm I have left to kindly ask the pilots for a ride home. The most beautiful sound - the aircraft door closing on my commute home - is music to my ears. We taxi out....... we.... TURN AROUND?~!?~? We return to the gate.
I'm screaming the "F-word" so loud in my head, I almost believe the people around me can hear it. Why God, WHY?
Turns out, a woman was having an anxiety attack. She needed medical attention. Because of our return to the gate, all of the poor passengers who had missed this flight suddenly get a second chance to make their flight. GOOD FOR THEM. One of these passengers comes up to me and says, "You're in my seat." Of course I am. I see myself getting kicked off the plane and drowning myself in liquor at the crash pad while my Donnie spends another lonely night in the hospital. Fortunately..... there was one seat left in the front of the plane. Thank you, Baby Jesus, I am going home!!!!
Uneventful 2 hour drive home. I stop briefly at the house to check on the cat and get changed. I drive as fast as my 5L engine will take me to the hospital. I tried to sneak in without waking him, but he's such a light sleeper. When he sits up and hugs me, all the frustrations and cares of the day immediately dissolve. All that matters is that I made it to his arms.
22 hours after my day began, I'm holding his hand. He tells me to go home and get some sleep, but the only place I want to be is in the chair next to him. At that quiet hour, in the darkness, I say a prayer of thanksgiving. I let everything that happened during the day stay in the past, and fall asleep to the beautiful sound of his breathing. He is discharged from the hospital the next day. We go home and sleep for about 6 hours.
Currently, he is still being treated with nitroglycerin. He attends cardio rehab 3 times a week. His chest pain is better. He'll have a follow-up appointment at the end of the month to see how well the meds are working and how long he can put off bypass surgery. He is making an effort to cut way back on salt, fat, and calories. I am so proud of him!
I would have never made it through this day without the emotional support of all my friends and family, especially the stellar crew I was working with!! Thanks for letting me vent, and for laughing with me when life proved that you should never ask, "how can it get any worse?"
The day I left for work to begin two consecutive 2-day trips (a Friday), my boyfriend (after near continuous nagging from yours truly) went to a doctor to see about the increasing frequency and magnitude of chest pain and episodes where he just feels..... weird.... for months. MONTHS! Of course, the doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. This was a Friday, and the kind of test Don needed to determine what, if any, blockage is present couldn't be performed until Monday. The good and bad of it was that while my worries were heightened, in an odd way I felt more at ease than when I usually leave - knowing that he was being cared for and help, should he need it, was just outside his door.
I flew an uneventful Friday and Saturday, then reported Sunday with a new crew to fly the second two-day trip. The first day consisted of only one leg: Cleveland to Philadelphia. It was a sunny, beautiful, smooth, just downright gorgeous day to fly! A friend of mine was deadheading in the back. He was taking the plane back to Cleveland after we arrived in Philly - and it was going to be his first flight as a captain! Because we had a kickin' tailwind, we arrived 20 minutes early, leaving him plenty of time to get set up. I slapped him on the back, wished him good luck, and the 3 of us went to the hotel. I chuckled to myself and thought, that was awesome. We're probably gonna pay for this tomorrow.
All I meant by that thought was that we were scheduled for 5 legs the next day, with tight turn-arounds all day, in weather that was going to involve snow, ice pellets, freezing rain, and low ceilings. But it didn't matter.... I was going home!
Our easy day took a turn for the worse several hours later at the hotel. I was watching tv in bed and all of a sudden the power went out. And stayed out. My room cooled off quickly. I gave it about 30 minutes, then called the front desk. They don't know why the power went out or how long it will be, but someone's working on it. At the hour mark, I go downstairs and find out that a neighborhood close by just got their power back, so I was hopeful. I toyed with the idea of calling work and refusing the hotel, but I figured the power would be back on soon and I didn't want to bother the crew with gathering their shit in the dark and switching hotels, only to have the power come back on.
It didn't come back on. I drifted off to sleep, shivering under the covers until I heard my phone ring. Scheduling calling! They have a new hotel for us! The FO had the good sense to get us a different hotel.
Early morning comes. I realize I've left my aviation headset at the old hotel. They're not answering the phone. GREAT. Donnie has his cardiac catheterization test today (the test that will determine blood flow/blockage in the chambers of the heart), the results of which determine how long his current hospital stay is, and what happens to him in the future. So, I know I'm going to be a little distracted and forgetful.
The first leg, Philly to Cleveland is uneventful until the taxi in. The ramp is a solid sheet of ice. I taxi at what I thought was a snail's pace. When I moved the tiller to the left to make a left turn, my heart leaped into my throat as the aircraft kept going straight. I applied the brakes.... no good. SHIT! I got the result I wanted with differential thrust reverser. I figured it would be better to suck unwanted debris into the engine than to plow into the terminal building or any of the vehicles between us and it.
We board up and depart again, headed for Washington DC, where the freezing rain and ice pellets are reported to have ended, with good ole rain to take its place. It is my first time to fly a complicated arrival procedure into the DC area. It requires diligent planning and attention, so that you make all the crossing restrictions (altitudes and airspeeds). There is always a tailwind that adds to the challenge. I laugh to myself at the irony that the most restrictive arrival known to man is named the FREEDOM 1 arrival. We shoot the approach into DC..... We hear the aircraft ahead of us go around. I go through the go-around process mentally...... when we reach the point where we make the decision to land or fly, I look up and see ZILCH. I execute a go-around and missed approach. We begin to receive vectors for another attempt. I note the fuel with a frown. We could either 1) shoot the approach again and land or 2) go to our alternate airport of Baltimore.
