‘Toño Lives’ to see another day
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- May 29, 2022
- 1059
I’ve been inundated the past several weeks with beautiful photos of puffy dresses, interesting tuxedo choices and wedding trends that have morphed over the years. It tells me wedding season is here, and, well, it also tells me May has always been the beginning of it. The spring perennials are blooming, the swoon-worthy pastels of May the precursor to June’s more vibrant shades. It’s a perfect time to marry.
We’ve come a long way from towering cakes perched on miniature columns, squares of paper-wrapped ice cream from Goshen Dairy and cut-glass bowls filled with nuts and buttery mints that melt in your mouth. I sometimes miss those simple times, a glass of red punch scooped into flimsy clear glasses that satisfied a thirst we didn’t know we had until that very moment. There were plain square napkins and paper plates embellished with silvery swirls, signifying the gravity of the moment.
May 26 signifies 32 years of marriage for George and me, and like I always do, the plan was to write about it. I consider us “old marrieds” now. Those that attend Mennonite Sunday school classes know what that means. If you know, you know.
Our marriage has been abundance and a lot of scarcity. There’s never been a lack of love. It’s been filled with sadness, goodness and days I had no idea what was going on. There were days I would’ve liked to walk away forever because if one more word came out of his mouth, I would’ve decked him. Then I woke up last Monday and almost lost my partner.
The doctor told us last Monday was a celebration because George had survived.
He had had a routine heart cath planned, several weird things plus fatigue that had made our very dear regular doctor press him to have it done. She stressed that it be done.
We arrived for the procedure, and let me just say it had been a miracle getting him there because he hadn’t felt good all weekend. He had slept most of the weekend because of how he’d been feeling. He changed into his gown, and they proceeded to prep him for the heart cath. Then they gave him a routine EKG. These tests can be innocuous when nothing is really wrong, but when something is wrong, it shows.
Then the nurses came in with worried faces, brows furrowed, asking about the shortness of breath he had complained of.
“Are you feeling it right now — the shortness of breath?” they said. “The doctor just ordered you to the ER after seeing your EKG. It looks like you’re having an acute event.”
Things moved fast as they hustled him down the hall to ER, where they also have a cath lab. I didn’t know what to think as I followed along down shiny corridors with my too heavy backpack and said goodbye as they wheeled him into where I couldn’t go. My heart had dropped, and the false positive tone of my voice wavered as I told him I loved him.
The worst part of any hospital emergency is the waiting, the unknowing. An hour and a half later, they came and got me. “Herrera!” the nurse yelled into the ER waiting room. I followed him back to the cath lab, our footfalls in tandem as we walked in silence to meet the doctor.
“Your husband survived!” the cardiologist said. “He had a heart attack right here in the hospital. There is no better place to have one than right here. God didn’t need him today.”
And I covered my face with my hands and wept.
Every artery in George’s chest was blocked, with one artery at 100% and the others around 65%. They said he will recover well and live. George is 54 years old.
He had four stents put in, right there on that operating table in the ER cath lab. All this, while I shoved chocolate-covered cranberries in my face, worrying in the waiting room.
They walked me into the cold chill of the room where he lay. I held his hand and asked him how he felt. His tongue was garbled, and he was shivering, looking at me in disbelief. I couldn’t look away from his dear, sweet face.
I told him the day after his heart attack that I had begun writing my column for the week. He’s used to me writing about him, and if pressed, he would admit he likes the attention. I told him I had begun writing about our wedding anniversary but knew it needed to include I had nearly lost him. He chuckled softly, or as well as his sore chest would allow, and nodded his head. “Write it,” he said.
Last Monday was the day George survived, or quite literally, TOÑO LIVED.
Melissa Herrera is a columnist, published author and drinker of too many coffees based in Holmes County. You can find her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives or buy one from her in person (because all authors have boxes of their own novel). For inquiries or to purchase, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.