Trauma
A few years ago my husband started fainting. It happened on Friday night and continued through the weekend. The first time he passed out was, until very recently the single most upseting moment in my life. Ironically, waking up from that first faint is the single most euphoric memory my husband has. Both rooted so deeply in our love, and both so opposite.
Right as he passed out, or maybe it was as he came to, he shivered and convulsed, kind of twitched a bit. Once upon a time, I may have described that as a siezure.
I wish I had that innocence back.
the last Monday in August of 2014. A few weeks ago. At almost exactly 10pm while surfing the net in my kitchen I heard a thud quickly followed by a rythmic and incesant banging that I quickly realized was not the cats fighting. I rushed up our stairs. The banging continued, only increasing in volume because I was getting closer.
When I fell in love with my husband we were in our very early 20s. We were educated but poor. We had dreams. And my husband was isistant that he would live easily past 100 years of age. It is somewhat impossible for me to describe the comfort I found in such a completely irrational determination. It wasn't so much grit and determination as it was a statement of fact. My husband is fiercly in love with life. He values his breath, his thoughts, his existance on this earth, on this plane of the universe so dearly that the only other life he cares for more is our child's. But...more than that, he is dedicated to a long and happy life. This may be one of the most concrete reasons why I love him so. It is somewhat foundational to our love. Somehow, somewhere along the line I considered it a pact. I mean we never said anything...but he was going to out live me. I was not going to have to bury my truest deepest love. He was the one who would have to endure that pain, or we would go out together....but he loves life so much more passionately than I do that it seemed impossible that he could ever let it go before me.
This isn't rational. He is 2 years older than me. His family doesn't have a great history of longevity. Even when we met I knew he had a genetic mutation that prevented him from willingly keeping his hands from shaking. None of that mattered. He was going to outlive me.
When the pace maker was installed after 6 fainting episodes in one weekend back in 2010 (while I was 5 months pregnant with our baby) this just further proved the fact. Now he had a device in his body that ensured his heart would continue to beat. Can't get much more of a guarentee than that. Never mind that needing the device is a weakness, having it made him even stronger. Though, it seemed so odd that whatever we tried at the doctor's request or the internet's bidding...couldn't seem to stop the strange sensations that would wash over and fatigue him approximately every 2 weeks.
It didn't matter. He was stronger than me. Could run 5 miles daily without any issue. Has about 5% body fat or some crazy low number like that. He is HEALTHY. He is going to outlive me. He has to. Especially now, especially with our little girl. I can't imagine her world without him and only with me. We can't possibly exist without him in any true sense of the word. Sure we are strong awesome chicks (ok chick and chick-in-training) but we kind of only work because of him.
I rounded the corner to our bedroom. I think the cats were following me. In the light from the hallway, I saw him, nude, on the floor it was his hands and feet that were creating the incessent banging. Maybe even his head. I flicked on the light and I shouted his name. I screamed: Baby, Matt, Baby. Are you OK. Baby!?? Baby!!!??? He was face down I heaved him on his side. I looked at his face. There was no one there. No one.
Years ago when he passed out, he was unconcous. Sleeping. This was not that. Before I turned him over, I was clearly aware that he was breathing. Hard. Grunting and panting really. There was no CPR to be done here. None of my meager emergency training could help me.
I craddled my husband's body. Blood was on the floor. Drool was in his beard. No one was in the eyes that didn't look at me, but were fixed past me. My husband wasn't there. I put a pillow under his head and I unlocked his phone to dial 911.
At some point I tried to uncurl his hand from the contorted, awkward postition it was in. Both were clenched, mangled looking, but I attempted to 'fix' his left hand. To still it from banging and relax it from contorting.
Emergency responders from the fire department were dispatched to our home. The fire station is a few minutes up the street.
Eventually his body stopped its rythmic freak out and behind his eyes reappeared someone. It wasn't my husband yet, exactly. He had no speech at first and since I was still yelling endearments and his name at him he seemed desperate for me to shut up and get out his way. He wanted to go towards the bathroom. I refused to let him and with my body and words directed him to the bed. I managed to get boxers on him. I yelled at him to stay on the bed while I opened the door for the fire team and said goodbye to the 911 dispatcher lady.
