Last Friday morning at 1 a.m., Art woke me to tell me he thought something was wrong with his heart. My brain could not take in these words so I started operating in automatic mode. We spent the better part of the next minutes trying to decide what to do. When he agreed to go to the emergency room, I knew that it must be serious. My man is not a doctor going guy.
He spent the night getting poked and prodded and tested and examined.
I spent the night letting every what if imaginable play out in my head.
I am happy to report that Art is fine and it turns out so is his heart. Tests showed an extremely high level of enzymes which triggered a reflux attack severe enough to mimic a heart attack.
So, I breathe a sigh of relief. But I can't just move on. Somewhere in the middle of the night caught between everything could change and everything is fine, I was once again challenged to make every minute count. During those middle of the night hours, I was so intentional with every word that I spoke to my husband.
In those minutes not one of those silly things that I make such issues out of at times mattered. Not one. I couldn't even remember that he gets on my nerves at times. All I could think of, "Oh God give me more time with him please."
Maybe it sounds overly dramatic. But I've watched 4 young women in the past months walk up to a casket and say goodbye. Four women who thought they still had years and years left to say and do and give and love. Four women who closed their eyes one night as a wife and woke up the next day as a widow.
And it has rocked me in the best kind of way.
Maybe this isn't the most encouraging Monday morning post I've ever written. But then again, maybe it is.
He spent the night getting poked and prodded and tested and examined.
I spent the night letting every what if imaginable play out in my head.
I am happy to report that Art is fine and it turns out so is his heart. Tests showed an extremely high level of enzymes which triggered a reflux attack severe enough to mimic a heart attack.
So, I breathe a sigh of relief. But I can't just move on. Somewhere in the middle of the night caught between everything could change and everything is fine, I was once again challenged to make every minute count. During those middle of the night hours, I was so intentional with every word that I spoke to my husband.
In those minutes not one of those silly things that I make such issues out of at times mattered. Not one. I couldn't even remember that he gets on my nerves at times. All I could think of, "Oh God give me more time with him please."
Maybe it sounds overly dramatic. But I've watched 4 young women in the past months walk up to a casket and say goodbye. Four women who thought they still had years and years left to say and do and give and love. Four women who closed their eyes one night as a wife and woke up the next day as a widow.
And it has rocked me in the best kind of way.
Maybe this isn't the most encouraging Monday morning post I've ever written. But then again, maybe it is.
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