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Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

medical emergency

Still Life

June 2, 2023

There are bruises on my body I can’t explain. Days after leaving the hospital, I discover one on my sternum, a yellowing circle that is tender to the touch. Was it because my husband rubbed his fist across my chest to try to revive me when I passed out in the hallway as our daughter called 911? Did they have to administer chest compressions when my blood pressure plummeted in the ICU? Is it because I was on a life-support system for a day that drew blood out of my body, away from my heart, into a machine that oxygenated my blood and sent it back?

There are no clear answers.

It’s a theme I have to live with right now as my body recovers from a harrowing experience I never saw coming. (Can we predict any harrowing experience in our lives?) I’m a planner. I like to believe I can see trouble on the horizon, but I’m no clairvoyant. Trouble finds us and sometimes we’re blind to its approach.

//

In case you missed it, here’s what happened, to the best of my recollection:

On Friday May 12, I went for a training run after school. I’d been slowly working my way through a Couch-to-5K program to get my body back in some kind of running shape, and this was the next session in the program. But I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried to run, I couldn’t catch my breath. I had to walk most of it, and when I got home, I felt like I might pass out.

Look how miserable I look

I recovered, though, without incident. I checked the weather and the air quality was bad–like orange alert bad–and it was hotter than I was used to, so I chalked the whole thing up to rotten air quality (a “perk” of living in Lancaster County) and tried to move on.

Except that for the next four days, I became breathless doing simple things, like walking down the hallway to the bathroom at school. I couldn’t walk and talk to Phil as we traveled the trail around the school while our kids were at practices. On Tuesday, it was bad enough that I decided to cancel my next day of work and make a doctor’s appointment.

//

Wednesday, May 17. I’m at the doctor’s office. I’m not in any pain, I just can’t catch my breath when I exert myself. Resting is fine. My primary care provider listens to my lungs, which sound a bit diminished in capacity but nothing overly concerning. She does an EKG, which comes out normal. She prescribes steroids and an inhaler to reduce the inflammation in my lungs and promises that if it gets worse, we’ll do a chest X-ray. I fill the prescription and take the steroids.

I spend the rest of the afternoon resting, grateful that it isn’t something more serious. I make dinner and my son wants me to be the one to run him to his sports practice. I’m struggling a little bit to breathe, but I think it’s mostly because of the effort I’ve put into dinner. Besides, the school is 5 minutes away. I’ll be there and back in no time. I get him to practice and on the way home, I start to feel not right. I will myself to make it home. I almost sit in the car for a moment to catch my breath but our neighbor is smoking outside and the smoke stings my lungs. So I stumble inside. I drop my things, bent over, trying to get air. I am going to pass out, so I call out, “Phil, I’m not OK” and I sit down in the hallway.

When I come to, Phil is rubbing my chest and our daughter is on the phone with 911. I am soaked in my own urine but I refuse to move until the EMTs arrive.

“You turned blue,” Phil says, and I try not to focus on the fear in his voice. He is my steadying presence. When he’s scared, the situation is scary. I look at my daughter projecting calm as she speaks confidently into the phone directing the ambulance to our house.

I hear the sirens and then there are two EMTs crowded into our narrow hallway and I am no longer in control of my body. They pop an oxygen monitor on me and I’m reading at 88 percent. They help me sit up and the pulse ox dips to 83 percent. I barely register this as they hook me up to oxygen and ask me questions about what happened. They take the information and make a plan. They are calm and confident. I am scared and uncertain.

“Are we okay to go to the hospital?” the lead EMT asks.

“Yes,” is the only answer that makes sense.

I change my clothes, with their assistance, while sitting in the hallway so at least I am dry when I make my ride to the emergency room. I leave my shoes behind. The two EMTs carry me in a chair out to the ambulance, transfer me to a gurney. One climbs in the driver’s seat. The other climbs in with me and continues to ask questions and monitor. She is almost certain she knows what is wrong with me and her words terrify me. They will be confirmed later, but for now, I hope to God she’s wrong and that this is a huge misunderstanding. Somehow, I think, my body has just overreacted to something simple. Maybe I’m allergic to prednisone?

I watch the city pass by through the back doors of the ambulance as the EMT starts an IV while we drive. I have an EKG as we travel. First responders will never cease to amaze me. The lights and sirens are not going, so maybe it’s not an emergency after all. I’m awake. Conscious. I know what happened to me, why I’m in the back of this vehicle.

Photo by Robert Linder on Unsplash

They roll me through the hospital hallways. It is now almost 7 o’clock, shift change. It’s been an hour since I passed out. They take me to a room and a nurse sets me up. At some point, my daughter arrives. She is 15 and is my sole support in the moment. Phil dropped her off so I wouldn’t be alone while he went to call my parents and pick up our son and try to create a somewhat normal routine for him. The time in the ER is a blur. I am poked with blood draws and an IV, still on the oxygen. Monitors show my blood pressure, my oxygen levels, my heart rate. I have several EKGs. I talk with my nurse. I speak with a doctor. She orders a CT scan.

One of my toxic traits is the ability to dissociate when a situation is painful or uncomfortable. It serves me well in this circumstance. I barely register that I’m being wheeled into another part of the hospital and transferred to the CT bed. I close my eyes and hold back tears as I listen to the machine’s commands to “stop breathing” and “breathe.” I shake a little as the contrast dye goes into my body, flushing me with warmth and the sensation of needing to pee. In a matter of minutes, it’s over, and I’m back on the bed, being wheeled back to my room.

In my absence, my daughter has answered questions for a case manager, and I want to cry because she’s 15 and shouldn’t have to be the adult here. Not more than a few minutes later, the doctor appears at the entrance to my room and proclaims that I have multiple blood clots in both lungs and to expect a bunch of people to descend on my room. And then I hear my room called over the loudspeaker. Did they say “heart to ER 149”?

I start sobbing because I am so, so scared, and my daughter reaches across and holds my hand. I hate that I can’t be strong for her, but I also know that I can’t fake what I’m feeling. Blood clots in my lungs sounds serious and I don’t want to die.

I get another EKG. I talk with a provider from the pulmonary team. I think they start me on some kind of clot-blasting medicine immediately. They are moving me to the ICU as soon as possible. My husband and son arrive but are told only one person can come back. Our daughter prepares to switch out, but I tell her to find my nurse, who promised she’d get my whole family back here if needed.

They all arrive in my little room just before I get moved to the ICU. We take separate elevators but meet on the 6th floor, where I ask about the view. I surprise myself with my good spirits in spite of the circumstances. The medical staff send my family to the waiting room and promise to come get them when I’m ready.

I arrive in my ICU room and am immediately stripped and bathed by a team of strangers. Again, I retreat into myself as they scrub every inch of my body to reduce the chance of infection. When I am clean and gowned, I ask for water. I didn’t eat dinner and my mouth is parched but no one knows if I’m having a procedure in the morning or not, so they give me very little. We talk about what is happening and finally my family comes in. It is a school night and we are all up later than our bedtimes, so around 10:30, I send them home, knowing it’s likely no one will go to school or work the next day.

