One month ago today. At 3:15 AM on Mother’s Day, my 46-year-old, seemingly healthy husband shook me awake and quietly, yet frantically, informed me that he needed to go to the hospital. His chest had been hurting for over an hour and even after taking antacids, what he thought was bad heartburn from late-night movie-watching snacks was only getting worse. As I slowly comprehended what was happening and searched my closet floor for clothes, I had a 30-second mental debate with myself – should I call 911 or just drive him to our local hospital, which is five minutes away? The decision to drive won out and we headed to the car, leaving our three kids (17, 14, and 9) in their beds asleep. He could barely hold himself upright as I grabbed my purse and glasses, listening all the while to his groans of pain. As we drove to the hospital, I realized my phone was almost dead and I almost ran off the road looking for the phone charger cord. I made a turn going way too fast and stomped on the gas to head down the last 2-mile straightaway to the hospital, then cursed the late party-goer-headed-home whose vehicle I had to follow at 30 mph for the rest of the drive. The groans grew louder as he hunched over in the passenger seat and I prayed for God to relieve his pain. To not let him die. To give my children – and me – more years with him. In that moment, I panicked, thinking that there was no way our four kids’ lives needed to only have me in it, parent-wise. To think that we may not have tomorrow was suffocating, overwhelming, horrific.
Two years ago this month. What a contrast. Two years ago, I was ready to walk out. To give up on our marriage and let our children and family members and friends know that it was for the best. There were too many lies. Too much anger in response to the lies. Too much hopelessness. The way we both dealt with the daily anxieties of our suburban, middle-class-but-debt-filled, busy lives had led us down paths that were secret and heavy and destructive. We held things together well enough, but we were tearing each other apart. And the path was well-worn. We had repeated the same patterns of anger and shame for years. One night, he got so angry he tore the bedposts off our bed. Yep. (Those who know him will likely not believe that, but he did it.) Another night, I screamed at him for 30 minutes straight then drove to a local hotel to spend the night. (Those who know me will not be surprised at this…!) I was done. He was done. Neither of us wanted to be done. We knew God had brought us together, but we could not see a way out of the hurt and the hopelessness.
Thankfully, over the two years that followed we began again the very slow process of learning to walk by faith, not by sight, even though our steps were faltering, weak, and honestly, sometimes very forced. We sought help in couples counseling and in separate support groups. We took two steps forward, three steps back at times. Our circumstances – and treatment of each other – sometimes looked worse, not better. But God. He showed us love and hope and slowly, but steadily, we began to believe him and each other. Gracious, selfless people stepped into our mess and just sat there with us – without platitudes, without judgment. Most people in our lives had no idea what we were dealing with. Even those who knew we were “in counseling” didn’t know why. They still don’t. Which is okay. The details do not really matter. The return of God-breathed hope and our work to put our marriage back together do matter.
When the ER doctor turned to me that morning and said “Your husband is having a major heart attack,” I remember looking at him and thinking “Well, what do we do next? How do we fix this?” Because that’s how I think. I didn’t actually say those words, but immediately the doctor very calmly explained – as six other people surrounded the bed, pumping various life-saving drugs into my husband and monitoring his condition – that an ambulance was on his way to take him to the neighboring, larger hospital, where a cardiologist would be waiting. At around 3:45 AM, as he was strapped to a gurney and wheeled into the ambulance, I took his hand and told him I loved him and I’d see him soon.
The two hours that followed were the longest in my life. After a quick “please pray for Anthony” Facebook post and a text to my sisters and a few close friends, I drove the 20 miles to the hospital, and made my way to the cardiac waiting area, which was eerily vacant: no magazines or vending machines, just some chairs and an old-fashioned phone on the wall behind a desk. I stayed off my phone to preserve the battery. I tried to pray as I paced. I sang, sometimes in my head, sometimes quietly echoing. I counted the tile squares. I cried. I pleaded, “Oh God, please don’t do this when we finally have turned a corner and we are doing better. Please give us more time together. Please don’t let his kids grow up without him.”
At 5:45 AM, the phone jangled and the kind voice on the other end asked for “the family of Anthony Dauma.” Yes, this is she. “He’s in recovery and is doing fine.” I lost my balance a bit and had to ask her to repeat the directions as to where I needed to go. As I rounded the corner and saw him there, I cannot even explain the feeling. I felt like I was disconnected from my body for a bit. My therapist says it was perhaps a brief dissociative episode, helping me deal with the stress. Whatever the case may be, I tried my best to listen as the doctor explained that a major artery had been almost completely blocked, and that the team decided to go ahead and insert a stent into that artery, effectively “propping” it open with a tiny springlike device. The insertion had gone well. His heart was pumping. He was awake and while not smiling at me, per se, he was definitely looking much better than he had a few hours earlier.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Our friends went to our house to wake up our kids, feed them, and bring them to the hospital. Another friend arrived with coffee. Another showed up to sit in the ICU waiting room and pray. I charged my phone and answered all the messages. Our youngest daughter had to make do with a FaceTime session because she was too young to go into the ICU. Doctors were in and out of Anthony’s room explaining all the things. We called family members, including our oldest daughter whose college graduation we had just attended the day before.
Mother’s Day 2016
Over the next couple of days while Anthony recovered in the hospital, there were times I just sat in shock for minutes at a time. Anthony joked about almost everything. He was joking with the nurses who prepped him before the stent was put in. And even though I am the serious one, I still laughed with him because he was there to make the jokes. I tried not to cry. From the chair next to his hospital bed, I managed the kids and wrote sub plans for my classes and talked with visitors and read web sites about heart attacks. As the test results continued to come in, there were still concerns, but overall, his doctor felt like his heart was going to be back to normal function very soon. We were exhausted, but so thankful. Every little while, I’d reach over and take his hand and just hold on.
Our lives were changed forever that morning. At 46, this was not something Anthony was expecting to have to deal with. But he would. We would. Together.
By late afternoon on Sunday, Anthony was moved to a regular room. I made this picture as the kids piled on his bed. It’s my best Mother’s Day picture yet. It’s a picture that reminds me of the hope that although we are not promised tomorrow, we can make the best of today and not be hindered by what is behind us.
“Take My Hand” – by Russ Taff
He said “Love one another”
We may not have tomorrow
Lord help us to hold on to each other
Life’s the greatest gift He gave
And I want to share it with you
Come walk with me
Take my hand
And let’s walk together
Take my hand and try
It’s a long, long road
But we can help each other
Hold on
Back in 1991, when we were dating and got engaged, Anthony quoted part of this song when he explained his feelings for me, saying that he didn’t want me to be someone who just “drifted in and out of his life.” There have definitely been times in the last 24 years when we have drifted – away from each other, away from God. The path has indeed been long and it’s been so hard in places. But we are both so grateful that we have some steps left to walk together on that road. How many? Only God knows. We may not have tomorrow. But just as we walk together at the YMCA, determined to help Anthony’s heart grow strong again, we will walk this road together, no matter what, for as long as we can.