All I Know For Certain

This is a post I wrote after one of the scariest days of my life. The event itself happened exactly six months ago, almost to the day, and I wrote this post a few weeks after that. Some of you know this story already, or bits of it at least, and if the information seems a little dated, keep in mind that it was written nearly six months ago. I wasn't sure for a while that I even wanted to post it at all, mostly because it was all still very fresh and raw for my entire family, and I wanted to be sensitive to that. But after re-reading it the other day, I came to the conclusion that I learned a lot of important lessons that day...lessons that I do not want to forget, and I figured that six months was long enough that talking about it was no longer like poking an exposed nerve.

So here goes.

The day began innocently enough. I think. I don't remember the morning of July 22. I know I went to work, but I don't even remember being there. I don't remember what I was wearing, I don't remember who I spoke to, I don't remember if I was frustrated or upset or happy, I don't remember if I was busy or tired or feeling sick.

Some things, though, I do remember. I remember getting a text from my mom saying that my dad was in the ER with chest pains. I remember that I didn't immediately panic. There are lots of reasons for chest pains. In all my clinicals, I did lots of chemistry workups on people who were suffering from chest pains, and in all of those instances, I don't remember one time seeing truly alarming results on any of those patients. So I wasn't immediately frightened.

At least, I told myself I wasn't. I'm pretty sure my inner self was panicking pretty good, but somehow I managed to stuff those feelings and emotions deep down, somewhere where I didn't pay them much attention.

I remember not being able to concentrate on work anymore because my mind was somewhere else. I remember calling my siblings and telling them...something. I don't remember what. I remember getting a voicemail on my phone from my mom and hearing the words "heart blockages", and I remember that I only made it that far into the message before I stopped listening. I had heard enough. I remember running through my workplace searching for my boss so I could tell her I would be leaving for the day. I remember a couple of my coworkers were kind enough to push me out the door and promise to talk to my boss for me.

I arrived at the ER minutes later. I think God might've cleared the roads for me, because by now I was in a pretty frantic state of mind and not AT ALL in the mood to tolerate slow drivers. I probably would've run every red light and just honked my way through if I had to, so the fact that all the traffic lights between my work at the hospital were green for me seems like an act of divine intervention.

In the back of my mind, I was slightly disgusted that I knew right where the ER entrance was. It had been over a year since my family had congregated in the ER waiting room, sitting for an extended period of time in uncomfortable hospital chairs, desperate for answers about why my sister was having seizures. The sense of deja vu was unsettling to say the least. I hate the ER, I really do. The people who work there are nice and friendly and good at their jobs, but I hate the ER. I hate when somebody I love is there.

When I got there I saw my mom, but I was looking for my dad. Where's dad...I need to see him. I kept trying to stuff down the panic; keep it locked away, far from the surface of my fragile exterior. My dad was pale and drawn, but talking and even trying to joke around. It calmed me slightly. Score one for dad.

I talked to my mom, and was starting to get bits and pieces of the story of what had happened, interrupted every couple of minutes by another person coming into the room wearing scrubs and a badge to do who-knows-what or check this or that or ask another question. It was all just noise and motion, meaningless and urgent.

There was talk of a procedure to look for blockages in my dad's heart, and another procedure to be done if one or more blockages was found. I remember the anxiety I felt at the thought of poking a tube around in somebody's heart...I thought of the risks. I'm not a cardiologist, but I don't have to be one to know that poking around in somebody's heart is a risky business, no matter how skilled the person is who is doing the poking.

As they wheeled my dad's bed through the hospital hallways, letting my mom and my sister and nephew and I follow for as far as we could, I could feel all those intense emotions trying to break free from where I had locked them away, desperate for my attention. I shoved them back down, but I knew it was temporary. They were gaining power and momentum; it was only a matter of time.

When they told us we couldn't go any farther, and the nurse said to give him a hug before letting them wheel him away, I could feel the dam creaking. The fear and panic and frantic worry were rising to the top, and they would no longer be ignored. A leak sprung. I gave my dad a hug and kissed his cheek, but didn't say anything. I wanted to tell him I loved him, tell him that I would be praying for him, tell him that we'd be waiting. But I didn't say a word. I couldn't say anything, not if I wanted to keep any remnant of self-control. My composure was slipping, and if I had tried to speak the dam would've broken completely and swept me away in a tide of fear and blubbering tears. So I gave him a hug and a kiss, and hoped that he knew what it meant.

And as some other person led us to another room to wait (again), another leak sprung. I tried to keep my breathing as silent as I could as we walked our solemn line through the dreary hospital hallways, and even though I knew that I wasn't doing a very good job of it, I refused to let myself go completely, still unwilling to break down in the presence of strangers.

The room we were taken to was a small room containing only a tiny table with a phone in the middle of it, and three chairs. Of the several of us who were there in that depressing little room, the person I am most glad for is my nephew, Silas. Dear, sweet Silas. When all around there was nothing but sadness and fear and tears, that sweet little boy was still the same adorable, happy, busy, attention grabber that he always was. It was what we all so desperately needed, even though we didn't know it. Thank you, sweet boy. I love you.

