When Your Husband Has a Heart Attack on Your Birthday, but You Can’t Blab to the World About It Because You’ve Given Up Social Media for Lent

You know what they say. “If you want to make God laugh, make a plan.” I had a plan for my sixty-seventh birthday on February 24.

My sister and I had just spent a hurried and exhausting four days sorting and packing our mother’s belongings in preparation for moving her into a care home. Mom, who lives with dementia, had been on the waitlist for 15 months. Yet, when the call finally comes for these spots, you’re required to move fast. When check-in day arrived, Sis and I stayed for lunch with Mom at the care home, saw that she was settled in, and returned to our respective homes.

Mom at her new digs.

That evening, Hubby and I attended our House Church meeting, where we enjoyed a birthday trifle in honor of him and me and our friend John, all celebrating in the next few days. Although much business and packing remained for Mom, I told the group that after our whirlwind four days, I planned to spend my birthday (the next day) with my feet up, reading my new Sarah Sundin novel.

I can always lose myself in Sarah's books.

My birthday started as a normal Tuesday morning, enjoying a cup of coffee and writing in my prayer journal at my desk while Hubby prepared to go to work. I was packing his lunch when he told me he was experiencing weird pain in his chest, shoulder, and arm. As an amputee who often feels discomfort in his remaining, overworked arm, this wasn’t unusual—only a bit different. I advised him to call in to work sick, then rest on the couch and see what unfolded. He did.

I went out to warm up the car and shovel the sidewalk, all the while ranting to God. “Seriously, God? Today?” My sister and her hubby were catching a flight to visit our other sister for a few days. If Hubby’s situation turned out to be serious, I should consider asking Sis to cancel her trip so she could be around for Mom. But if it turned out to be nothing, I sure didn’t want to spoil her trip and waste her money! What should I do?

When I returned to the house, Hubby informed me that the care home had called and I should call them back. I did. The nurse assured me that Mom was fine but had taken a fall while reaching for her walker. Again, the line, “Seriously, God?” sprang to mind. I decided I should go check on Mom, but first I stopped by her vacated apartment to grab a couple of items she needed. While there, I got a call on my cell phone. The telephone company, with whom I’d arranged for Mom’s phone to be hooked up at her new place, called to clarify a few things. Seriously? As we talked, it seemed to me that the person I’d spoken with the day before had gotten almost everything wrong that he could get wrong. Frustration mounted.

At the nursing home, Mom was doing fine and even remembered it was my birthday. I stayed only a few minutes, then called Hubby. He was still feeling the same. So, I returned home, loaded him up, and headed for the hospital. Both of us were expecting to be told we had nothing to worry about, but I texted our House Church group from the ER waiting room to let them know what was going on.

My birthday ticked on.

After running numerous tests, the doctors told us Hubby’s blood pressure and heart rate were good. But the protein marker in his blood that can signify a heart attack seemed high. They wanted to retest it in two hours. Still confident that we’d be sent home after that, I made the five-minute walk to Mom’s apartment and spent the interval packing. (I’m a task-oriented person, and frankly, having something like that to work on was far more helpful to both Hubby and me than sitting in the ER. I guess no one will ever praise me for being the “she-never-left-his-side” type.) While I worked, our daughter called to wish me a Happy Birthday. Still convinced that her dad’s situation would prove to be nothing more than a frustrating annoyance, I filled her in.

By the time I returned to the hospital, the second test results were in, and the decision had been made to admit Hubby. The protein marker had spiked during the two hours. “Your husband is having a heart attack,” the doctor told me. Is having. Not had. “It’s not the big scary kind, but it’s still a heart attack.” They wanted to be able to monitor him until he could be taken to the city for an angiogram—possibly not until Friday. (“Seriously, God?”)

I stayed a while longer, then headed home to throw together a bag for Hubby. While I was home, Amanda from our House Church stopped in with food, birthday treats, and instructions to take a hot soak before bed with the bath salts she’d placed in the gift bag. Our elder son stopped in with a gorgeous birthday bouquet and a hug. I put up my feet until Hubby called to say he was finally settled into a room, then returned to the hospital with his stuff.

Finally home again after visiting hours ended, I texted my sisters, now together, to tell them about my crazy birthday. I took Amanda’s advice and enjoyed a hot soak in the tub, a favorite TV show, my flowers, and some chocolate before falling asleep. It was a birthday to remember.

I spent the next four days rotating between the hospital, Mom’s care home, and her apartment, where I continued to organize her things. When Hubby finally went to the city hospital by medical transport on Friday morning, a snowstorm was brewing. (Seriously, God?) The highway was closed by that afternoon, so he didn’t return to our local hospital until after visiting hours. We didn’t see each other at all that day, but the news was mostly good. The angiogram revealed no need for a stent. It did, however, increase the mystery as to why this happened. The following day—on his birthday—Hubby was discharged with prescriptions for four medications and a blood pressure cuff, and orders for no driving or lifting for a week.

