A Thanksgiving to be thankful for

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Nov. 26, 2010

How do I compress a miracle into 850 words? The old, flippant, me would have said such brevity would itself be a miracle. But the new me is tempered and sober. I can no longer take the name of miracles in vain.

My husband, Eldred, turned 53 last week. He was here for this birthday, thank God, having been pulled off of Death’s doorstep three weeks ago. My husband is alive and well and at home, and it is nothing short of miraculous.

He spent twelve days hospitalized: eight in intensive care, and five of those, unconscious. Without the access to technology, skilled personnel, transportation, and communications available in this era and in this area, my husband would not be alive today. Were it not for your ardent prayers – thank you - and those of many others, and sheer divine mercy, he might not be here.


Eldred suffered a massive heart attack and cardiac arrest in the early morning hours on November 8th. Thank God I was nearby. Thank God for the competent and calming woman who answered my hysterical 911 call and walked me through CPR. Thank God he was walking when he collapsed, or he might have expired unnoticed in the chair where he had just finished an email. Thank God he wasn’t driving, or he would surely have lost his life, and possibly taken others with him. Thank God for the EMS who came at once and transported him to Fauquier Hospital as soon as they had him on drips and a ventilator.


While the paramedics worked, I called the Headmaster of my school, Dr. Young Shin. “I’m not coming to school today,” I babbled repetitively. “Eldred…Eldred…Eldred…” was all I could sob before getting any coherent information out to him. That he understood me is amazing. He and the staff and families at Providence Christian Academy have been incredibly good to me.


When I got to the ER, I knew things must be really bad, because they would not let me go to him immediately. The Fauquier Hospital staff were wonderfully supportive, particularly a lady by the name of Ina, who insisted I put graham crackers and juice into my bag, reminding me to take care of myself while medical experts took care of my husband. It was soon decided that he be airlifted to Inova Fairfax Hospital for an emergency catheterization procedure.


My pastor, the ever-loving Dick Wright came to both hospitals. Before “retiring” to pastoral work in 2005, he was the most widely syndicated political cartoonist in the US and a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. His gifted hands held mine in my hour of despair.


“I can’t lose him, right?” I beseeched Dick through tears early that Monday morning in the ER of Fauquier Hospital. Had I ever really appreciated my husband of 24 years? Pastor Dick reassured me I would not lose him and that he himself is a walking showcase of cardiac work.

Before leaving the hospital, I watched from a distance as my seemingly lifeless husband was hoisted from the gurney into the garish, blue helicopter. How our boys would have liked to see such a helicopter from up close in happier times. It was an eerie feeling to be left holding a “Patient’s Belongings” bag that contained all of my husband’s clothes that had been safety-scissored off of him. Please, Lord, don’t let this be my last memory of him. Please don’t let him die.

When I got home, I felt lost and stupid. I needed to notify my husband’s workplace, but what was his director’s phone number? All I had was my husband’s desk number at work. I called it, hoping to get an option to reach an operator, but I got a generic voicemail. I checked my husband’s cell phone, but that was of no use. After Googling and a few phone calls, I left a message explaining my husband’s absence.


I mapped out directions to the hospital, and left money with the children at home. No one would be going to school that day.


Elizabeth Baden, my sweet, bubbly friend from church and several others offered to care for my four children left at home (the two older girls are at college), but I felt comfortable leaving my eldest son, just months shy of 16, in charge.


At worst, he might torture the younger ones with perplexing math problems. Perhaps hygiene would be neglected. Perhaps they would watch too many cartoons. None of those things, ordinarily of great concern, mattered now.


Don’t brush your teeth. Don’t change your underwear. Watch “Kung Fu Panda” all day long. None of it will matter if we lose your father.


Incidentally, the kids performed remarkably well: They cleaned themselves and the house, which had looked like a disaster zone well before my husband’s episode. I’m thankful for my children. I’m thankful to have my husband back.


This is the most thankful Thanksgiving I will ever have had. I plan to treasure each day and each person in my life, including you. Happy Thanksgiving. I plan to give thanks daily.