Update . . .

God, I don't even know where to start here, my mind is mud, I'm trying to process the events of the day, to keep you all up to date, but even more so, to try to process everything that happened today, for my own sake . . . my heart hurts so bad, but not as bad as Bob's, so I'll give it the ol' college try here. . .

I was jolted out of bed this morning by a phone call around 6:30 a.m. from the U. When I saw the U of MN on caller ID, for a nanosecond I thought (hoped?) it was Bob calling from his room phone, but in the next nanosecond, even before I answered the call, I knew in my heart that wasn't true. It was a doctor, asking my permission to resuscitate Bob because he's full code and is having a heart attack and I'm the next of kin and he is unable to make the decision himself and to take a deep breath and it's okay to cry but they really need my permission before they can do anything and that's about when my mind turned to mud and I said, "I don't know what any of that means, but yes, you have my permission, to do whatever you just asked me, to help him" followed by lots of crying and trying to keep everything they're telling me straight and wondering how the hell this could possibly be happening and in that same instant suddenly hating all the people who have told me that God doesn't give you anything you can't handle and that everything happens for a reason and that God always answers our prayers but not always the way we want him to . . . because my husband has had more shit handed to him in his life than anyone will ever come close to dealing with and enough is fucking enough already and there is absofuckinglutely no reason for any of this, but maybe that last one is true, that maybe this is how God is answering my prayers because this is certainly not, not not at ALL what I have been praying for . . . then, I'm crying, and the darkened upstairs is suddenly filled with shadows of bodies and wailing, light snap on—someone is hugging me, I'm hugging Penny as tight as I can, I see little Claire and Gracie standing among the crying and wailing grownups and I feel so bad for them, with all the sadness they've seen in such a short time, their Grandpa, and now Uncle Bob . . . I think I'm telling everyone what I was just told, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next, feed dogs, brush teeth, get dressed, tell the others I'm heading into the U, hop in the Jeep and head down 94.

I find myself at the U maybe 45 minutes, hour at the most, after the phone call, takes a half hour to get to the U, whether I speed or not. . . Bob's parents and Nancy meet me, not long after I arrive, in the Gold room where Bob was just the day before, waiting for his PICC line. We're met by a nurse named Betsy, who gave us the lowdown: around 4:30 a.m. or so, Bob called his nurse, complaining about chest pains, and a flurry of activity ensued: low heart rate and high blood pressure (did I get that right?) indicated something was not right, an EKG and other tests confirmed he was having a heart attack, and was whisked down to the cardiac cath lab. The same artery that was blocked 3 years ago, his right coronary artery, was blocked again, this time clogged by a humongous blood clot. Two stents were put in to re-open the artery, but later, the surgeon told us that another blockage was found in his left coronary artery, but they won't be treating that right now, that they have to stabilize him and treat the right side first. Somewhere, in there, my mom and sister, Gretchen, arrived, for added support. . .

Bob is now in the Cardiac ICU, intubated, with more tubes and lines coming from his body that I've seen in a long time, but at the same time, two too many times. The vent, as the pacemaker, are precautionary measures. They were inserted while Bob was still conscious, in the event things should get even worse. We're told it's really hard to insert a breathing tube when the patient has lost consciousness, so they erred on the side of caution and did it while he was still alert. He also had a balloon pump inserted; the nurse described it as like one of those long balloons that people twist into animal shapes, inserted into his body via a catheter. Its job is to increase blood flow to the heart and body, while decreasing the workload of the heart, controlling the heart rate and blood pressure, thus allowing the heart to recover from the heart attack.

So, we spent all day at the U, waiting, waiting, waiting. Bob was kept under heavy sedation all day, for of a number of reasons. First, was to stabilize his heart, his blood pressure, etc., to let things recover after the heart attack and the subsequent stents placed in the artery. The cardiologist said, "You know, he's not a big guy, but boy, even in his state, he put up a fight—we really had to knock him out good to get the vent in. When you go in to see him, you'll see that his hands are strapped to the bed. That's for his own good, so he doesn't pull anything out. Even heavily sedated, he's pretty ticked off about all of this . . ." That's my Bobby . . . always a fighter. My hero.