Proof that Jon was in the hospital on my birthday and his.

As I write this, five weeks have passed. Hubby has returned to work. Mom has continued to need help adjusting to her new life. One of my brothers has required my assistance, while another is in a battle for his life against cancer and is on our hearts and minds constantly. It seems like a lot.

Still, I’ve had time to ponder this series of events and to consider some of the “coincidences” leading up to them. I place the word in quotes because I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in God’s foreknowledge and in His care for me. Even though I don’t understand why things were allowed to happen, I can see these attributes of His colliding on my behalf. So, as I meet with Him each morning, I record in my journal these blessings as they come to mind:

·         For the first time in years, I had no imminent writing deadlines. Not that I could have put my mind to writing anyway, but I didn’t need to. By the time an email arrived with an easy editing deadline, life had begun to settle down again.

·         Also for the first time in years, I was not working on a new book—with or without a deadline. No pressure to write niggled at me, not even the self-imposed kind.

·         Before I knew any of this was going to happen, I had given up social media for Lent. This meant that the pressure of posting my daily scripture memes and engaging with others, as well as the time-sucking scrolling, were both off the table during a stress-filled time.

·         As it turned out, Mom’s phone was not hooked up for four days. Once it was, and she began calling numerous times a day, I realized what a gift those days had been. While I could visit her, the fact that she couldn’t call me was helpful. I knew she was safe and the staff would call me if anything came up. They’d already proved it that first morning.

·         In the writing world, this was contest season. I had received repeated requests to judge two contests that I’d judged for many years. For reasons I couldn’t name, I had not volunteered this year. I just had a “sense” that I was to take a break. Now I know why.

·         A month earlier, I’d volunteered to trade hosting dates with another House Church member for no other reason than we anticipated a low turnout that week. We have a small house and can’t accommodate the whole group.  Had we not traded, our turn to host and organize the meeting would have fallen on the same day we moved Mom into the care home.

There’s more, some of it too personal to share. I’m learning to take note of these sometimes weird little blessings that one doesn’t realize are blessings until hindsight reveals them. I hope to make a habit of recording them and sharing them when appropriate, because this is the stuff that can grow our faith, increase our trust in God’s timing, and solidify our knowledge of His love and care. Seriously.

“I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Joshua 1:9

Another Waltz Around the Sun

I’ll celebrate another birthday in a few days. Hard to believe last year at this time I was in sunny Florida enjoying a writers’ retreat—a sixtieth birthday present to myself. Somehow I never gave much thought to beyond sixty, but here I am.

Hubby’s birthday falls four days later, so for those few days each year we are the same age…and showing it. Recently, I cut a grapefruit in half for us to share as “dessert” at lunch. Since he needed to leave, he asked me to save his for later. Knowing he likes his cold, I put it in the fridge. Then I decided to save mine, too. But since I prefer grapefruit at room temperature, I left mine on the counter.

When I went to eat it later, it was missing.

“Oh,” Hubby said. “I thought it was mine and you forgot to put it in the fridge, so I ate it anyway.”

Seems our world is getting awfully small.

What age would you like to return to if you could? Or what age would you choose to stay, given the option? It’s interesting to see how often people—given enough time to really think this question through—end up choosing the age they are right now. Oh, some might want to go back and change some of the choices they regret. Others might like to relive their carefree childhood or the year they first fell in love or a time of life where they felt strong and energetic. Some would wish to return to when their now-grown children were little, perhaps just for a day.

I suppose if it were only for a day, I’d like to pick nearly any age to relive—provided it was a good day. But to stay there? No thanks. I have no desire to relive the challenges of high school or various jobs or parenting. As nice as it might be to find myself in a more youthful body, I wouldn’t want to lose the wisdom I’ve gained along the journey—even that which came through pain and regret. Would you?

We live in a culture that does not value the wisdom of our elders. Where differences of opinion occur, it’s often easier to trust the voices of those who are quicker, louder, more tech savvy and confident. Those who are up on the latest trends and most recent developments, who more easily recall the latest newsfeed or tweet.

I recently read an interesting article about a 2016 study conducted at Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania (led by Professor of Psychology Frank Durgin) that tested the ability of people to estimate the angle of a hill based on their age. The results surprised him. Using a well-walked hill on the college’s campus, the study found that older adults were better at interpreting the correct slope of a hill than young adults. The prof believes this is because of greater life experience. While all participants saw the hill as steeper than it actually was, the older folks’ estimates were closer to accurate.

You could say that with experience comes sharper perception. Perhaps the hills we’ve already climbed—literally and figuratively—help us to see that the ones which lie ahead are not as insurmountable as they might appear. I like to think so. One thing I know, and that’s the older I grow, the more I know I don’t know. Could that be the secret of wisdom? Not everything is as it appears.

