My stupid husband, whom I love dearly, scheduled an angiogram for yesterday. Those of you keeping track realize that is the day that the kids and I were coming back from our vacation. [By the way, can I really ever go on vacation now that I don't work?]
While we were hanging out in DFW for a couple of hours to catch the plane back to SFO, my friend J. called. It turns out the hospital called her to come pick him up and take him home. He wouldn't have to spend the night after all. That's good news, right?
An hour later, Pete called from home. It turns out it wasn't good news. They decided a stent wouldn't do the trick. That's why he didn't spend the night.
What will do the trick? A bypass. We'll meet with the surgeon Monday or Tuesday night, and it'll be scheduled within a week.
A bypass. I wouldn't be me if I didn't Google it and find out that more than half a million of them are performed each year. And 95% of them have no serious complications. [Yeah, "death" would be a serious complication, and it happens to between 1% and 2%. Stroke or heart attack occurs in about 5% of them, mostly to those over 70.]
When he said that word, my heart started THUMP, THUMP, THUMPING. [Perhaps in rhythm to his own heart, 2,000 miles away?] I smiled on the phone, though, looking at our three kids, sitting with me in an airport. And I'll keep on smiling around them, around him, around the people who will surely tell me everything will be just fine. Because sure it will.
Inside, though, I think I'll just be THUMP, THUMP, THUMPING.