We took turns peeking in on him in the ICU. Heavily sedated, he could not talk to us, but at times, responded, eyes closed but with head nods or shakes, sometimes it seemed like his mouth was moving, trying to form words around the tube inserted in it, in an effort to speak. Other times, he seemed to be trying to tell me things with his hands, his fingers slowly tracing figures on the bed sheet, then dropping down, as though in exasperation when I couldn't decipher his message. He did that same thing back at United, three years ago, when he had his first heart attack, and was intubated and in an induced coma. I have to take that as a good sign, that even heavy sedation can't keep Bob from trying to take charge. . .

Then the catheter site (where the balloon pump was inserted) wouldn't stop bleeding (we were told this is very common, because of the massive amount of blood thinners give while treating the heart attack). For over five hours straight, constant physical pressure was being applied to his femoral artery, in his groin, and I could tell, even though he was unconscious, that pissed him off, too; his hand kept trying to move toward the catheter site, and the tending nurse had to keep redirecting his hand, while at the same time keep pressure on the bleeding site. Finally, the cardiologist came back and made the executive decision to remove the balloon pump; they turned it off for a while and decided that Bob's blood pressure and other vitals were actually very strong without the pump, so the hassle of trying to stop the bleeding wasn't worth the effort of keeping the pump in place.

While we're playing the Waiting Game during the afternoon, we get a call from Brian. His dad, in Iowa, has passed away. Brian had stayed back at the house, with the girls and the dogs. . . my heart cries for him and his family, too. Even though his dad has been in ill health a long time, it's still hard. So hard. . .

Finally, we get to a point, where the cardiologist tells us they won't be doing anything more to Bob the rest of the day, into the night. Bob's making a turn in the right direction, he tells us. Vitals are stable, heart rate and blood pressure look great . . .they plan to take the breathing tube out in the morning, and go from there. So, in essence, there's nothing more for us to do by waiting around the hospital.

So, we all head home. I take Gaia on a walk in the back yard, then feed the dogs. We have dinner in near silence, till the girls start telling us about the stories they're writing, and Claire announces she needs a name for the centaur in her fantasy tale, so we all start tossing out names, and I open a bottle of Woop Woop shiraz, and Nancy says "Woop Woop" would be a great name for a centaur, because "woop woop" means somewhere in the middle of nowhere, an Australian colloquialism, as in, "Just been to Woop Woop and back," and Penny says, "That sounds like what I feel like tonight . . ." and we all agree with her.

I don't know why Bob had a heart attack this morning. No one could really give me any concrete answers. I will just have to wait for the next hours and days to unfold. And, just for the record, I am not mad at God. The more this goes on, the more I think God really has nothing to do with any of this. Cause and effect, I mean. He didn't cause this, he won't fix it. That's not his job. It's just life happening, as anyone experiences. It doesn't matter how much I pray, how much I beg, barter, cry, threaten, scream, holler, whimper. Nothing really works. Nothing. Things will happen the way they're going to happen, regardless. I'm kind of giving up, kind of losing steam, as far as that direction goes, I mean. Need to find a new focus, new purpose . . .

I guess instead of praying to God, I'm going to send my prayers directly out to friends, family, whomever, because the way I'm seeing it, you all are stepping up to the plate and going to bat for us. Maybe that's how God is working for me. Through you. I don't know. I'm trying to find that freakin' reason this is happening, and I'm coming up empty. I wish I could take everyone up on the offers of "whatever you need . . ." I know you all mean it. With your hearts. I just don't know if you can give me what I really need right now, and that's to have my Bob home with me. Healthy, whole. And done with all of this shit. now. Uncle already. But I've said it before, a few years ago, I don't decide these things. No one does. I certainly love all the prayers, kind thoughts, messages on the blog, e-mails . . . I love that my mom and sister came to the U. I'm grateful that Brian and Nancy and the girls (and Casper) are here with us, I'm forever grateful for Penny and Jim and all they do for us, I'm in awe of the care Bob is getting at the U . . . I am humbled, again and again, brought to my knees, breathless, with the outpouring of love and support. . . breathless, I tell you.

Time for bed. Long day. I'll probably re-read this all tomorrow and go, "WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING!! Why did I write THAT??!! THAT'S not what happened!!!"

Anyhow, g'nite. . . to Woop woop. And back. . .