The World Lost a Little of Its Light Today
If you ever feel like you might be having a heart attack, call an ambulance. Even if the feeling passes, even if you think it's embarrassing, even if you're afraid people will call you a hypochondriac and tell you it's just heartburn or a panic attack, call an ambulance.
If my friend Mikey had called an ambulance, instead of trying to drive himself to the hospital this evening, maybe he'd still be here.
Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe that's not what happened. We don't know.
All we know is that his husband got a call early this evening that Mikey had had a heart attack. He was found in his car, stopped in the slow lane in rush hour traffic on one of the busiest freeways in the Bay Area. Someone called 911, but by the time rescue personnel and the highway patrol got there, he had already stopped breathing.
He was one exit away from the hospital.
They raced him to the ER and tried to revive him, but it was too late. They were unable to do anything for him. At forty years old, Mikey died in his car of a heart attack, one exit from the hospital.
Mikey sang bass in my church choir. He was a larger than life person in every way: 6'4", with giant hands and feet, barrel-chested, blond, and bearded-a bear's bear. He was also the gentlest, sweetest man you could hope to know. He was an expatriate Southern Pentecostal, owned a knick-knacks shop, arranged silk flowers, and always called me 'honey.' "Hi, honey," he'd say, and kiss me in greeting, with a beaming smile. He made me feel like someone special.
He made his husband Wiley feel like a prince.
He'd cooked Wiley breakfast this morning. Talked to him on the phone at lunch. Had just booked a room at a Russian River resort for a romantic getaway weekend for the two of them. When Wiley finally got home from the hospital, he found dinner prepared: toast in the toaster, chicken stew on the stove.
Mikey left dinner cooking, we don't know why. He left dinner cooking and got almost to the hospital. Almost isn't even close.
I can't believe he's gone. I can't believe I'll never hear him call me honey again. Can't believe I'll never be engulfed in one of his hugs at church, or eat one of his gourmet lunches after the service. Can't believe I won't be sitting next to him at choir rehearsal Tuesday night, listening to his rich bass voice.
My friend Wayne and I drove over to Wiley's and sat with him. Tracked down our pastor for him. Cleaned his kitchen, and put away that last meal Mikey had cooked. Didn't leave until two more friends of Wiley's arrived, to stay with him through the night.
I can't believe he's gone. It doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem fair. The world without Mikey is a darker place. An emptier place. A place I don't quite understand.
I can't even imagine how it must be for Wiley.
If you ever, even for a moment, think you are having a heart attack, call 911. Call an ambulance. Call someone. Just call.
If my friend Mikey had called an ambulance, instead of trying to drive himself to the hospital this evening, maybe he'd still be here.
Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe that's not what happened. We don't know.
All we know is that his husband got a call early this evening that Mikey had had a heart attack. He was found in his car, stopped in the slow lane in rush hour traffic on one of the busiest freeways in the Bay Area. Someone called 911, but by the time rescue personnel and the highway patrol got there, he had already stopped breathing.
He was one exit away from the hospital.
They raced him to the ER and tried to revive him, but it was too late. They were unable to do anything for him. At forty years old, Mikey died in his car of a heart attack, one exit from the hospital.
Mikey sang bass in my church choir. He was a larger than life person in every way: 6'4", with giant hands and feet, barrel-chested, blond, and bearded-a bear's bear. He was also the gentlest, sweetest man you could hope to know. He was an expatriate Southern Pentecostal, owned a knick-knacks shop, arranged silk flowers, and always called me 'honey.' "Hi, honey," he'd say, and kiss me in greeting, with a beaming smile. He made me feel like someone special.
He made his husband Wiley feel like a prince.
He'd cooked Wiley breakfast this morning. Talked to him on the phone at lunch. Had just booked a room at a Russian River resort for a romantic getaway weekend for the two of them. When Wiley finally got home from the hospital, he found dinner prepared: toast in the toaster, chicken stew on the stove.
Mikey left dinner cooking, we don't know why. He left dinner cooking and got almost to the hospital. Almost isn't even close.
I can't believe he's gone. I can't believe I'll never hear him call me honey again. Can't believe I'll never be engulfed in one of his hugs at church, or eat one of his gourmet lunches after the service. Can't believe I won't be sitting next to him at choir rehearsal Tuesday night, listening to his rich bass voice.
My friend Wayne and I drove over to Wiley's and sat with him. Tracked down our pastor for him. Cleaned his kitchen, and put away that last meal Mikey had cooked. Didn't leave until two more friends of Wiley's arrived, to stay with him through the night.
I can't believe he's gone. It doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem fair. The world without Mikey is a darker place. An emptier place. A place I don't quite understand.
I can't even imagine how it must be for Wiley.
If you ever, even for a moment, think you are having a heart attack, call 911. Call an ambulance. Call someone. Just call.