Do Not Be Still, Heart of My Heart

Written 11/11/2010. Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on 12 Nov. 2010

Do I write this or not? I have wrestled with that question, and after thinking and praying, I have decided that my husband, my family, and I, need as many prayers as possible to be lifted to the Lord of Heaven and Earth.


My husband is a very private person. This may surprise you, considering he is essential to my writing, but he’s a good sport, as long as I don’t give out too much information.


He would not want me to relay this, but I am going to be selfish and thoughtless and tell you anyway. If you read my column every week, then we can consider ourselves friends. So this is just between us, as friends. If he doesn’t like it, he’s going to have to regain consciousness and tell me off. I would love that. I’m waiting for that.


Our life has changed dramatically this week. Early Monday morning (Nov. 8th), I was downstairs to prepare for the school day at about 3:00 am. No, it’s not that I’m such a hard worker; it’s that I am a chronic procrastinator. Eldred came down around 4:00 am, asked for Ibuprofen, and went back upstairs to try to sleep. Half an hour later, he came down to ask for another tablet.


“Are you getting the flu?” I asked.


“Just give me the other tablet,” he snapped. I did not take offense, because pain can make anyone snappy, and obviously he was in pain.


Eldred almost always makes the coffee, and brings me my cup in bed. But this time I could offer him his cup. “No, just give me some ice chips and water.” He said he might just take a sick day since he wasn’t feeling well. Ice water in hand, he finished his emails.


Later, he walked into the kitchen to get his coffee. I heard a tremendous crash. It sounded like an entire shelf had fallen off the pantry. I dashed around the corner and was momentarily confused. Where had he gone?


It was then, to my horror that I realized that the crash had been my husband hitting the floor, all six-foot-one-inch and 235-pounds of him, lying there. His head was almost under the kitchen sink, and his feet were toward the pantry. The cup had shattered somewhere along the way, and coffee was spilled on the stovetop and pooled around his feet.


I shrieked, and could get no response from him. I called 911 and cried hysterically into the phone. All of August’s CPR training had fled my mind. I was a wreck. The dispatcher calmed me down, got information, and had me begin with two breaths, followed by 30 compressions to the heart. I counted each pump, crying. On each 30th compression, Eldred took a big gasp of air that both surprised and frightened me. My high school and middle school sons had heard the commotion and came down, along with my second-grader daughter.


The rest was a blur of lights and sirens, paramedics, tubes, shock treatments and phone calls. There was Fauquier Hospital and his airlift to Inova Fairfax Hospital, where we are now. We wait. I wait.


Can life be this fragile? It is here one moment, and then, in an instant, the life we have known and grown accustomed to, and sometimes bored with, is swept away from us. It swoops down upon you in a single devastating moment, and you watch helplessly as the shards and splinters of your life are carried away in the tidal wave.


Is it gone, our life of Saturday mornings together, sneaking out to Panera before the kids wake up? His warm, warm hands and the shared jokes – is all that gone?


Here lies the most brilliant man I have ever known. He cannot share his insights on history or explain that physics problem to our sons. He cannot advise my daughters on their course registration for spring. He cannot tell me what to do about the car, or anything right now except to lie here and, hopefully, heal.


He is sedated. A machine is breathing for him. A tube through his nose is sending his nourishment. He could explain all this equipment to me, this amazing teacher, if only he could get up.


Will he? His life – our life – everything, it seems, hangs on the balance. I think he will be back to his usual self, even if it takes months. I have to believe that, because I can’t do this thing on my own. I really, really, need him. I wish I had ever told him that in a clear and beautiful way before.


Daily, step by step, there is reason for thanks and room for hope. He’s in there, somewhere just below the tubes and pads and medications.


Pray that he comes through unscathed. Pray that the right side of his heart will begin pumping again. Pray that he loses none of his brilliance and humor as he heals. Pray that he be made whole again.


And in case you don’t know this, I really appreciate you, my friend. Thank you.

**********
Update: Nov. 15th, 2010 - Eldred is back! He is himself - laughing, joking, and asking detailed technical questions of the medical team. Thank you, Lord!  Thank you, family, friends, church family, and readers for your love, prayers, and support.