I’m finally allowed some chocolate ice cream. I post a picture and update to social media, asking for thoughts, prayers, good vides, positive energy because I am in a very scary situation and I need support.

In less than an hour, the very scary situation becomes even scarier.

//

“She doesn’t get eaten by the eels at this time.”

I recently re-watched The Princess Bride, my favorite movie, and what I’m writing reminds me of how the grandpa breaks in to assure his grandson that the princess doesn’t die at that point in the story. The boy is clutching his sheets, not nervous, just “concerned.” The grandpa tells him they can stop reading anytime, but the grandson wants to go on.

I’m still here. It’s what I kept telling people afterward. You can stop reading now if you want, but I’m going to go on.

//

The next part is somewhat of a blur. And I can only tell it how it felt to me. I’m not making a blanket statement about bodies, souls or what happens when those two things separate.

I remember starting to feel lightheaded. And then I was sweating profusely. I hit my nurse call button, and my symptoms were worsening. I hit the button repeatedly. I wanted to call out for my nurse, but I don’t think I did. She, and others, arrived. I couldn’t really see them. My vision was blurred. I could feel them touching me, laying me back, commenting on the sweat. I felt like I was losing connection with my body. I could sense things going on around me but nothing was clear. I don’t know how long this went on. I don’t know if this is where the bruise on my sternum came from. All I remember is that they gave me oxygen and I was back from wherever I had started to retreat. I think I said, “I feel better.”

I won’t call it an out-of-body experience but I will say I felt separate from my body. Do with that what you will.

They called the heart doctor at home, got him out of bed. There may have been dozens of people in my room or in the hallway. In the days to come, nurses and aides assigned to me would say, “yeah, I was here Wednesday night. You were a trooper.”

At some point, someone told me that my blood pressure dropped to 55 over 30 and they were sure I was going to go into cardiac arrest. Oh. Oh! When everything is happening to you, you have no idea how serious it is. When I think back on it now, I’m convinced my body tried to give up on me. I think I could have died that night. They called Phil to tell him what was happening.

The doctor arrived and laid out the plan: we could do nothing and hope that the medicine broke up the clots and that my heart and lungs could handle the work of keeping me alive. OR we could hook me up to a machine that would do the work for my heart and lungs, to give them a break, and see how that goes. “Full life support,” he said at some point, but that didn’t really register. I know now that what he was proposing was putting me on an ECMO machine and that this, too, was quite serious. In the days that followed, anyone who heard I was on ECMO would react with strong surprise.

He asked if I was able to consent to the treatment. I said yes and signed the papers. He called Phil, too. I had a basic understanding of what would happen, and I would be awake for all of it with just some sedative to keep me calm and from feeling pain.

My nurse, Audrey, put herself right in my line of vision. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” she said. She would be the first of several nurses I will not soon forget.

Skip the next part if you’re squeamish about medical things. I usually am, but maybe it’s different when it’s happening to you.

When everything was done, there were tubes in my groin and femoral artery and veins transferring blood out of my body into this machine to oxygenate it and send it back into my body. It was something like 2 a.m. and we weren’t sure if I’d have a procedure in the morning so I wasn’t allowed to eat anything.

I wasn’t about to get out of bed anytime soon. I learned to pee in a bedpan, which took some practice and maneuvering. I tried to sleep. I was worn out from the day and unsure what would happen next. I didn’t know that most people on ECMO are not awake for it. I didn’t know that ECMO is sometimes? often? a last resort. 

What I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

//

The flowers I received in the hospital are wilting, marking the passage of time. Physical wounds heal faster than mental ones. As I write this, my bruises are fading. I’m gaining strength in my legs. My lungs fill to capacity with air. I’m feeling more capable of doing things, with rest time afterwards.

My mind is another story entirely. I fear a return to the hospital. I worry about what other unseen, unknown dangers are coursing through my body. I grow anxious thinking about how in so many ways, this could have gone so much differently (in a bad way). I could have been alone. I could have been driving. I could have been at school.

I don’t actually fear death (but I don’t want to die). I fear what my death would mean for those I leave behind.

My body will heal in time. So will my mind. 

//

I posted an update to social media and slept as well as one can when attached to multiple machines with tubes poking out of seemingly every orifice. I haven’t even mentioned the A-line in my right arm and my immobilized right hand for the multiple-times-a-day blood draws that turned my forearm various shades of purple.

The next morning–Thursday–my pastor (she’s also a friend) showed up at 6 a.m. to sit with me. She didn’t leave for almost four hours and it was the most beautiful gift I didn’t know I needed. I wasn’t alone when the doctors began to arrive discussing my next step. First, the interventional radiologist (I will probably get titles and specialties wrong) wanted to do a thrombectomy to try to suck the clots out of my lungs. That meant no food until the procedure later in the day. I was bummed but willing to do whatever it took to get better.

I texted Phil and resigned myself to another day without food.

And then my first piece of good news arrived in the form of a heart surgeon whose initials would eventually be written on my leg. After consulting on my case, he and a couple of others decided to let me sit on the ECMO for a day and do scans the next morning to see if my heart and lungs had recovered. I could have kissed him because this meant I could eat. And spend the day relaxing and visiting and letting my body and the meds do their things.

Because it was almost mid-morning by now, the food wasn’t great, but I didn’t care. It was something to eat and I relished every bite.

Phil and the kids stayed home from work and school. My parents decided to head to Pennsylvania from Illinois. Visitors dropped in at various times of the day, lifting my spirits. It was a bit exhausting, but it was a day of just being. A calm before any more storms. A brief reprieve between the hurt and the healing.

I went to bed that night knowing my parents were almost in town, my family was being taken of care by church and work friends, and I’d have a 6 a.m. date with the CT scanner the next day.

My spirits were high. My body was tired. My hopes were tentative.

//

Friday, May 19. Around 2 a.m., my nurse reluctantly gave me a cup of water but told me to sip it. When his replacement came later that morning, she took the cup from me because we didn’t know if I’d be having a procedure later in the day.

People began to assemble around 6 a.m. to move me and my ECMO from the 6th floor to the ground floor where the CT was. It was a terrifying experience for me because of all the movement. Nothing hurt, but I was scared to be leaving the safety of the ICU. And I was picking up on some interpersonal conflict between some of the staff. Empaths miss almost nothing. When I got to the CT room, it was announced that I’d have to go in the scanner head first (as opposed to feet first) because of the machine I was attached to. I was crying by this time because I was just so overwhelmed and scared. We got through it and then I was cramming into the elevator again with 3 or 4 other people managing all my extra attachments, and I was never so glad to see my ICU room as I was when we got back.

I’d have to wait a bit before I’d get the results and in the meantime, I needed another ultrasound of my heart to see if the right ventricle had recovered enough to go back to doing its job. The heart doctor seemed encouraged, and the CT scan showed the clots had mostly broken up. There was still debris in my lungs but the massive embolism that had sent me to the hospital was no longer evident.

