The Cardiac Chronicles

to raise a child, to raise a barn, to raise the roof …

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I would argue it takes a village to raise a Paul (and anyone) out of an unexpected medical event (or any rough patch). From the start, it has amazed me how many wonderful people have been involved in every aspect of my life since dealing with this heart attack.

With my limited perspective, I can only imagine how many more people have helped whose role I don’t see well enough to recognize. I hope my eyesight gets better.

Here, I would like to introduce you to some of these people in my village. I’m sure if you stay longer you’ll meet many more:

First there is Emily, who does not get enough credit. She made some very hard, very critical decisions when I was essentially useless. She endured the trauma of seeing someone she loved, rushed away in an ambulance. She got herself to the hospital and was there by my side every possible moment. If they’d let her, she would’ve held my hand through the surgery.

She sat in the waiting room alone, before anyone else could make it to the hospital. She listened while they called a code blue (hospital speak for cardiac arrest) in a Cath lab very near mine (too close for comfort). She pretended to eat peanuts given to her by a stranger to avoid offending them (even though she’s allergic), coordinated all my visitors, helped order my meals when I didn’t want to eat, listened to me talk, and talked when I didn’t want to.

She was willing to give up running entirely if I had wanted her to. She let me have alone time in the hospital to process, which meant she endured her own alone time as well. She went on all my hospital rehab walks so I wouldn’t have to make awkward small talk with the exercise physiologists. She watched a lot of bluey with me.

Now, after we’ve left the hospital, she endures my gripes about being cooped up inside. She lets me process on my own time (a long time). She still walks with me. She still talks with me; even when I struggle, she’s patiently letting me figure is out. She’s helped me be honest with myself. She’s picked up my slack when I’ve been down. She’s cheered on the small victories, and kept me in line, kindly keeping me within my limits. She’s dealt with my changes in mood and focus, energy and ability.

Maybe because she didn’t have a cardiac event, or maybe just because she’s kind and approachable, more people have wanted to talk to her about all this than me. She’s told the story over and over, screened questions, heard every theory, and turned over the incident hundreds of times. In addition to being an amazing wife, she’s been secretary, therapist, cheerleader, counselor, nurse, and so much more, all for something she didn’t sign up for. I could write volumes.

Then there’s my mom and dad who dropped everything to be with me. My mom stayed with me through multiple nights, sleeping on a crummy hospital chair. She did so Emily, who wouldn’t leave me without help, could relax and get some sleep. My dad drove back and fourth between Logan and the hospital running errands to take care of me in Ogden and my brothers back in Logan. He brought them to see me, and made sure they got back home for everything they needed to do.

Sometimes, while I was in the hospital, I would almost have “too much” help. You can only fit so many people in a hospital room. I really respect my dad for noticing that, noticing there were other ways he could be helpful, and going and doing, even if it wasn’t exactly what he would’ve liked to do with his son in a hospital bed.

Then there’s my brothers, who took turns, along with my parents, taking me out to lunch in the days after leaving the hospital. I cherish the strength that has been added to our relationships as a direct result of this event. I also appreciate the distraction it provided.

There’s my mother in law who drove three hours, at a moments notice, to be with and support my wife and I taking four days out of her very busy schedule to hang out with us in a hospital room. My great grandfather Paul (with whom I share a name and birthday) lived just a few blocks away from what is now McKay-Dee hospital. My mother-in-law also took some time to walk around Ogden and find that house.

There’s the nice lady who saw Emily, alone in the ER waiting room, and offered her trail mix.

And later, the stranger who saw her tears and offered a hug.

There’s the first responders, with the epic mustaches, who dedicate their lives to being in so many people’s villages.

The doctor and nurses who not only kept me alive and well but put forth the effort to ensure I and my family understood what was happening. I am grateful for their attention and kindness which instilled in everyone great confidence in my care and outcome.

There were the floor nurses, MAs, CNAs, exercise physiologists, and hospital staff, who kept me alive, clean, happy, and fed; bringing me new clothes, snacks, meals and blankets, taking me on walks, answering my questions, and constantly monitoring my vitals.

There was the two men who took time out of their Weekend to help me in my Sunday worship at the hospital allowing me to feel familiarity and spiritual comfort in a trying time.

There is my father in law, who was there for my wife to give advice when she didn’t know what to do after unsuccessfully trying to find an Urgent Care, twice.

There’s the countless neighbors and friends who brought us cookies and meals. All of which, I could tell, were all baked with at least one extra tablespoon of love.

There’s the ragtag track club who reached out with kind words of support, still want me come to Wednesday workouts even if its just to jog real slow, and still cheer me just as loud.

There’s the couple from track club who brought us the best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten, even though they were mere weeks from getting married.

There’s the friend on a walk who stopped to ask how my race went.

More than once I’ve bumped into friend at the gym who took the time to ask a few questions about the experience and ask how I was doing.

All my high school buddies who sent me texts as soon as they found out making sure everything was alright and volunteering support, even from hundreds of miles away.

There’s a running buddy who took the time, while riding his bike to work, to chat with me for a few minutes while I was out on one of my first, somewhat normal, runs back.

There’s my wife’s aunt and uncle who, on their way to somewhere else, saw me out on a morning jog and stopped to tell me how happy they were to see me out and about.

The race director of my first real ultra who, through Strava comments, seems to have a personal interest in my recovery.

My high school coach who found out about the heart attack peripherally and called me out of the blue just to see how I was doing and chat for a minute. He didn’t even know I was having a pretty rough day and talking to him turned it around.

There’s my parent’s neighbor, who made a similar phone call on a similarly difficult day. I look up to this man; his support means something special to me.

Countless people, too many to mention, have reached out with physical, emotional, financial, and culinary support. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more grateful or aware of my village. Thank you all for being a part of it and I hope, somehow, I can be in yours.

🙂

Join the village?