Eventually a sense of humor came back, still not exactly my husband but someone close to him was there. By the time the ambulance crew came I was pretty sure I had him back. And as I followed them in my car to the hospital the guy I saw wobbling along sitting in the back of the wagon was clearly my Matt.
We've had a second less dramatic scare since. There have been tests and a doctor visit. There will be more. What I can't exactly come to grips with though, is that the pact doesn't really exist any more. My husband still has the same deep lust for life that he always had, but I don't feel the same comfort I once did. It may be as likely as it ever was that I will bury my truest deepest love. But now I know that. I feel that. And I am working through how deeply I resent that. On the surface, it is rediculous, I can't be mad at a guy for breaking a pact he never really made, but somehow, my life is different now and I'm not particularly comfortable in this post-siezure existance.
Recently as we finished watching a particularly bad movie a friend of ours did a prat fall and lay still on the ground. No one of the 5 of us watching paid it much mind or attention. Seconds passed, he was still on the floor. A rising anxiety flowed from my gut to my head, "Is he OK?" I asked his wife and the others there, "Because when Matt does that, I dial 911." Nervous laughter, comforting pats on my shoulder, our friend quickly rose, clearly and fully well having just colapsed in an attempt at humor and not bodily failure. He mumbled something about, "I'd gladly fall 100 times like that if it means Matt doesn't every again." it was kind, but I was clearly rattled.
And that's just it. I'm clearly rattled. I've never felt on less sure footing and I hate the sensation. Oh, one last thing. My cousin died of sizure back in 2002 or 2003. She died in her sleep. Presumably next to her husband. Leaving behind 2 kids. He woke to find her dead. They're in college now, the kids. Or graduated. It's been so long. But the point is that I'm well, well, well aware of how dangerous siezures can be. There is no polite skirting the issue. These episodes can kill, and I have no guarentee at all that his pace maker will stop the siezure from killing him. None. I do not want to bury my truest and deepest love. More over, I do not want to raise our child without him. Nore do I want to learn that she carries whatever mutation he has and will suffer similarly in her life. He shares my concern in this regard.
Stupid medical wierdness. Stupid, stupid, medical wierdness.
Right as he passed out, or maybe it was as he came to, he shivered and convulsed, kind of twitched a bit. Once upon a time, I may have described that as a siezure.
I wish I had that innocence back.
the last Monday in August of 2014. A few weeks ago. At almost exactly 10pm while surfing the net in my kitchen I heard a thud quickly followed by a rythmic and incesant banging that I quickly realized was not the cats fighting. I rushed up our stairs. The banging continued, only increasing in volume because I was getting closer.
When I fell in love with my husband we were in our very early 20s. We were educated but poor. We had dreams. And my husband was isistant that he would live easily past 100 years of age. It is somewhat impossible for me to describe the comfort I found in such a completely irrational determination. It wasn't so much grit and determination as it was a statement of fact. My husband is fiercly in love with life. He values his breath, his thoughts, his existance on this earth, on this plane of the universe so dearly that the only other life he cares for more is our child's. But...more than that, he is dedicated to a long and happy life. This may be one of the most concrete reasons why I love him so. It is somewhat foundational to our love. Somehow, somewhere along the line I considered it a pact. I mean we never said anything...but he was going to out live me. I was not going to have to bury my truest deepest love. He was the one who would have to endure that pain, or we would go out together....but he loves life so much more passionately than I do that it seemed impossible that he could ever let it go before me.
This isn't rational. He is 2 years older than me. His family doesn't have a great history of longevity. Even when we met I knew he had a genetic mutation that prevented him from willingly keeping his hands from shaking. None of that mattered. He was going to outlive me.
When the pace maker was installed after 6 fainting episodes in one weekend back in 2010 (while I was 5 months pregnant with our baby) this just further proved the fact. Now he had a device in his body that ensured his heart would continue to beat. Can't get much more of a guarentee than that. Never mind that needing the device is a weakness, having it made him even stronger. Though, it seemed so odd that whatever we tried at the doctor's request or the internet's bidding...couldn't seem to stop the strange sensations that would wash over and fatigue him approximately every 2 weeks.
