About this time last year, I almost became a widow. How close is debatable, depending on which of Derek’s doctors you ask. But it was close enough for me to come home to our cat at 5am, alone and sobbing, imagining the worst case scenarios of life with a dead husband.
Twelve hours earlier, I was getting ready to go to a party. It was a joint surprise birthday party, and I was tasked with decorations as the close friend of one of the celebrants (also named Derek, but who we will call D1)1. I had pictures to print out, ribbons to buy, an outfit to choose and makeup to apply all before arriving early to put up said decorations. I bustled around while Derek sat on the couch watching TV. He had been feeling sick for the past week or so and had decided to skip the party to get some rest. I kissed him goodbye, told him to take it easy and departed.
Once I got to the party, I texted Derek to say that I had arrived before my phone was quickly commandeered as ad hoc DJ speakers. The party, at a friend’s apartment, was filled with Derek’s soccer friends who had become my friends, too. They all asked where he was, why he wasn’t here to celebrate. I gave the canned “he’s sick” answer, and everyone said they hoped he felt better soon.
I was bouncing around the party, two beers and a slice of pizza deep, when the host got my attention.
“Your husband texted me. He says no rush, but look at your phone when you get the chance.”
That didn’t ring alarm bells, but I figured it was about him being sick or something that I’d want to check out.
Don’t be alarmed but I’m thinking of going to the hospital. It's not getting worse please don't panic. But now that I've experienced this chest pain a few times I'm thinking it might be best to make sure it's not a cardiac issue. For safety sake. I fear going to an emergency room because I don't know how that works or how much they cost but this place is in network so maybe I'll go here and just see what happens. Worst case it's nothing and I have to pay some hospital bills.
Also no need to freak out the partygoers if it's avoidable. I don't think I'm dying so I don't want them to think that. Maybe just say I'm feeling bad so you're going.
My stomach sank, but the rest of me went into emergency mode.
I gave an Oscar-worthy performance as I left so as not to “freak out the partygoers.” I said I was gonna bounce so I could take care of my sickly husband. Yes, I’d love some to-go pizza to take home to him. I’ll give him all your well wishes, thank you! I threw on my coat and made a beeline out of the building.
Luckily, the hospital Derek had chosen was a few (long-ish) blocks from the party. I half ran there, the heels of my ill-suited booties manically clacking on the sidewalk. I made it to the ER, and ran in looking a lot like Lucy in that one episode of I Love Lucy2.
I admit, every time Derek gets sick, I get a bit skeptical. He, like many other men, suffers from the well-documented condition of (over)complaining about every symptom of the common cold. (He will deny this.)
However, perhaps semi-contradictorily, Derek also struggles with describing his symptoms. Well before we were dating, he came to work sniffling and stuffy; he insisted it was allergies, without any idea that his symptoms pointed to a cold (not allergies) until our coworker/friend and I told him. When we got COVID in 2021, he was convinced he had strep because his throat was uncomfortable and he didn’t know what post-nasal drip was (he still maybe doesn’t). Lucky for him, he didn’t get sick a lot for most of his life, so he really just doesn’t know the words to use.
So when he came down with some sort of bug last February, I took care of him as best as I could given his descriptions and treated it like the flu.
When he said he felt like the muscles in his shoulders, neck and back were tight, I assumed he was feeling achy. He reasoned it was because he had recently exercised his shoulders. Maybe he had tweaked his shoulder again playing soccer. He got a massage, which not only didn’t help, but potentially made the aches worse because the masseuse (who spoke of himself in the third person as “the masseuse” and whose nails were so long they scratched Derek’s skin) dug into his muscles so hard.
When he noticed that the muscle aches were accompanied by some chest pain, he couldn’t say whether it was sharp pain or dull pain. Whether it was constant or intermittent. He did notice that he felt “it” more in the evening once he had stopped working at the standing desk and sat down to relax. He speculated that he just didn’t notice the discomfort while he was working and that it only felt worse without that distraction. I didn’t question him.
When he couldn’t really sleep for a few nights in a row, and he ended up frustrated and tired, I assumed it was like when I can’t really sleep when I’m sick and my body aches and my head is all stuffy or I keep coughing. Every morning I’d ask him to describe the sensations, trying to understand how I could help, how we could fix this.
“I’m just uncomfortable,” he’d say. By Wednesday night, we’d graduated to “very uncomfortable.”
“Are you achy?” I asked, touching his slightly warm forehead.
“I don’t know what that means. You always say achy, and I don’t know,” Derek said, slightly frustrated. I tried my best to explain, but it seemed we still weren’t on the same page. I figured that yes, he was still just achy.
On Thursday, as he and I moved about the apartment doing our daily tasks, Derek said, “What if I’m having a heart attack? That’s chest pain right?”
“You’re not having a heart attack,” I said. He didn’t think he was either, and we moved on.
Sitting in the ER waiting room that Friday night, Derek told me that he was feeling better than he had when he initially left for the hospital, but that he had been reading an article about heart attacks and could cross off every single symptom as one he was experiencing:
• Chest pain? Check
• Pain or discomfort in the shoulder, arm, back, neck, jaw? Check
• Cold sweat? Sometimes check
• Fatigue? Check
• Heartburn or indigestion? Check
• Shortness of breath? Maybe (he is still unsure of what this means exactly)
Having grown up with my own maladies and the daughter of two medical professionals, I made sure Derek had explicitly told the ER desk that he was experiencing chest pain, knowing that was like a secret keyword to get seen faster. I asked the poor guy a slew of questions: Are you still in pain? Is it sharp pain? Maybe you should go tell them you’re still in pain? How long have you been waiting? Do you want some pizza?
