I ran my hand across the stubble and told the Ump that when the hair grows back it is really going to itch.
Two bald strips on his chest are the only indicators of the scare we had Sunday night.
Well, I think there are a few bald patches on his back as well.
We were watching Extreme Home Makeover. I enjoy this show. I sniff and weep through the whole thing even though I know it is designed to tug at my heartstrings and make me desperately desire Sears appliances. (Cold day in hell - but that is another story. See refrigerator below.)
He stood up.
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"My heart is just racing," he said, looking a little unsteady. He sat back down.
"Are you OK?" I asked, now sitting up and staring at his face which is flushed.
"I don't know."
I walked to him and put my hand on his head to see if he was hot, instead I discovered he had broken into a hard sweat. How many times have I read the signs of a heart attack?
"I feel like I'm being choked here," he said, placing his hand at the top of his chest.
I brought him an aspirin. That's what the ads always advise.
He took the pill with a long swallow of water and sat still, evaluating the situation.
It didn't take too much convincing to get him to go to the hospital. I didn't even grab my crutches, just my keys, and we went into the cold, rainy night.
At the emergency room, the guard looked at me expectantly and I realized that my hobbling gait made me look like the patient. "No, it's him. His heart," was all I said, and we were ushered into triage.
All he said to the nurse was his chest hurt and she had him in a wheelchair and was whisking him away, leaving me to do the paperwork one more time. I wanted to say "I was just here last week!" but I don't think it would have made any difference and it gave me something to do while they helped my husband behind closed doors.
I picked up some magazine. O, I think. Oprah's magazine. What did I read? It was a helpful article, I remember that. What I needed was a really good article on how not to lose my mind to the fear that was swelling like a balloon in my gut.
The nurse who took him away appeared from a different set of doors with two paper streamers. One streamer contained his heart reading when we arrived. 230 beats per minute. The second was of his heart beats after they administered a drug which actually stopped his heart for a few seconds before it returned to a more normal rate.
"I'll come get you as soon as I can," she said as she disappeared again.
I looked at the teen-age girl sitting with her mother on the other side of the waiting room. A couple with a crying baby sat behind me. A scruffy man who smelled like cigarettes slid into a chair with his back to me.
Somebody coughed. A lion roared in some animal documentary on the TV suspended from the ceiling. Desperate Housewives was on. The Ump and I never miss that show. Only we were missing it tonight and not missing it together. He was behind the doors and that balloon was swelling and swelling.
Hot tears boiled into the corners of my eyes and I blinked them back. And blinked again. I rubbed my eyes like they were itching or something to hide the emotions teetering near the edge.
"Mrs. Rinker?"
Most of the time that name sounds funny to me. I feel like I should turn and look for my mother-in-law. Sunday night it sounded beautiful. It was my ticket out of the wretched waiting room and behind the closed doors.
It always unnerves me to see my husband in a hospital gown in a hospital bed. He looks so out of place. And he had wires attached all over the place and monitors were tracking his heart and blood pressure.
He looked so much better and I could see that his heart rate was below 100 and his blood pressure was actually a little low.
While we waited for the doctor, we talked in low voices about the ER and other patients and he told me about his chest X-ray and EKG experience.
The consensus among physicians was to keep him overnight and do a stress test on a treadmill in the morning. While they moved him to ICU, I went home and got some clothes for him and checked on the dogs.
I stayed with him while they asked a million questions about everything from his religious denomination (Methodist) to his allergies (penicillin and bees).
The only time he showed any emotion at all was when I was coming around the bed to tell him good night. It was fleeting. A little catch in his voice. I had been staring intently all night to judge his state of mind. Had I been in that bed - well, it would have been very different because I find it hard to hide my feelings. And even when I do apparently they stay so close to the surface that anyone who really looks can read me clearly.
I knew he was being tough. I knew he didn't want me to be upset. He keeps his emotions tightly bottled inside while I freely paint my world with my emotions.
But I saw that twinge and I brought my face close to his and asked him if he was OK. It was gone as quickly as it surfaced and I almost felt ashamed for noticing because he was trying so hard to keep Pandora's box closed,
On Friday, he will undergo a catheterization of his heart to determine if the stress test correctly diagnosed that the left side of his heart is not getting enough blood.
Last night, when I kissed him before we went to sleep, I put my hand on the freshly shaved spot on his chest. I left it there for a little bit. Lingering on the vulnerable spot on his manly chest.
Right over his heart.
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