This all meant I’d be taking another field trip later in the day to the OR to disconnect me from the ECMO. No food (are you sensing a theme?) until it was over.

Phil arrived and I cried and vented about my morning, then I fell asleep because I just couldn’t deal anymore. It was a long wait for the heart doctor to finish a previous operation and be ready for me. An anesthesiologist came in to see me. I would not be put under for this procedure either, just given sedatives to dull the pain and my awareness.

When the time came, this trip was smoother. The bigger elevator goes to the OR on the second floor but not to the basement for CT, which seems like a design flaw in an otherwise state-of-the-art hospital, but I’m not an architect or engineer so what do I know?

I was blissfully unaware of most of what was happening. When I did come to, the operation had been a success but one of the openings was still bleeding. They’d been applying pressure for almost an hour, so I’d been in the OR longer than expected. They rolled me back up to my room and I finally got to eat. More monitoring, more rest, but fewer supports felt like progress.

//

I took this picture from my bed in the ICU. 

I called it “Still Life.”

Still Life, as in the art term for depicting inanimate objects.

Still Life, as in I’m still here.

//

I’ve never had to pay this much attention to my body.

Breathing? Yes.

Does it hurt? No.

Oxygen levels? Normal.

Blood pressure? Normal.

Heart rate? Elevated. But that could be anxiety.

Incision site? Draining a little every day. I examine it closely unsure what I’m looking at or looking for, hoping that it’s okay.

Light-headed? No.

I’m exhausted by a trip to the kitchen to make my breakfast. I can’t find a truly comfortable sleeping position that doesn’t increase my anxiety because something hurts as a result. I’ve walked to the backyard. I’ve sat on the porch. My world is small right now. How will I know when I’m comfortable expanding it?

For years during the early stages of the COVID pandemic, I lived in fear of the virus killing me or those I loved. We’ve survived so far, but now I fear that my regular ordinary life might also kill me. How do I go on living having come so close to death?

//

On Saturday I got out of bed for the first time in days. I sat in the chair to eat breakfast. I peed in a toilet instead of a bedpan. I still needed to have a suture removed, and because of the bleeding during the operation, I was to be on bed rest afterwards. So I tried to enjoy my limited freedom of sitting up.

While I rested and lounged in the ICU, my family bought our garden plants and my dad put them all in for us. The garden is one of my summer joys so to have it done and not delayed was a gift.

My transfer orders out of the ICU came in late Saturday night; I just had to wait for a bed to open up. That happened Sunday morning, just as my parents were leaving to attend my son’s all-day lacrosse tournament. I said goodbye and thank you to one of the nurses who had been with me multiple days. I moved to a different room on the same floor. I bathed myself and sort of washed my hair for the first time since entering the hospital. I lay in bed without being attached to any machines. I still had to call a nurse when I was ready to go to the bathroom, but I could get myself there and back without assistance.

This was the day it started to hit me, how much I’d been through and how far I’d come. I was ready to be on my own schedule but also not ready to move the caregiving responsibilities to my family.

//

There were a flurry of people in and out as I settled onto the floor (as opposed to the ICU; hospital lingo, I guess)–friends, an occupational therapist, a physical therapist, nurses, aides. I took a short walk with the physical therapist about three doors down the hallway. I started to feel light-headed so we went back. My oxygen levels were good afterwards. It might have been anxiety, a theme that would pop up repeatedly in the coming days and weeks.

//

“You’re a good candidate to get out of here.”

The internal medicine doctor stopped by early Monday morning and I was actually relieved to hear those words. I wanted to know I was progressing, showing improvement. It’s hard to compare where you are with where you think you should be when you’ve come through something traumatic. I kept focusing on the fact that I was alive. Everything after that was a bonus, even if it takes time.

I got to eat a salad, a treat a lot of patients don’t get to order. This was a highlight of being out of the ICU.

I had a date with OT and PT in the gym in the afternoon, my first field trip since the ICU. The OT took me through some routine activities I’d need to do at home, like dressing myself and stepping into the shower, reaching for things in the kitchen cabinets. She gave me the advice I’ve been trying to follow ever since: “Listen to your body; not your mind. Because your mind will tell you that you can do more than you’re ready for.”

The PT guided me through navigating steps–there are four into our house–and I practiced stepping on and off a curb. We walked the gym and I did some leg exercises. She sent me with homework. I was cleared by both to go home.

Things moved pretty fast after that. My discharge papers were in process. My prescriptions sent to the pharmacy. I could change into my own clothes. Phil left work early to meet me at the hospital and start carting our stuff to the car. While I waited for my official release, I was scrolling the website for my medication to find the discount card. There’s something wrong with a healthcare system that CAN offer a discount on life-saving medication but places the burden on the patient. I was literally in my hospital room waiting to be released after spending four days in the ICU (five days total in the hospital) figuring out how to get the pills for less than $150. The is not the kind of stress a recovering patient needs.

And then it was over. I was wheeled out to the car and on my way home.

Really, it was just beginning.

//

The days at home sometimes make me miss the hospital. It’s easier, in some ways, there. Fewer hoops to jump through. Phil has spent a total of 2 hours at the pharmacy trying to get the meds I need. For the first few days, my parents were still in town, ready to meet any need I had. I made follow-up appointments–so many phone calls and if you know me, you know how much I dislike phone calls–and went to follow-up appointments. I saw my primary, who was shocked to learn I had been in the hospital but was overwhelmingly positive and encouraging about the next steps. I went back to the cardiothoracic surgeon because I thought my incision was bleeding. (It wasn’t; just draining.) They, too, were supportive and encouraging, telling me to come back if I needed anything. My insurance company assigned me a nurse advocate, and we had a pleasant conversation on the phone. There are services available to me should I want or need them.

Like in most systems, I know it is not the people doing the actual work in healthcare that are the problem. I had mostly positive experiences with my care and felt really lucky to have access to such quality interventions.

But with some of my free time, I’ll be writing to my representatives asking them to please, please, please find a way to make such quality care affordable and available to everyone.

//

I’ve been home for over a week now. I’ve been chipping away at this story a little bit at a time because it’s all I can handle. I’m not sure what it will look like when it’s done or if anyone will even read it. Maybe these are words just for me. Today was my first day home alone since the ordeal, and I think my body appreciated the chance to rest and heal in quiet.

I’m physically cleared to drive but mentally I’m not ready. I took a test drive with Phil on Memorial Day and I didn’t like how I felt afterwards so I called in reinforcements for our daytime driving needs this week.

Where would we be without the help from our communities? People have been feeding us for weeks, hardly batting an eye at our needs. Others have donated money to help make up for my lost time at work, for the hospital bills that are yet to arrive. We’ve had so many offers of transportation that it was hard to choose who to ask first. Two different sets of friends took our son to hang out with their kids so he could have some normalcy. 

