Last week, my stepmom skipped up the stairs per usual to her bedroom. My dad noticed with apprehension that upon reaching the top, his sweetie was shockingly winded and gray in pallor. He insisted she visit the doctor, who after reading the results of her stress test, said Get ye to Anchorage stat. They drove to the big city for further tests, during which two blockages were discovered at a spot where cardiologists couldn't place a stent—complete blockages of the sort that cause a DROP DEAD ANY SECOND kind of heart attack. She was whisked off to an operating room, where surgeons cracked open her sternum, rummaged around in her chest, and tied the whole package up with string.
Three days into her recovery from open heart surgery, my dad was sitting at her bedside quietly weeping as he mopped her brow—okay, maybe he was reading the newspaper while she talked on her cell phone—when he started experiencing chest pain that wouldn't pass, despite the popping of nitro pills like candy. In fact, the pain intensified and radiated down his left arm. Since he was in the hospital any way, might as well take a ride in the wheel chair. Turns out he had a major blockage requiring emergency surgery and the insertion of two stents.
Both are now resting comfortably in their hospital beds, while visions of IVs dance through their heads.
UPDATE: Dad and Vickie are out of the hospital and recuperating at my home for a few days. Welcome to Kim's Kompassionate Kare, the fastest recovery center around . . . because there's nothing like a pair of screeching 4-year-old lunatics asking 500 times a day to see your scar to make you want to get out of your bed, on your feet, through the door, and back to your normal life.
Dinner last night: vending machine delights
Exactly one year ago: