Yesterday my husband Esteban had a massive heart attack. It very easily could have been fatal … but we were very, very lucky.
Yesterday’s events really shook us up, and we’re both feeling unsettled. I’m coping by cleaning and doing laundry and making sure that everything is just right for Esteban’s return from the hospital.
As part of my compulsive nesting, today I started cleaning out the fridge.
I didn’t want to throw away “his” food without his permission, so I brought up the topic as gently as I could this morning. “Since you’re going to be adjusting your diet, I’m wondering whether you’d be OK with my giving away some food items,” I said. “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” he answered.
My friend Norine and her husband Jim will get the four packages of premium bacon, and I’ll offer the three bricks of cheddar to my neighbor, Bob. But I’m not sure what to do with the well-aged beef, or the half-eaten chunk of fatty ham. Maybe I’ll save those as a treat for my friend Uta’s dogs.
As I looked through the freezer this evening, it struck me how radically Esteban’s life is going to change. He’s in for a tough adjustment, to be sure. But in my typically (and perhaps annoyingly) optimistic way, I am hopeful that yesterday’s brush with death may actually help improve his health—and maybe even extend his life.
In the meantime, I’m just grateful to see the color returning to his cheeks, to see him taking his first few steps, and especially to hear his laughter.
When you’ve looked into that great, dark abyss, you realize that it’s the little things that count.