I always struggle with how something like this affects those I love. I feel like a burden, like I’m not doing my fair share, but I’m learning that love never really balances out. We’re always giving and taking and supporting and leaning on each other in so many ways. Yeah, we’re all going to have some shit to deal with when the storm passes, but that’s pretty much a given for life anyway. 

I won’t feel guilty because this time it was my turn to need help. 

//

June is full of follow-up appointments for me. Then we’re going on a vacation we had started planning before all this went down. I’ll be on blood thinners for six months. Beyond that, I’m hoping for clear scans, positive appointments and continual progress. But as I’ve had to remind myself in the past few days, progress isn’t necessarily going to be as dramatic as it has been. It’s not going to be ICU-to-regular floor kind of change. It’s subtle. A little bit stronger every day. A little bit more stamina every day. 

And I have to be okay with that, just as I have to be okay with anything that feels like a setback. There’s a chance my scans could come back showing more clots or that my heart is still working too hard. There may be other health issues that pop up as a result of this.

I confess that I used to think if I had to take a bunch of pills to stay alive that I was somehow in the wrong. I didn’t want that for my life. Now, though, I will do whatever it takes to stay alive, to still be here for my one wild and precious life, as poet Mary Oliver says.

Will I drastically change how I live having come so close to death? I don’t know yet. I know there are things I still want to do, places I still want to go, change I want to see happen. Maybe it won’t look drastic from the outside–no skydiving or bungee jumping; I’m not much a risk taker–but I know I need to shift my focus to what’s important for me.

Stay tuned for how that turns out. I can’t want to find out for myself.

Filed Under: death and dying, health & fitness, mental health Tagged With: health crisis, hospital stay, medical emergency, near-death experiences, recovery

One very long week

October 5, 2021

It is Wednesday and I am out for a run in the morning. I should be at work, but I am home instead keeping watch over my husband. He has appointments and I don’t want him to go alone. I don’t know if my staying home is more for me or for him. Regardless, I am home, and I am running because I need an outlet for all the feelings my body has been storing since Sunday.

As I cross an intersection where one road curves to the left and the other goes straight, nearing the stream, I look up and see this.

Beautiful and terrible

Is it a beehive? Is it a hornet’s nest? I don’t know for sure. All I know is I am struck by its beauty. I almost stop and take a picture but I am only a few minutes into my run so I keep going. But I can’t stop thinking about it. How it is beautiful and terrible all at the same time.

It reminds of me this quote (emphasis mine) by Frederick Buechner that is so often referenced when the world feels not as it should be.

“The grace of God means something like: “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are, because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.”

I think about this all throughout my run and when I have stopped running and begun my walk, I alter my route so I can go back and take a picture.

I want to remember that beauty and terror can co-exist.

—

On Sunday morning, we woke early as a family and gathered supplies, packing the car for a hike in the Poconos, two hours from home. We’d been wanting to hike this particular trail all summer but the weather wouldn’t cooperate. Every Wednesday, it seemed temperatures were too hot, humidity too high or thunderstorms were forecast. When the school year starts, our hiking intentions drop from weekly to monthly, and September is always scattered and stressful, so we were excited to finally be on our way.

Well, two of us were excited. The kids were whiny. They’re always whiny at the start of a hiking adventure, and they always get over it after an hour or less. True to form, before we even reached our destination, they were in better moods, and I was composing my after-hike Instagram post. Something like “Pro tip: pick a hiking destination more than an hour away so your kids get all their whining out of the way before you hit the woods.” It was going to be clever and make people chuckle. (It made me smile and that’s really the only reason I try to be funny: to amuse myself.)

It was just after 8:30 a.m. when we pulled into the parking lot, and the lot was filling up fast. We’d been warned of this, which is why we left so early. It took us 15 or 20 minutes to get our water packs and backpacks loaded up, to coat ourselves in bug spray. Then we were on the Appalachian Trail, hiking up the side of a mountain, on our way to Mount Minsi in the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area.

At the start of our hike in the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area

We walked past a lake and enjoyed views from various overlooks.

Lake Lenape, named for the people on whose land we walked

We crossed a creek and no one fell in. I stood on a rock in the middle of the creek and took a picture, just because I could.

Eureka Creek

We were having a glorious time. The weather was perfectly gorgeous. Nature does something healthy for my soul, and even though it wasn’t an easy hike, we were enjoying ourselves.

A rocky climb

About an hour into the hike, we came to an overlook where the Delaware River was easily visible and across the river, we could see New Jersey.

The Delaware River

We lingered, enjoying the view, taking pictures. And then Phil said he wasn’t feeling great. He was lightheaded, thinking he might pass out. He sat down. Drank some water. Nibbled a snack. The kids were getting a little restless and we asked them to find a way to calm themselves so Dad could keep calm.

After a few minutes, he thought he might try to keep going. Our path was winding away from the ridge and farther in and up the mountain. We went a little ways more and Phil had to stop again. There was a small clearing with a large rock, and he sat down. He felt lightheaded, nauseated, with a little bit of chest pain. At this point, I knew we wouldn’t be finishing our hike. We had 3.5 miles to go. But I was nervous about going back the way we came. If Phil couldn’t make it himself, there was no way the kids and I were going to be able to help him.

A few minutes passed and Phil said, “I think you better call.”

“911?” I said, just to confirm that’s what he meant.

“Yeah,” he said.

—

It’s around 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning and I am dialing “911,” something I’ve never had to do before. I will add it to a growing list of firsts in the coming days.

“911, where is your emergency?”

“We’re on the Appalachian Trail on the way to Mount Minsi.”

“And what’s going on there?”

I tell him about my husband’s symptoms. He takes my name and number,  then the dispatcher and I try to work out where exactly we are. He asks if we’re in New Jersey, and I tell him we’re in Pennsylvania. He tracks my phone’s GPS. We’re talking and then my husband is talking to two hikers passing by.

“Hey, I’m having a little trouble. Are either of you medically trained?”

One of them says, “It’s your lucky day.” He’s an EMT, out for a hike. He doesn’t have any tools with him, but he talks to my husband, assessing his symptoms while I’m on the phone with the 911 dispatcher. He asks me to ask the hikers if they know our location. We decide we’re close to Lookout Rock. The dispatcher connects me with the National Park Service because we are in a national park. I forgot that when I was telling him our location.

They assure me that help will be on the way. Matthew, the EMT hiker, takes his leave after that. He has offered us a sliver of hope that this is not anything serious.

I text our parents, tell them we’re out hiking, that Phil is feeling weird and that we’ve called 911. I text one of the pastors at our church. It is 10:45 and the second service has just started. Everyone replies with words of encouragement, promises to pray. The kids sit down on a rock in the middle of the Appalachian Trail. I encourage them to eat. They move every time hikers pass us by.

Our kids sitting on the AT waiting with us

“Hi. How are you?” everyone asks as they pass. We look like we’re just taking a break, have stopped for lunch. We don’t know how to tell them we’re waiting for rescue.

