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

How to know when it's time to take your characters to bed

So, I’m editing my third novel, Bleak Landing, which releases in August. I’ve learned that I love the editing process more than the actual writing, probably because you’re taking something you had to tear your hair out just to get onto the page and now you’ve got help to polish it and make it much better. I’m learning that a good editor is worth their weight in coffee pods—and not the cheap kind. 

The way it works is, I receive my manuscript back from my development editor, Shari. What was once three hundred plain, black-and-white, double-spaced pages is now a rainbow of Track Changes, averaging three or more per paragraph. I’m eager to dig in, knowing I have about two weeks to work my way through all Shari’s comments and suggestions and return it. Then we do a second, shorter round the same way. A few weeks later, I’ll get it back from the copy editor and go through the process one last time before my baby is completely out of my hands.

Right now I’m in the middle of the first round. Most of the time, it’s just a matter of clicking on either “accept” or “reject” or choosing a more precise word. Sometimes it means clarifying a whole sentence for the reader or deleting an unnecessary one. Sometimes it’s verifying a historical element. Occasionally, Shari challenges me to rework an entire scene to make it more engaging for the reader. She’ll write something like, “This is a little pat/cliché. I know you can give me something even stronger.” Or “I’m not sure this is convincingly romantic enough.”

If that challenge happens to come at 8:00 on a Friday night after I’ve met my obligation at my day job, grocery shopped, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and already spent a couple of hours editing at a desk that’s in desperate need of tidying and the pain in my shoulders is screaming for relief—I can get a little surly. I want to yell at Shari, “You’re wrong, you tyrant! I can’t give you something stronger. This is it. I was proud of that scene! It’s the best I can do. So shut up and leave me alone!”

Yeah, that’s when you know it’s time to close the laptop and call it a day. Take your characters to bed with you and pray they’ll show you better words by morning.

In the middle of this process, my second book, Maggie’s War, is launching—a bit of a timing misfortune on the publisher’s part. But I can’t whine about it and still appear professional, especially when I’ve only just got my nose in the door of this business. So I’m juggling plans for three launch events, radio interviews, and newspaper ads. I’m keeping track of receipts, preparing speeches and door prizes, and responding to early reviewers. Oh yes, and it’s really time to put up another blog post. And how can I answer questions about the second novel when my head’s all wrapped up in the third? The characters and situations are all muddled together.

Seems a bit much for a woman who still can’t get through the day without a substantial nap.

But guess what? Lots of writers would kill to have the problems I’m describing. I could have called this post “Be careful what you wish for.” After all, I wanted this. Prayed for this. It seems when God opens a flood gate, he does a thorough job. Sure, I could throw up my hands and say “forget it.” I could return the manuscript just the way it is, collect the remainder of my advance, and call it a career. The book would still be published. Sales would be disappointing. Reviews would be dismal. A chance at another contract would be gone. I could spend the rest of my life on the couch watching Netflix or reading other writers’ books, ignoring the words on my laptop’s wallpaper: “I want to see what happens if I don’t give up.”

It’s seven a.m. and I’ve had a decent sleep. My desk is still a mess. The bathroom’s dirty and laundry waits. I’ve got a book launch in three days. But I’ll go back and tackle that troublesome scene because, deep down, I know Shari is right. I can do better. And I owe it to her, to my readers, to myself, and most of all, to my Creator, to give it my very best.

But first, another cup of coffee. The cheap kind. Sigh.

“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” Proverbs 27:17