Little Earthquakes

Three years ago today the ground under my feet shifted.

Henry and I were enjoying a weekend at home together without the boys: Luke was out of town visiting friends; Thomas was away on a church retreat. We had begun to see these rare “alone” weekends as trial runs for the empty nest we would have in the future. In that spirit we had spent Friday evening of the 26th at a local Irish pub, enjoying a Celtic band with a convivial group of fellow enthusiasts. We ate too much, drank enough to make us giddy, and stayed out well beyond our usual time to be tucked in.

Saturday the 27th was hot, usual for a late July in Alabama, and after our late night we had both been very lazy all day. Henry had finally pulled himself off the sofa to do a little yard work, and I had decided it was good a time as any to head for the grocery store.

I left him on the back porch, working on the weedeater.

I had finished my grocery shopping and was in the checkout line when I was startled by the ring of my cell phone, playing “When I Get Older.” This was the tune I had programmed to play when Henry called. You know, that whole thing about, “will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” I thought it was pretty funny when I chose it.

Now, I need to say here that I rarely ever had my cell phone on, which explains why I was startled when it rang. I honestly have no idea why it was on, as in those days I almost never used it at all.

But… there I was and it was making noise, so I answered it.

“Hey! Whatcha need?”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m in the checkout line. What’s up?”

“Well, finish what you’re doing and come on home.”

There was no smile in his voice, so I knew right away he hadn’t been overcome with longing for my presence. My first thought was that something had happened to one of the boys.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just come home.”

That was perhaps the most terrifying ride I had ever taken. I don’t even remember driving – all I remember was thinking that there would be a police car in front of the house, and a couple of young officers with grim faces, hats in hand, sitting in my living room.

But I turned the corner, and there were no police cars. Now it was clear – something had happened to one of my parents.

I grabbed the bag of groceries and ran into the house to find Henry leaning over the kitchen sink, arms pressed to the sides of it as though he needed the support. There was none of the customary background noise in the house – no TV, no music.

Quiet has never sounded so ugly.

“Honey? What’s going on?”

“Do you have anything in those bags that needs to go in the refrigerator?”

“Just some yogurt and milk…. WHAT IS IT?”

“Put them up.”

“But honey? What’s WRONG?”

“JUST DO IT.”

So I did, thinking the whole time that this would be the last mundane thing I would be doing for awhile, and then doing it slowly now because I felt a need to make this moment last a little longer.

“Okay. It’s in the fridge. Now tell me.”

“I need to get to the hospital. I’m having a heart attack.”


**** * ****

I don't remember the drive from here to there, but I remember getting to the door of the emergency room and making him stop so I could kiss him. That I remember. It echoed back to a moment from our wedding day -- I was so flustered at the end of the ceremony that I forgot to kiss him at the altar, and as soon as we exited the church he had grabbed me and taken me in his arms and pulled me closer than I thought two people could be and kissed me with such passion I still remember the tingle in my toes.

There was a full house in the waiting room, and I was so frightened that we'd be stuck in one of those chairs for hours, but I soon learned that when you say "heart attack" you go straight to the top of the list.

They came for him, and stuck me in an interview room for all the necessary insurance paperwork. When I was able to go to him, he was fairly holding court, and I was relieved -- it must have been heartburn. He had awoken at 2:00 in the morning complaining of indigestion, and so surely that was all it was.

I had no idea at that point they had been pumping him full of morphine.

We began to kid around with each other -- I expressed relief that he wasn't kicking the bucket because I just did not have anything to wear to a funeral, and having just started a diet was determined not to buy any new clothes until I'd lost another 10 pounds.

We were laughing about this when the doctor came in, studied all that silly paper readout coming from the EEG machine, and said, "Mr. Lucas? You are having a heart attack."

Not had, you understand. Are having. The laughing stopped.

By that time, my parents and my sister had arrived, so I sent my folks home to call Luke, and my sister and I sat there as the doctor explained that they were taking him into surgery immediately. When they rolled him away from me we had no idea whether this would be a minor procedure or a full-on open heart thing. I was too stunned to think.

Late that night, we got word that the surgeon had inserted two stents, and that he was in CICU, and that I could see him for just a few moments.

It was several days before he could come home, mostly owing to a scarcity of beds, and a now abandoned practice of requiring a stay in a "regular" room before discharge, and as heart attacks and fixes go, it was all pretty minor -- in retrospect.

But life changed for us during those days.

Our boys, whom we adore, had so much been our lives that our marriage had merely become a backdrop against which they stood in the spotlight. We loved each other, to be sure, but our relationship was sort of that hovering thing that we'd get back to later, when the boys were gone. No more.

We'd been riding high, too -- Henry had been in a key position at work and was making more money than we'd ever imagined he'd make. We were finally getting our finances healthy enough after a long hard couple of years to imagine all the wonderful things we would finally be able to do. The next several months would prove disastrous, as his boss used his "health" as an excuse to demote, and demote, and demote again, cutting the financial legs out from under us. From this we have never recovered.

My own heart still breaks a little when I remember that I never, ever thought of him when he called. That was a lesson in and of itself, and maybe the most important one of all.

There is nothing sure in this life, except for the moment in which you stand right now.