An officer with the NPS calls me. “We’re assembling a team,” she says. She tries to get more information about our location. When I hang up, I hold on to the hope that help is on the way.

Time passes. We all pee in the woods. We eat a little. Drink water. Phil doesn’t feel any worse but he doesn’t feel any better. He starts to have chills because he’s leaning against a rock, sitting on damp ground, and the sun hasn’t crested the mountain yet. I sit next to him, try to warm him with my body. I rub his back, his shoulders, trying to soothe him, all the time wondering who will soothe me when this is all over. Phil is the steady one, although even as I write that I know that we often take turns steadying each other. 

The officer texts me.

“Do you know how to drop a pin in Google maps?”

I tell her I don’t but that I can figure it out. She asks me to open Maps and take a picture of where it shows. I do that. Then I google “how to drop a pin android” because I do not have an iPhone, a question she asked. I drop a pin and text it to her. Ask her if that helps.

A screenshot of our location

“We’re working on it,” she says.

I don’t know what is happening, but I know that something is in the works. While we sit and wait on the side of the mountain, things are happening elsewhere. I know we are not alone, even though I can’t see any evidence of that.

Eventually, Phil needs to pee. He walks himself to a more secluded place, then decides to stand for a bit. He puts his back to the sun which is just starting to hit the spot where he’s standing. He is feeling OK but still not great. We hear sirens and I wonder if they are for us. The NJ highway we saw from the overlook isn’t too far away. Maybe it’s sirens for something else.

Phil’s shadow cast against the rock where he’d been leaning for more than an hour

Ninety minutes have passed. Our parents check in and I tell them that we’re still waiting. I forgot to mention that we were not just hiking in the Poconos but on the side of a mountain. Getting to us would take some time.

Another dispatcher calls me. Assures me that people are on the trail, trying to find the best way to get to us. He asks how the patient is. I tell him he’s the same, no worse, no better.

“Call us if anything changes,” he says.

I hang up. I look down the trail a bit. And then I hear voices. They’re almost shouting, certainly talking loudly. So many hikers have passed us that I’m not certain these are our people, but then I see that one of them is wearing a helmet. I leave Phil and the kids behind, getting closer to the voices.

“We’re up here!” I yell and wave my arms.

—

It is Saturday and I can’t sit still. There is work to be done and if I stop moving, then I won’t move at all for the rest of the day. This is my curse: do it all and do too much or do nothing. I have trouble living in between, balancing work and rest. The week behind me unsettled me, and I feel an urge to do things I’ve been putting off. There are the usual chores of laundry and dishes, of running errands to the library and the grocer store, but there is also a sense that it’s October now and the days are dwindling. I tell the kids that we’re going out to the garden to pick everything we can see and to pull up plants.

“Be ready in an hour,” I tell them.

In the meantime, I need to clean out the freezer. The one above the fridge. We have a chest freezer in the mud room and that one stays pretty well updated. The one in the kitchen has been forgotten. I vow to make broth from the poultry carcasses I pull out of the freeze while at the same time promising myself not to keep anything and freeze it “just in case” I’ll use it sometime. I toss bag after bag of unidentifiable foods I thought should be saved. I am a kind of pack rat when it comes to food and before too long, the freezer is clear and the trash can is full. I take out the trash, then wash my hands and dump the frozen carcasses into the crockpot. I quarter an onion, chop a couple of carrots and celery, toss in some garlic and other seasonings, and fill the whole thing with water. This time tomorrow, I’ll have a pot full of broth to strain and pour into jars and freeze.

I fold clothes. Start some laundry. Get dressed. And then it’s time to head to the garden. I love the garden, especially in summer. But when September hits and I’m back at work, the garden, the houseplants, they all take a backseat. It is only the second day of October, but it is time to call it (mostly) quits on the garden. The children agree to harvest the popcorn and shuck it while I pick peppers and beans and tomatoes. I pull up everything but the peppers and kale, hoping they’ll continue to color and grow. After an hour, the garden is tidier and we have a bowl full of mostly green tomatoes along with a box containing corn cobs that need the kernels removed. My hands hurt just thinking about the flicking action required to free the kernels. 

I realize that I need to start writing about what happened at the start of the week. Writing is hard sometimes; it’s also therapy (which is hard sometimes). So I sit on the couch and I start to tell the story. 

—

It is pushing 1 o’clock and suddenly we are surrounded by first responders. What had been a lonely wait was now a cacophony of concern. They go straight to Phil, take his vitals, radio to the rest of the searchers until everyone is accounted for. The kids and I fade into the background as they decide the best way down. Two fire fighters are manning a wheelbarrow-like basket–the means to get Phil down the mountain if he can’t walk on his own.

They decide to go up a little farther, where there might be an old logging road. We trek to another overlook and stop. The road isn’t there. The first responders take pictures from the overlook. Talk and laugh with each other. Their mood is contagious. They ask where we’re from. I tell them “Lancaster.” I say how we’ve wanted to do this hike for months.

“We just needed a few extra hiking buddies, so thanks for coming out,” I say. Humor is my defense against other emotions. I make light of the situation because I can’t bear to think of the seriousness.

They decide we’re going to have to go back down the way we came. They consult with Phil, ask if he’s up to walking.

“Take your time. We go at your pace,” they say. “We’re all here. You’re safe.” He says he wants to give it a try on his own feet.

The group splits up. The men with the basket lead the way, then a few others fall in behind him. Then Phil, and another fire fighter, then me and the kids. Then a half dozen others behind us. We make quite the spectacle on the way down. We pass a few hikers who must be wondering what is happening.

I’m in the midst of it, and I’m wondering what’s happening as we march down the mountain. The men surrounding Phil take care to help him navigate the rocky terrain. They keep him talking, offering to put the Bears game on their phones.

“I don’t know if that will help,” Phil quips. He has not lost his sense of humor, and I am relieved to hear him talking and joking with these men. They tell us their names: there’s an Ian and a Michael and they make sure we’re doing okay as we walk behind them.

We come to spot not all the way at the bottom of the mountain and one of the fire fighters goes ahead, off the trail, to scout a path that is quicker to see how overgrown it is. Others are talking with the EMTs who will meet us on the logging road with a UTV to take Phil to the ambulance. The path is clear enough and we leave the AT and make our way toward the road.

We meet up with the UTV and as suddenly as all these men appeared, they disappear. Ryan, who may have been with the NPS, keeps me informed. They are going to take Phil to the ambulance and check him out. It will be Phil’s decision to go to the hospital after that. The kids and I are to follow behind, walking the road till we get back to the parking lot. He will be there, as well. No one will leave until they are sure we are all taken care of. I kiss Phil, who is seated in the UTV, and we start walking. We stop briefly for one of us to pee in the woods then follow the road. The UTV is long gone and it is just us. We pass a few people and I wonder if it is written on our faces, these circumstances we are in.