But not both. The freight dawg in me implored me to try it again. The guy behind us made it!! The guy behind him made it!! It's go-home day!! The FO kindly and passive-aggressively also noted the fuel aloud. I sighed and said to the FO, "tell ATC we need vectors to Baltimore."
We get on the ground. Supposed to be a gas-n-go operation. Grab the paperwork, gas it up, pull the jetbridge, drop the brake, thank the ground crew, ask for clearance to push back...... GROUND STOP in DC. Update in an hour. Turns out, aircraft are holding and no one is getting in. I feel better about my decision to divert. I give the people the bad news and kick everyone off the plane where they will feel more comfortable so our flight attendant doesn't have to babysit them.
Hours go by. The flight cancels. Wait for more paperwork. In the meantime, I talk to Don. Bad news, significant blockage in not just 3 main arteries, but lots of little blockages that make him a bad candidate for stents. He's being treated with nitroglycerin and has to stay another night in the hospital. His cardiologist is going to try medicine first, but thinks ultimately he'll need a triple bypass. He has a case of bronchitis that makes the heart surgeon wary of operating anyway. I stay strong on the phone and tell him to get some rest and I'll see him tonight. I hang up as a few tears escape down my cheeks and see our paperwork has finally arrived. Dammit.... I have to keep my head. No time to freak out emotionally. Swallow the fear, doubt, the emotional panic welling up. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to get on the first plane home.
Instead, I put on my sunglasses and get back into the cockpit. I tell the FO I'm going through some shit at home and to please help me not to F--k up.
We fly empty back to Cleveland to pick up the rest of our trip. I run to get the paperwork and find the ops guy shouting a string of obscenities at the computer and cursing CHQ's system. It takes 20 minutes to print up the paperwork and I sprint athletically down the jetbridge to a plane full of disgruntled passengers. The jetbridge is slippery because of the melted snow. I slide ass-over-elbows and hit the ground so hard I see stars. Shake it off, jump in the plane, apologize to the passengers for our tardiness, and get to the process of leaving.
On pushback, the damned #2 engine won't start. We try it 3 times. No igniters, no fuel flow. We return to the gate, I again apologize to the passengers and call maintenance. They jiggle some wires, pull some circuit breakers, we're good to go. Round trip to Charlotte, while significantly delayed now, experiences no further problems.
Once safely back in Cleveland, go-home leg competed, the last passenger gets off. The crew and I sigh in relief that our day is over. Just then, some strange man with an ID boards the plane, sticks his head in the cockpit and says, "I'm looking for Captain Willes for her random drug test." I throw the checklist at the guy and say, "Are you ffffffffff----reaking kidding me?!?!?? Do you know the day I've just had?" I tell the flight attendant I'm being drug tested and the plane practically shakes itself apart from our laughter.
The walk to the restroom took a turn for the awkward when I smile and ask the man for a funnel, seeing as how I'm a female. He turned the loveliest shade of red when he handed me the cup and said, "just do the best you can."
An hour later, I sit in the gate area, waiting for the flight I will attempt to take home. The gate agent tells me there are several mis-connects, and that I will certainly get a seat in the back. Finally some good news! As I sit and wait for the boarding process to begin, I prop my feet on my bag, lay my head back, and feel all the energy leave my body. The simple act of breathing seems to require more energy than my body has to give. Only 6 more hours until I get home. Ugh.
We board. I force a smile and turn on what little charm I have left to kindly ask the pilots for a ride home. The most beautiful sound - the aircraft door closing on my commute home - is music to my ears. We taxi out....... we.... TURN AROUND?~!?~? We return to the gate.
I'm screaming the "F-word" so loud in my head, I almost believe the people around me can hear it. Why God, WHY?
Turns out, a woman was having an anxiety attack. She needed medical attention. Because of our return to the gate, all of the poor passengers who had missed this flight suddenly get a second chance to make their flight. GOOD FOR THEM. One of these passengers comes up to me and says, "You're in my seat." Of course I am. I see myself getting kicked off the plane and drowning myself in liquor at the crash pad while my Donnie spends another lonely night in the hospital. Fortunately..... there was one seat left in the front of the plane. Thank you, Baby Jesus, I am going home!!!!
Uneventful 2 hour drive home. I stop briefly at the house to check on the cat and get changed. I drive as fast as my 5L engine will take me to the hospital. I tried to sneak in without waking him, but he's such a light sleeper. When he sits up and hugs me, all the frustrations and cares of the day immediately dissolve. All that matters is that I made it to his arms.
22 hours after my day began, I'm holding his hand. He tells me to go home and get some sleep, but the only place I want to be is in the chair next to him. At that quiet hour, in the darkness, I say a prayer of thanksgiving. I let everything that happened during the day stay in the past, and fall asleep to the beautiful sound of his breathing. He is discharged from the hospital the next day. We go home and sleep for about 6 hours.
Currently, he is still being treated with nitroglycerin. He attends cardio rehab 3 times a week. His chest pain is better. He'll have a follow-up appointment at the end of the month to see how well the meds are working and how long he can put off bypass surgery. He is making an effort to cut way back on salt, fat, and calories. I am so proud of him!
I would have never made it through this day without the emotional support of all my friends and family, especially the stellar crew I was working with!! Thanks for letting me vent, and for laughing with me when life proved that you should never ask, "how can it get any worse?"
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