I remember both bookends but not a whole lot in the middle.
For us, October 28, 2019, began early in the morning, probably before God was awake.
Michael and I checked into registration at Emory Midtown. Then we went to pre-op and he got situated on a bed. One by one, various staff started coming in to do their thing. One familiar face showed up from Columbus — my pastor Jimmy Elder. He’s also friends with Michael.
He definitively lightened up the mood and led us in prayer before Michael went back for the operation; for some reason I also remember the anesthesiologist, maybe because her job, next to the surgeon’s, was so important.
Then something happened internally that I couldn’t anticipate. When they wheeled my husband away, I felt something akin to terror. Would everything be OK? I wanted to crawl onto the gurney, too, as crazy as that sounds.
Then Jimmy kindly bought me some bacon and eggs and got on the road. Then Garry and Theresa came. That’s Michael’s brother and his wife, and various friends from home and from Atlanta began showing up. I felt cocooned. I answered texts and calls all day; some of us had lunch at a nearby pub.
An Emory employee called from the operating room every couple hours or so, which carried me along with updates.
(I’ll interject now how grateful I am, in the Year of Covid, that we could all move about freely and easily in the hospital last year. More recently, one of our friends underwent a similar surgery with the same surgeon, and his mom and wife had to stay out of the hospital not only for the day but the entire duration of recovery.)
Around 6 o’clock or so, Michael’s surgeon came out. We hung on his every word. The bottom line was all went according to plan. I remember that cousin Lisa Powers put her hand on my shoulder as he was talking.
I felt such relief, and all of a sudden I was very tired. Meanwhile our young surgeon looked like he could run a marathon.
Our Columbus crew started the 2-hour drive home.
This is the other bookend: Garry and Theresa and I went up to the small waiting area outside ICU. Vinyl chairs lined two walls, facing each other.
Anyone familiar with a hospital knows daily shift change happens at 7 am and 7 pm. We were in second-shift territory. The room was packed, maybe 15 of us. Some of the others, we found out, anxiously awaited news of a loved one who’d coded. (How did “we” know this? My old reporter instincts had kicked in. 😋) I became increasingly anxious to see Michael.
After what seemed an eternity, I finally got up and went to the nurses’ station behind the closed doors of ICU. I hope I wasn’t too rude in asking to see my husband, but it was after 8 at this point. The new shift had been on awhile but they didn’t seem to know about us. They let me back. In spite of all the bells and sounds and a tube down his throat and seemingly everywhere else, as well as his altered face, I was so grateful to see my husband alive and breathing. He opened his eyes. I waited more than 12 hours to see his open eyes. I asked if he knew where he was. He did.
The day ended as it began for us, in the dark but also in sweet relief.
PS coincidentally, Michael goes to Emory today for his second scan, and for a checkup with his surgeon. Please continue to keep him in your prayers. We thank y’all for everything you mean to us.
gapsintheroad 