I finally recognize the path we’re on and know that the parking lot is not far away. The ambulance is parked by the lake and Phil is already inside. The kids and I settle on a bench near the ambulance, waiting for information. Ryan approaches and asks for Phil’s ID. I don’t know where he put it. He packed his own bag that our daughter carried down the mountain. We shifted all our gear when the emergency happened. I give him my husband’s full name and date of birth. He tells me that the ambulance won’t leave without telling me what’s going on. We can go to the parking lot. There is more water in the car, and I am parched. I gave some of my extra water to Phil on the way down.

I notice the EMT getting into the driver’s seat and Ryan comes back to tell me that there is something off about the EKG and they advised Phil to go to the hospital. He told me where they were taking him and that he would be in the parking lot to give me directions if I needed them.

“It’s 7 minutes away,” he assures me.

The kids and I haul ass to the parking lot. The ambulance is leaving and I don’t want to be far behind. One emergency vehicle stops and offers us a ride to the parking lot, but it’s not far, and I want to keep moving. Moving my body keeps my mind from running away with me. I politely decline and we keep walking.

The scene that greets us when we get to the lot is straight out of a TV show. Emergency personnel mill around. Their vehicles fill the lot. I feel like all eyes are on us, but maybe that’s just not true. We go to the car and unload some of our things. I tell the kids to get in, that I’ll be right back. I seek out Ryan. I want the address to the hospital in my phone. I don’t want any delays or mistakes. I open Google Maps and he types in the address for me. Everyone wishes us well as we leave.

My daughter sits in the seat next to me, navigating. Between the two of us, we are trying to conserve battery. We have responded to some texts, but in the flurry of getting off the mountain and to the hospital, I have not kept people updated. We have no idea how long this will last. If all had gone according to plan, we would have been on our way home by now. We are not prepared for a lengthy stay.

—

It is Monday and I wake up not alone in my bed but not with my husband. In the middle of the night, my daughter has come in, saying she had a stress dream and couldn’t go back to sleep, so I invite her to curl up next to me. Both of us were awakened from sleep–me by a car alarm in the parking lot of the apartment complex next door; her by a stress dream involving oversized bunnies chasing her. 

It is 5 a.m., my usual wake-up time for a work weekday. Today, I will not go to work. I will get the kids to their buses so they can go to school, then I will go back to the hospital we left less than 12 hours ago.

—

It is nearing 2 p.m. We walk into the ER and I approach the desk. They ask how I am, and I don’t know how to answer.

“They brought my husband in by ambulance earlier,” I blurt out. I like to get right to the point. The woman at the desk asks his name, types on the keyboard.

“Oh, they brought him in like 2 minutes ago,” she says. I am relieved that we weren’t far behind. She says they’ll get him settled and then we can go back.

We brought only a few things in with us, and I’ve had to pee for an hour or more, so I park the kids in the waiting room and I go use the bathroom. I’m still running on adrenaline. I can feel it in my body. I’m barely aware that I smell like bug spray, have sunburn on my face, or that my hiking boots are heavy on my feet. I wash my hands, look at myself briefly in the mirror and brace myself for whatever comes next.

What comes next is more waiting. I use the time to update people on what’s happening. I text our parents, our pastor, some friends. I look for contact information for my husband’s boss. I compose an Instagram post that will cross-post to Facebook to let people know what’s going on. Because we are alone, two hours from home, and I have to know that we aren’t forgotten. This communication keeps me busy. I don’t know how much time passes. Other people come into the ER. The TV plays some kind of home renovation show. At one point, we go out to the car to get some water bottles, books and games we brought for the car ride.

The nurse whom I first spoke to at the desk asks my kids’ ages. I tell her: 13 and 11 (almost 12). She wrinkles her nose. The hospital visitation policy during COVID disallows visitors under the age of 12. She sets out to see what she can do. No one will bend the rule for us. Our son isn’t eager to go back to see his dad, anyway.

So, I leave them together in the waiting room and try to follow the directions to his room in the ER: a left, a right, another right. I arrive as someone is taking his demographic information. I don’t know if I should go in or not. I call out, “This is my husband. Can I come in?”

And there he is, propped up in a bed, hooked to machines. The woman taking his demographics leaves, and Phil and I recap what we know. The EKG is wonky. They’re testing his blood. They might keep him overnight. I ask if he wants things from the car. I leave and bring him a few things to keep him company. I want to stay and I want to go. I am forever torn by desire to care for my husband and care for my kids. How can I ever do both at the same time when there is only one of me?

Here is where the memories blur. I go back to the waiting room. I buy the kids snacks from the vending machines. Vending machines that take debit card are one of the world’s best inventions. They eat sugar and drink tea. I keep sucking down the water because I didn’t have enough during the day. I start to wonder what our options are. We are getting an education in the ER, watching all kinds of interesting cases come in the door. Our phones are losing power. We need to eat real food. There is no telling when or if they are going to move Phil.

We wait another hour maybe. I go back in to talk to Phil. The doctor wants to keep him overnight and run a stress test in the morning. His EKG readings are still abnormal. I say what I don’t want to say.

“We have to go home. I have to get the kids home.”

I start to cry a little, thinking about leaving Phil overnight, even though I know he’ll be in good hands. I say “good night.” Promise to be back tomorrow. I go back out and tell the kids we’re going home. We pick up our mess. Use the bathroom. Fill our water bottles. 

Back in the car, I am girding myself for what comes next. First, we find dinner. Hot food. Doesn’t matter what. Then, I drive the 100 miles back to Lancaster. Our daughter sits in the front seat again, navigating. We don’t want to run the GPS because it will drain the battery. I have a general idea how to get home. But first: food.

We get back on the highway and I take the first exit that promises food, but it’s all diners and sit-down places. We need a drive-through. We keep driving on the road where we exited and end up back almost where we started. But there’s a Wendy’s, so we head for it and get in the drive-through. As we pull up to place our order, another car pulls next to us and the older man behind the wheel rolls down his window.

“Do you know how to get back to 33?” he shouts.

“I don’t. I’m sorry! I’m not from around here.”

Maybe he thinks I’m lying. Meanwhile, the person trying to take my order on the other side of the drive-through speaker is asking me to repeat myself.

“I need a moment, please,” I say. It is true for lots of reasons. The kids decide what they want. We order. We pay. We get back on the road and begin dashboard dining as we drive into the setting sun.

When we finish our food, I ask my daughter to text my mom. She wants to talk to us, and it’s easier for me to pick up with Bluetooth if she calls me. We talk to my parents for part of our drive home, and it is calming, even though they overhear me talking to other drivers. I do this when I’m nervous. I hate driving long distances. I am sometimes a jerk, making comments about other people’s driving behaviors. I realize I have never driven this far alone with my kids before. I am too afraid to take them too far from home myself.

Another first for the day.

We walk into our house around 8 p.m. We all need showers. I need to make plans for Monday. Call off work. Find someone to be with the kids after school and pick up from practice. Unpack a few things. Pack a bag for the next day. I am still running on adrenaline, although it’s fading, now that I’m home. I’m ready to crawl into my bed but there is still so much to do.

