By Lorry Myers
It was still dark when I jerked awake. I knew when I opened my eyes that something was off. My husband was not in bed and when I walked down the hall, he was waiting for me, already dressed with his shoes on.
“Something is wrong,” Randy told me, but nothing else. “I think we need to go to the emergency room.”
His eyes said much more.
I drove past the speed limit and was grateful there was little traffic that early in the morning. Randy sat beside me, complaining about my driving and how I was about to give him a heart attack.
I should have known then.
While I was pacing the tiny room waiting for test news, Randy was going on and on about the upcoming weekend. We both heard the running footsteps coming our way and stopped what we were doing.
“Mr. Myers, we need to take you into surgery,” said the nurse as the room filled with a flurry of medical staff.
I stood back and watched as Randy was wheeled out the door.
The doctor walked me to the waiting room, asking quick questions and promising updates. “Do you have anyone to wait with you?” the doctor asked, reaching out and touching my shoulder. “You should probably call somebody,” he said before rushing through those swinging doors.
I was alone.
Since December we had been planning our oldest daughter’s wedding and now it was just a few months away. That weekend was her bachelorette party. Plans and been made, people were already on the road and the house rental check had long ago cleared. We had actually rented two houses at the Lake, one for my daughter, her friends and cousins, and one for me, my sisters and my mother because we had much to celebrate.
I decided then, that I would wait. I would wait until I had more news before I called anyone. After all, Randy had a good doctor and he was walking and talking when we got to the hospital, I foolishly reasoned. Surely that meant everything would be OK.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.