This time of year always makes me think about "heart attack day". Remember? It was cold like now but almost spring. If you'd given me a clue the night before, well. I never knew. You slept on the couch while I went to bed and drifted off to face another day in paradise.
That particular day, I went to work and you called in. Not unusual, really. You didn't feel good and had a bit of chest discomfort. About an hour into the day I called to check on you and things seemed worse. I talked to one of the ER nurses and she said for me to go get your ass.
By the time I got home you were layin' on the bed in terrible pain. Once we got in the car, you seemed intent on living, kickin' the dash and screaming at me the whole wild 10 minute ride. "RUN that mother fucker!". I was stopping for red lights while you were dyin'. Go figure.
They did all the right things at the hospital. EKG...tombstones. Cardiac markers, negative. Morphine for the pain and chopper on the way with Activase doing its' magic. You were the poster boy at 39 for modern medical miracles, including the follow-up 3 months later for early closure w/o stenting. Doc was in a hurry that first time, okay? We watched NCAA ball from the top floor of Methodist North and I slept in the window.
It began to unravel quickly after that. We both knew that our "reunion" was about $$$$ and our Babygirl and not at all about us. I think that there at the end of it, you finally DID care about me. I reckon that's why you cried so when I told you I couldn't do it anymore.
I'm happy most of the time now. I walk outta work and look ahead to what's at home with my dawgs and the seasons on the farm. The asparagus is about to come up. I still like beer and cooking.
Thanks for never mistreating me. Thanks for being a terrific Dad and not such a terrific husband. I accept my part in the whole deal and I'm just grateful that you're still around when I say "Hey You...I just needed to hear your voice."