We shower. The kids watch YouTube for a bit. I email their teachers to let them know what’s going on, to say that my kids might not be themselves at school the next day. Please, I beg, offer them grace. 

A friend offers to be on kid duty, bring dinner and stay the night if necessary. I am relieved.

It is 9 p.m. and the kids are in bed. I tell them how proud I am of the way they handled the day. All day, we were teaching them things.

“It’s okay to ask for help,” I say on the side of the mountain while we wait for the emergency personnel. “Even if this turns out to be nothing, we did the right thing.” 

And then, as they’re going to bed, I say, “it’s okay to be sad. To cry. I’m going to go to my bed and cry and it’s not because I think Daddy isn’t going to be okay. It’s just been a lot to take in today. So don’t worry if you hear me crying.”

I do exactly what I said. I crawl into bed. I pull the covers tight around me. And I sob. I let out all the things I’ve been holding all day. Earlier when my mom asked me how I was doing, I said, “Crumbling after holding it all together all day.”

—

I have a complicated relationship with my faith these days. I don’t know how to interact with God right now. Earlier this year, we left a faith tradition that was almost the only thing we knew when it came to spiritual life. I feel like I’m rebuilding. Unlearning some things. Prayer, faith, belief, worship–none of it comes easy to me anymore. 

All day long, people have said they are praying for us, and I believe them. I am strengthened by their thoughts, prayers and encouraging words.

Alone in my bed, with just me, I struggle. I complain out loud (to God?) that I can’t do this. It’s too hard. I want to yell “why?” but I find that question pointless. I don’t think there are answers to why things happen the way they do. Things happen. Period.

So I’m surprised when a Bible verse pops into my head. It is not just a verse but words recorded as being spoken by Jesus, and in that moment, I feel like He’s speaking to me.

“Do not let your heart be troubled,” He says. “Trust in God. Trust also in me.”

I don’t bother trying to remember a verse reference or whether that’s exactly how it goes. I accept the words of comfort. And finally, I sleep.

After the car alarm wakes me up, I find my mind racing with a list of items I need to pack, so I get out of bed and make a list and then my daughter joins me in bed.

While the kids get ready for school, I clean out the car. Take out the garbage. Do some laundry. Pack the bags. Fill water bottles. I check in with Phil a little after 7 a.m He spent the whole night in the ER because no beds were available. Just before I head out, he texts me that he’s been moved to a different part of the hospital, that his stress test is scheduled for 11:30. I look at the clock and figure I’ll make it with plenty of time.

But I don’t count on traffic. Or my need to stop and pee. Or how difficult it is for me to figure out where to park. And how long it will take for me to find him when I get there.

On the drive up, I call my in-laws to talk. Then after a pit stop, I call another friend. I need to talk, to tell the story, to keep my attention on something besides all the traffic and my rush to see Phil. I park in a lot less than a block from the hospital, but I’m carrying two backpacks (one for me, one for him) and two water bottles and a purse. I look like I’m moving in. I’ve already decided that I’m not coming home without him. If he stays another night, so do I.

At the front desk, they take my name and the patient I’m there to see. They call up, I’m not sure why, but I’m allowed to go. They direct me to the elevators. I wait as a patient on a bed is loaded into one elevator, then wait again for an elevator to come for me. I get in. It stops on the second floor and a hospital worker gets on.

“You’re loaded down,” he says. I explain that my husband spent the night. That we’re two hours from home.

“Not the vacation you planned,” he says. I shake my head. Get off at the next floor. And I make my way to the Rapid Treatment Center where Phil sits in a bed behind a curtain. At least there are windows. And only a few patients. It’s relatively quiet.

I get his phone charging and hand him some things. We talk and catch up on any medical news about him. It is only about 15 minutes before they start prepping him for his stress test.

“You’re going to disappear for about 2 1/2 hours,” his nurse, Tom, says. I ask if I can go and Tom immediately says, “No, not to nuclear medicine.” So I gather up my things and head back to the car. It is nearing noon and I need to eat. I’m looking for somewhere I can hang out for an extended period of time. The closest Panera is not too far away, so I go there. But it’s drive-through only when I get there and the line is long. I decide to try somewhere else.

I head back into town, toward a cafe that promises a courtyard but when I drive by, it looks like they’re only serving from the window. By this time, I am super hungry and super annoyed that this is all happening in a pandemic when nothing is normal. I go back to the parking lot where I started, having done nothing but kill 30 or 40 minutes. I grab my backpack and head toward the deli across the street from the hospital.

Goldberg’s Deli in East Stroudsburg, PA

It is a small place, but it is open for dine-in and the menu is extensive in the way of sandwiches and wraps. I am greeted warmly and I make my choice: a wrap with grilled chicken and avocado and other filling ingredients. What I really want is a bagel but I also have a complicated relationship with gluten sometimes. The person taking my order keeps calling me “miss” and this brings a small smile to my face, hidden behind my mask. I am near a college, so I pretend that with my backpack slung over my shoulders, he thinks I am a college student. There is too much gray in my hair for this to be true, but I cling to the altered reality for a moment. 

I sit by the window and wait for my name to be called. I can see the hospital from my seat. A few medical employees come in and order, so I know the food must be decent. They call my name and I get my wrap and sit back down.

Lunch, finally

I notice that FoxNews is on the TV, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m not interested in anyone’s politics at the moment. I eat. I check my phone. Post an Instagram/Facebook update. Someone who works in the deli sits down to eat and is paying attention to the news, making disparaging comments about the president. I keep my head down and eat. I’m wearing a shirt that says “We stand with our neighbors,” a message of support for the refugee community in Lancaster. I wonder if anyone notices. The deli is getting busier and I’m in no hurry to be anywhere else but I don’t want to be here anymore.

I finish my wrap and head outside. The university is across the street and I always feel conflicted about walking around public universities. Am I trespassing? Am I welcome? So I stick to an outer boundary sidewalk and talk a little walk. I don’t want to go back to the hospital and wait for Phil, yet, and I need to keep moving my body. After a short walk, I have to pee and I need more water, so I head back to the hospital. It’s 20 or so minutes before the earliest time Phil could be back, so I head back to his pod. I answer some texts and messages. I log in to my computer. I charge my phone.

Eventually, I pick up a book I brought along. For some reason, I have trouble concentrating on reading when I’m waiting for something–like boarding time for a flight. I can’t fully relax and let myself slip into the story, but it does pass the time and eventually Phil is back from his stress test and Tom, the nurse, is getting Phil’s diet order changed so he can eat a real lunch. It is after 2 o’clock and Phil hasn’t eaten much for the past two days.

Hospital lunch is better than no lunch

It is time for more waiting. We talk a little. I fret. Sitting still is not my forte. I want to go/do/act but there is nowhere to go, nothing to do, no action to take. We keep hearing that the cardiologist is not available to read the stress test until 4 o’clock. That’s more than an hour from now.

I take a short walk to the bathroom and find a water fountain to fill my water bottle. The nurse has offered my bottle water.

“You don’t want to drink our water,” he says. But I find that it tastes like river water, which simply tastes like home, the one in Illinois.

A customer relations representative stops by, offers an apology and a mask for the delay in getting him a room the previous night. I get up to take another walk and overhear that the cardiologist has read the results for another patient, so I head back to the pod and wait. Finally, the attending doctor arrives, tells us the stress test was normal and they don’t see anything requiring a more invasive procedure. He will be released tonight. I text the news and take a phone call from a friend in Arizona while I head downstairs to see if the cafeteria is open. Phil has ordered dinner, and if he gets food, I want to eat something, too. I don’t know how long it will take to discharge him.

I talk as I ride the elevator and wander the basement with a helpful hospital employee. The cafeteria is not open until 5 p.m. and I am not interested in vending machine food, so I ride the elevator back up. Phil’s nurses get on at floor 2, tell me he’s being released. I nod, still on the phone with my friend. We all exit at floor 3 and I go back to the pod, give Phil the food update.

It is not long before they work to unhook him from machines, go over his discharge paperwork, give him time to get dressed. I start gathering our things and before we know it, a wheelchair is waiting for Phil and we are being escorted out of the hospital. I leave Phil and the attendant at the main entrance to walk the block or so to get the car. 

Then, we are on our way. We speak briefly of dinner but we both want to keep moving toward home before we stop again. We are not running GPS because I think I can find our way home, but I miss a turnoff and don’t recognize the road we’re on. Phil guides us via his phone and we take a different way home. We are on a bypass, high in the mountains, and the trees are just starting to change. There is traffic, but it is less than what we might face around Allentown, so maybe it was okay that we took this detour. 

We make it to the Sheetz that is our familiar pit stop by now and I text my friend at our house that Phil and I will not make it home for dinner. We will need to stop and eat something before then. We place an online order for Chick-fil-a in Reading, maybe 15 minutes away. Then we get stuck in traffic, and I just.want.to.be.home.

We sit in the drive-through at Chick-fil-a, get our food, and I eat it too fast, but we also ordered milkshakes and I don’t care if I get a brain freeze. I wouldn’t mind a complete mind-numbing for a day, but I still have to get us home. 

When we finally pull in the driveway, it’s almost 8 o’clock. We say goodbye to our friend and I get the kids to bed before falling into bed myself. I am more tired than I thought possible, than I can remember being in a long time.

But we are all of us home.

—

I take Tuesday off because I don’t want to let Phil out of my sight. And we’re both tired. A day of rest will do us good and that’s what we have. A friend brings dinner and we eat it after I pick up our daughter from her field hockey game.

The note that came with Tuesday’s dinner

I decide to take Wednesday off as well. Phil has a doctor’s appointment late in the afternoon and a haircut midday. He is feeling okay but I’m not ready to let him go out on his own yet. And I want to be there for the doctor’s appointment.

So after my run and a shower and some lunch, we head downtown. I park at the library, return some books, pick up two I had on hold and then we walk together to the barber shop. I leave him there and walk over to the shops on the 300 block of North Queen. I want to buy thank you cards and my go-to place is on that block. I find what I’m looking for and make my purchase with time to spare, so I head farther up the block to a collection of shops inside one building. I wander and just look and shop. Nothing in particular catches my eye, but it is a way to pass the time.

I head back toward the barber shop just in time for Phil to be walking out. We head back to the car, make a brief stop at home, then drive to the doctor’s appointment. The same friend who helped us on Monday is coming back this afternoon for the kids because I don’t know how long the appointment will be. And another friend is bringing dinner. We are well cared for and I still can’t comprehend it.

I’m not sure if they’re going to let me go into the appointment with Phil. I have steeled myself for the possibility that I will have to argue for my presence, but no one says a word and I am with him for the entire appointment. The provider is thorough. He will check some things in Phil’s blood, do a sleep study to see if sleep apnea is affecting his health, and refer him to a cardiologist. He prescribes some medicine for anxiety. They do another EKG just so they have one on file since the communication between their office/system and the hospital where he was admitted is not seamless. 

“You are safe to return to work,” he says. We leave with no answers but some hope that we are on the path to figuring out what is going on. It is frustrating, though, to not know what caused this episode, to be left wondering if it will happen again.

—

It is Friday and my hair is streaked with pink. October 1st marks the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and the principal at our school annually participates in the Real Men Wear Pink campaign to raise money for this cause. He invites everyone on the first day of October to wear pink along with him. So in addition to my pink shirt and pink boots, I have borrowed without asking my daughter’s pink hair chalk.

It’s not that I need attention; it’s more that I need to have a little fun. To bring a little joy into the world. Pink hair feels like an easy step.

I went back to work on Thursday. So did Phil. But Friday is his first full day and I worry most of the day. He texts me that he’s feeling mostly good. Later in the day he says his throat hurts a bit and he has a headache. He comes home a little early, has reduced hours for Saturday so he can get some extra rest.

By Saturday night, I feel like we have lived an entire life in just one week.

—

I still tremble when I think of what happened on the mountain. My body begins to react as if I am still living through it. My heart races and my blood pressure rises and I have to remind myself to breathe. I have to take breaks while writing just to pull myself out of the memory.

It was terrible, what we went through.

And we have so much beauty to remember.

The setting of our trial was breathtaking, and someday, I wan to go back.

The sun peeks through the trees from the Appalachian Trail

Friends and family rallied around us, supporting us from near and far.  We have spent more than a decade building this network of support, an ongoing process, and it is comforting to know that it holds.

A friend brought us flowers with Wednesday’s dinner

The first responders were not only well-trained to find us, they were kind and compassionate. Not one person made us feel like we’d done something wrong or that this was an inconvenience to their Sunday afternoon. I don’t know many of their names, but I feel like we are bonded for life.

Our kids were flexible and resilient, which doesn’t mean they were perfect. We still had challenges this week as they sorted through their emotions and varying stressors. I would not choose different kids to go through this life.

It is easy sometimes to focus only on the terror. To remember and relive the worst parts of the week. So I’m trying to pair those memories with the beauty and the good, as well. Both were present.

Always, in this world. Beautiful and terrible, together.

I’ll try not to be afraid.

Filed Under: beauty, family Tagged With: appalachian trail, delaware water gap, friends, hiking, medical emergency, mount minsi, search and rescue

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Photo by Rachel Lynn Photography

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Hi. I’m Lisa, and I’m glad you’re here. If we were meeting in real life, I’d offer you something to eat or drink while we sat on the porch letting the conversation wander as it does. That’s a little bit what this space is like. We talk about books and family and travel and food and running, whatever I might encounter in world. I’m looking for the beauty in the midst of it all, even the tough stuff. (You’ll find a lot of that here, too.) Thanks for stopping by. Stay as long as you like.

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