After all was done, my dad had an artery that was pretty much completely blocked. It still makes me shake my head and shudder at how close he came that day.

As it turns out, dad had been at the doctor's office that morning, an appointment for the chest pain that he had been feeling for a while. During that appointment, the pain got suddenly worse and the doctor and nurse, as well as the firefighters who were the first to arrive to the 911 call, were instrumental in quite possibly saving his life.

I was at work that morning, oblivious. Horrible, scary things were happening to one of the people that I love most in this world, and I didn't have a clue. A doctor, a nurse, and a group of firefighters were taking care of my dad when the situation was critical, and I was nowhere to be found. It wasn't my fault, I couldn't have known. But it makes me so very grateful to those people. They took care of somebody they didn't even know. I know it's their job, but it doesn't make it any less true. They were there giving lifesaving aid to a stranger. I want to hug them, give them a billion dollars, somehow express my gratitude. But I can't. I don't even know their names.

There is one way to say thank you to them, one thing I can do. And that is to go and do likewise. Pay it forward. See a stranger in need, and help them. Ask myself, if it was my brother stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, if it was my sister at the grocery store with a credit card that wouldn't go through, if it was my dad who was homeless on the side of the road...wouldn't I want somebody to help them? Somebody to be there for them, when I couldn't be? When maybe I am oblivious to the situation?

And who knows, maybe the person I end up helping will be the sister or brother or father or mother to one of those people to whom I am so very indebted, and everything will come full circle. Probably not, but you never know.

My dam never broke that day, not until I was driving away from the hospital, once everything was over and my dad was resting semi-comfortably in his hospital room with mom close by. But break it did. In the safety of my car I finally relented and completely let go of my tenuous hold on composure. The many emotions that had been piling up over the course of the day came cascading down on my head in a seemingly never ending wave. Every emotion on the spectrum bombarded me in an overwhelming riptide. And I sobbed the whole way home, unable to find another outlet. Again I feel like God cleared the roads for me, as I somehow made it home without incident.

That was one of the scariest days of my life. Maybe the scariest. And I learned lots of lessons that day. The most obvious one I suppose is to always live like time is short. Because, you know what? It is. My dad is young, in his early 50s. I can't just assume that everybody, myself included, is going to live to see "old age", because many do not. Every day, every moment, every breath, is a gift. Use it wisely.

Another thing I learned that day is to always treasure the time you have with the people you love. Someday will be your last day with them. Someday I won't be able to tell my dad I love him. Someday you'll reach back for memories, because that's all you'll have left. Make good memories, and make them now.

Another thing is to always treat people kindly, because you never know what battles they are fighting. We were not the only family in the ER that day. The parking lot was packed. There are lots of sick and hurting people in my city; lots of sad families. Even if somebody is snapping at me for what seems to be no reason, maybe that is the only outlet they can find. Maybe they were unfortunate enough that their dam collapsed in public. Maybe they are riding out their own tsunami of scary emotions, and lashing out in anger is the only way they can find to deal with it. You never know what giants they have faced that day, or that week, or that year. Even in the face of unkindness, be kind.

And probably the biggest lesson of the day, God is gracious. Everything happened that day in just such a way that my dad got the help he needed just when he needed it. It could have very very easily been such a different day. We all had a very big scare, and all our lives will be drastically different from this day forward. My dad knows now that he has heart disease, his diet has drastically and forever changed, he tires easily and doesn't have the stamina that he had before. But my dad is alive. He is here, walking and talking and living his life. If God had chosen to take him home on July 22, that wouldn't have made God any less good, or any less gracious. But the fact that He let my dad stay with us for a while longer, it blows my mind and makes me grateful beyond words. 

It's easy (so SO easy) to see my dad's circumstance and think of it as unfortunate. To think about how horrible it was, how scary it will continue to be forever. To see it as a hurdle to jump over, a storm to ride out, a mountain to conquer, or a dragon to slay. But...what if it isn't any of those things? What if this scare, this disease, this issue with my dad's heart, is actually one of the greatest blessings that God could've given to dad, to us? It has given us all a wake up call, dad more than anybody. It has been a giant slap in the face, and made us all re-evaluate our priorities. My dad has to significantly reduce the stress in his life, almost certainly meaning finding a new job. What if the new job he finds is something that he finds much more enjoyable, something fun and relaxing that he loves to do? What if the changes that are on the near horizon are changes that will bring about joy and peace and exciting adventures? What if this isn't a horrible, frightening storm at all, but a circumstance that is pulling us out of a horrible, frightening storm that we weren't paying attention to? Maybe this was the greatest act of mercy that we could've asked for. I don't know.

I don't know where my family will be in five years, in ten, or twenty. I don't know if my family is going to get further acquainted with the hospital ER. I don't know if twenty years from now I will still remember the lessons I learned on July 22. I don't know if I will still remember why being kind is important, or why it's important to help a stranger in need. I don't know if I will remember to treasure the people I love or to use my time wisely.

I don't know much of anything. All I know for certain is that God is good. I know I trust him with the people I love. I trust him with my own life. And that is all I ever need to know.