It didn't matter. He was stronger than me. Could run 5 miles daily without any issue. Has about 5% body fat or some crazy low number like that. He is HEALTHY. He is going to outlive me. He has to. Especially now, especially with our little girl. I can't imagine her world without him and only with me. We can't possibly exist without him in any true sense of the word. Sure we are strong awesome chicks (ok chick and chick-in-training) but we kind of only work because of him.
I rounded the corner to our bedroom. I think the cats were following me. In the light from the hallway, I saw him, nude, on the floor it was his hands and feet that were creating the incessent banging. Maybe even his head. I flicked on the light and I shouted his name. I screamed: Baby, Matt, Baby. Are you OK. Baby!?? Baby!!!??? He was face down I heaved him on his side. I looked at his face. There was no one there. No one.
Years ago when he passed out, he was unconcous. Sleeping. This was not that. Before I turned him over, I was clearly aware that he was breathing. Hard. Grunting and panting really. There was no CPR to be done here. None of my meager emergency training could help me.
I craddled my husband's body. Blood was on the floor. Drool was in his beard. No one was in the eyes that didn't look at me, but were fixed past me. My husband wasn't there. I put a pillow under his head and I unlocked his phone to dial 911.
At some point I tried to uncurl his hand from the contorted, awkward postition it was in. Both were clenched, mangled looking, but I attempted to 'fix' his left hand. To still it from banging and relax it from contorting.
Emergency responders from the fire department were dispatched to our home. The fire station is a few minutes up the street.
Eventually his body stopped its rythmic freak out and behind his eyes reappeared someone. It wasn't my husband yet, exactly. He had no speech at first and since I was still yelling endearments and his name at him he seemed desperate for me to shut up and get out his way. He wanted to go towards the bathroom. I refused to let him and with my body and words directed him to the bed. I managed to get boxers on him. I yelled at him to stay on the bed while I opened the door for the fire team and said goodbye to the 911 dispatcher lady.
Eventually a sense of humor came back, still not exactly my husband but someone close to him was there. By the time the ambulance crew came I was pretty sure I had him back. And as I followed them in my car to the hospital the guy I saw wobbling along sitting in the back of the wagon was clearly my Matt.
We've had a second less dramatic scare since. There have been tests and a doctor visit. There will be more. What I can't exactly come to grips with though, is that the pact doesn't really exist any more. My husband still has the same deep lust for life that he always had, but I don't feel the same comfort I once did. It may be as likely as it ever was that I will bury my truest deepest love. But now I know that. I feel that. And I am working through how deeply I resent that. On the surface, it is rediculous, I can't be mad at a guy for breaking a pact he never really made, but somehow, my life is different now and I'm not particularly comfortable in this post-siezure existance.
Recently as we finished watching a particularly bad movie a friend of ours did a prat fall and lay still on the ground. No one of the 5 of us watching paid it much mind or attention. Seconds passed, he was still on the floor. A rising anxiety flowed from my gut to my head, "Is he OK?" I asked his wife and the others there, "Because when Matt does that, I dial 911." Nervous laughter, comforting pats on my shoulder, our friend quickly rose, clearly and fully well having just colapsed in an attempt at humor and not bodily failure. He mumbled something about, "I'd gladly fall 100 times like that if it means Matt doesn't every again." it was kind, but I was clearly rattled.
And that's just it. I'm clearly rattled. I've never felt on less sure footing and I hate the sensation. Oh, one last thing. My cousin died of sizure back in 2002 or 2003. She died in her sleep. Presumably next to her husband. Leaving behind 2 kids. He woke to find her dead. They're in college now, the kids. Or graduated. It's been so long. But the point is that I'm well, well, well aware of how dangerous siezures can be. There is no polite skirting the issue. These episodes can kill, and I have no guarentee at all that his pace maker will stop the siezure from killing him. None. I do not want to bury my truest and deepest love. More over, I do not want to raise our child without him. Nore do I want to learn that she carries whatever mutation he has and will suffer similarly in her life. He shares my concern in this regard.
Stupid medical wierdness. Stupid, stupid, medical wierdness.