angelawd

She slings her duffle bag over her shoulder and opens the front door. Out of the corner of my eye I see her. I hold up one finger – wait – while I wrap up the call with my mother-in-law. Before I even speak to her, I know: she is leaving home. Again.

“Why are you going?” I ask, trying not to let my pain seep into my voice.

“I can’t – I can’t breathe here. Half the time you ignore me, and the other half you’re yelling at me.”

I think back two days to the lovely afternoon we spent, the jokes and the laughing. “How can I be ignoring you? You’re usually asleep while I’m awake.” But I’ve tried logic before, and I know how well it works with Jenn.

“I hate living here.”

“I don’t want you to live someplace where you’re unhappy. I want you to be happy, honey. You’re welcome to stay here. But you have to follow the rules of this house if you want to live here.”

She turns her head away in anger. “I don’t want to get into this with you.”

But she’s poised in the doorway, not leaving, and I sense there must be something she’s waiting for, maybe something she needs me to say. Maybe she wants me to ask her to stay. But I can’t do that. She needs to decide.

“Are you going to you dad’s?”

“I don’t know.” Then she closes the door. I didn’t get a chance to say I love you. But a little part of me, underneath the hurt, is breathing a prayer of thankfulness. For the time being, I’m free of the incredible burden of parenting a depressed teen.

Then I lock myself in the bathroom and begin to cry.
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A long, hot night. The cat keeps butting me with her head. She wants to be petted and Jenn’s not there. Joe tosses and turns, shaking me awake with each movement. I know he’s worried about Jenn. It’s hard to remember how she treated us even a few years ago, but I know he remained in her heart long after my very existence irritated her.

It’s 4:30 in the morning. He flops over again. I turn and snap at his back,”I’m sleeping downstairs.” From the couch, I hear him leave for a morning workout and then leave for work. I can’t really sleep.
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After a late lunch, I decide to nap a little bit before finishing my workday. As soon as I lay down it begins: my heart, beginning a fast, booming beat like a conga drum. Then a strange painful fluttering and then back to the conga beat. I’ve felt this before many times during these strange, stressful, painful years.

I think about how badly I need this nap. Tonight we have a business meeting and I need to be fresh. I have a lot of work to finish this afternoon. But the racing heartbeat won’t let me sleep. I begin my own tossing and turning.

Then the pain comes. Each beat makes my heart hurt, a stretching pain, like when you swallow something too large for your throat. My arm aches. Is this what a heart attack feels like, or am I just tensing up? My breath comes faster, and then my chest begins to feel pressure. Heavy, heavier, heaviest. It hurts.

I gather my purse, shoes, and medications. My thoughts change from spending my evening at a business meeting to spending it in an emergency room. If I drive myself to the emergency room, is it really an emergency?

I try to decide where to go, but my brain seems to slow down. The acute care place? No, they don’t have cardiac equipment. The closest hospital? They don’t take my insurance anymore. I get on MapQuest and see that my primary physician’s hospital is 30 minutes away.

My chest hurts more. As if someone is punching a big bruise in the center of my chest. I pray, “God, please don’t let me die today. Jenn’s going to think it’s her fault. She’ll never be able to live with herself.”

I call Joe, and he drives me there.
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The nurses are amazingly quick and cheerful. The EKGs, blood tests, and electronic monitors are administered and the results show I have not had a heart attack. It does show that I’m dehydrated.

Each nurse asks, “Do you have much stress in your life?”. Joe and I laugh every time.

They decide to admit me and wait for further episodes. They also want to see if there is any damage to my heart. I’m admitted to the Intensive Care Ward and given a very bland fat-free turkey sandwich. Joe paces and then sits and squeezes my hands.

I’m so tired that I just want to sleep. My heart has stopped fluttering but my chest feels bruised and abused. The nurses come in and out every few minutes; they get nervous when I move, because anything causes my heart monitor to fluctuate.

I see their flip-flops and painted toenails under the hospital curtain. My daughters come into the room, looking as if they’d like to cry but don’t want to upset me. I hug Jenny hard. “This is not your fault,” I say.

I keep dozing off. Joe sadly leaves after the girls. He wants to get a few hours of sleep before bringing me workout clothes for tomorrow’s tests. He puts a kiss into each palm and folds my hand around it.

Then I’m alone, except for the nurses who check me every hour.