Psalm 90:12 says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

My 56th Trip Around the Sun

Just for kicks, I decided to turn 56 years old this week. All the “freedom” of the past year has been getting on my nerves and it’s time for something different. Not that I expect much to change. I will no doubt discover still more useless information stored in my brain while remaining unable to retrieve the stuff I actually need.

My Twin

Who is this, anyway?

Well, it’s official. My sister Shanon looks more like me than I do. If she and I both competed in a Terrie Todd look-alike contest, she would win. (We have seven years and two siblings between us, so the odds of us actually being twins are slim.)

Shanon doesn’t write a column, but she keeps me abreast of the random people who tell her they enjoy her column, and how she enjoys saying “thanks.” 

I always figured she invented these stories to make me feel good. Then it happened.

I was in the Co-op one day when a distant acquaintance came over to me and said, “So I was reading your sister’s column the other day….” 

I waited until I knew whether she liked the column before correcting her.

My Other Twin

Then there’s my birthday twin who looks nothing like me. I met Linda (I can call her that now) when I was a high school student and she was my Home Economics teacher. I still remember her telling us, “If you want to be a sweet little old lady someday, you need to be a sweet young lady now.” Sadly, I chose sarcasm over sweetness and now I’m mostly just old.

Linda and Glen (I can call him that now) welcomed me into their home on several occasions, where they treated me to scrumptious homemade breads, soups, and cookies and modelled a healthy, faith-filled marriage. Linda and I discovered we shared the same birthday. Now we stay in touch by email and Facebook, especially on our birthday. She is, of course, older by a decade or so. But with each passing year, the difference becomes less significant as we compare notes about our ailments and grandchildren. Funny how that works.

What not to wear after fifty

Advice abounds about all the things women my age should stop wearing, like blue eye shadow, bejeweled jeans, and long hair. I say wear what you like and follow the better advice given by Michelle Poston Combs on Huffington Post recently. Among the things she says women over fifty should stop wearing? Shame and regret. A stiff upper-lip. The weight of the world.

My years on this planet have taught me I can’t even manage to carry my own burdens, let alone others’. I’m forever grateful to the one who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders and invited me, as a child, to cast my cares on him because he cares for me. (I Peter 5:7). He invites you, too. Happy Birthday to us.

Happy Tonsillectomy to Me!

It was probably Marcus Welby, MD, or a similar type of show. Age eight or nine when I watched it, the memory is fuzzy. All I recall about the story is some kid stuck in the hospital for their birthday. The child’s family, along with a dozen hospital staff, surrounded the bed, presenting the birthday kid with helium balloons while singing “Happy Birthday.”  Everyone was smiling, including the not-very-sick-looking centre of attention.

So when told I would be getting my tonsils removed the day before my tenth birthday, it was not a difficult sell. My inner drama queen welcomed the adventure, the attention, the sympathy, the break from school, and the helium balloons I was sure to receive. Maybe I’d even get Dr. Welby’s autograph.

The day before my surgery, my parents drove the 60 miles from Amaranth and checked me into the Portage Hospital where I spent a rather enjoyable evening reading in bed. A nice young lady came around to give me a back rub. (Things were much different in 1969!)

The next morning, Dr. Collier yanked out my tonsils. I remember the surprise of waking in more pain than I’d ever experienced and wishing they’d let me go back to sleep. The rest of that day remains a blur, except for the frequent offerings of ice cream, sherbet, and Jello—all of which I stubbornly refused in order to avoid the pain of swallowing.

The following morning, I felt alert enough to know it was my birthday. I tried to share this information with the first adult who came around, but I could only whisper. My voice was gone and I couldn’t make her understand me. I was still in pain, I couldn’t talk, and I hadn’t seen my family since they left me there. What a relief when Dad arrived mid-afternoon to take me home! I’m sure some acknowledgement of my birthday awaited me there, but all I remember is I didn’t speak or eat for a week.

45 years and several surgeries later, this memory came back with my recent birthday and made me cry for that disappointed ten-year-old. Why it chose to surface now, I’m not certain. But something about elaborate children’s birthday parties has always bugged me—a fact which, in itself, bugged me. Why did I hold such a miserly attitude? Why couldn’t I fully engage and celebrate a child’s life with joy, instead of begrudgingly feeling kids don’t “deserve” showers of toys and attention merely for staying alive one more year? Could my mature, 55-year-old self seriously feel jealous of little kids?

Yep, I think she could. More precisely, the little girl inside her could.

Ignoring the hurts of childhood, big or small, does not make us better adults. But exploring them can. You may need help with the tougher ones, but don’t sweep them under the rug. It pays to take heed when you experience strong emotions over events that seem trivial, or when memories emerge. Time does not heal all wounds. God does. In time. When we invite him into the middle of them.

I think even Dr. Welby might agree.