Once inside, Derek answered the same general set of questions to various nurses and doctors. No, he had no family history of cardiac issues. The pain is at a 2 now, but was at a 7 a few hours ago. No, I’ve never experienced this before.
I tried to stay out of the way as best as I could, but paid strict attention to both their questions and Derek’s answers, making sure nothing got lost or forgotten. They drew some blood, listened to his heart and breathing. They put him in line for an x-ray to rule out any physical damage, and promised an EKG to check out his heart since the pain was mostly in his chest.
After the x-ray results came back and showed no damage, the doctor returned with some Pepcid AC, explaining that indigestion and heartburn can feel pretty uncomfortable and painful (tell me about it, doc), so let’s see if the Pepcid clears it all up.
Derek and I looked at each other and laughed. How embarrassing would it be if we were in the ER for INDIGESTION??? We waited the prescribed 45 minutes, but he didn’t feel any different.
Still, there was an EKG to take, just in case. We were in that small EKG/storage room, Derek shivering, shirtless and plugged into the machine, when the doctor found us.
“How’s it going,” she asked the nurse/EKG tech. The machine wasn’t really working, but they couldn’t tell why. (It seems that EKG machines basically never work on the first try.)
“Okay, let’s get another one in here then. I need his readings,” she said, looking up to Derek. “Your bloodwork came back. Your troponin levels are insane, you’re basically having a minor heart event. We’re going to have to admit you.”
Neither Derek nor I knew what troponin was, but we did know that this had escalated from some indigestion.
The third EKG machine worked well enough to provide a readout (which was generally normal) for the doctor, who then sped walked us to the beds area of the ER. From there, we met a rotating cast of several cardiologists, more ER doctors and nurses. Each asked a similar set of questions about the progression of his symptoms, his health, his daily habits.
I learned that when Derek told me he was feeling “very uncomfortable” on Wednesday night, that translated to “the worst, sharpest pain of this week,” when he was talking to doctors.
The doctors learned that Derek had never done a single drug in his life, convinced that such a healthy 29-year old guy could have such serious heart damage without cocaine being the culprit.
Derek and I learned that troponin is a protein that your heart leaks out when it’s distressed (a layman’s paraphrase). Normal troponin levels are around 0.01 (whatever the units are)—Derek’s was at 10, and would climb to 12 later that night.
We were told that Derek had come in just in time; had he waited any longer, this mini heart event would have been much, much more serious. As scary as that sounds, at the time it felt like they were saying that while there had almost been something to worry about, there was no need now because it would all be handled and addressed and he would be just fine.
It was an avalanche of information, and my fingers flew across my iPhone keyboard as I took notes. But everything was actionable; the doctors were going to run basically every relevant test, throw basically every relevant treatment at Derek and monitor him constantly for any changes.
It’s funny how you could tell the ER staff from the upstairs cardiology staff. The ER nurses and doctors were very matter-of-fact and pretty fast paced. Once the cardiologists came down, they spoke much more slowly and affectedly; each adopted their own version of a soft, condolence-type voice as they asked Derek questions and gave him updates.
“I am so, so sorry this is happening to you,” said a young doctor with FIGS scrubs. She was talking to us like Derek had already died or was extremely close to it. The doctors and nurses before her had indicated his condition needed to be addressed immediately, hence the urgent admittance, but all with the understanding that he’d be fine. Derek even said he was feeling fine!
I don’t remember anything else she said because her tone threw me off so badly. All of a sudden I was worried, exactly the opposite aim of her soft tone, I’m sure. Had I missed something?? Was I not grasping how serious this was?? Was Derek about to die and I just didn’t know it?
We didn’t really see her again and gave our full attention to whoever was taking care of Derek at any given moment. But even in the bustle of the next few hours, her sad face, and her “I am so, so sorry,” filled with sympathy, would crop up in my mind now and again.
By 5am, it was time for me to go home. Thanks to COVID, no visitors were allowed to stay overnight. I would have to come back the next day at noon.
Derek was set up in a room with a roommate in the cardiac ward. He had the bed closer to the window which offered a a pretty solid view of Fort Greene Park. He was hooked up to two IVs and a semi-portable heart monitor. We’d met his night nurses who were in amazingly playful spirits and who assured me my husband was in good hands. One of them high-fived me and complimented my nails.
It felt weird kissing Derek goodbye and just leaving. I know rules are rules, but why couldn’t I stay with him? I wouldn’t bother anybody! I always wore my mask. It felt insane that I just had to leave him there, alone. I had been at his side in the hospital for eight hours, and all of a sudden, I had to go home without him. I know he wasn’t helpless, and he was in good hands, but still.
I walked down the hall, my click-clacking booties making me feel incredibly inappropriate, and called a Lyft. I remembered the FIGS doctor from earlier, wondering if I shouldn’t demand to stay with Derek for the night. What if it was that serious? What if he went into cardiac arrest while I was asleep at home? What if he died in his hospital bed, alone?
Security guards waited with me until my car pulled up. As we drove away, I could feel the adrenaline of the past few hours leaving me. The tears quickly built up and spilled over. On one hand, I didn’t want to make a stupid scene, to have the Lyft driver think something terribly wrong had just happened at that hospital. I reminded myself that Derek was okay, he was alive. There was no reason to weep. But on the other, “I am so, so sorry this is happening to you.”
I held in the full breakdown for when I got inside our apartment. I hugged our cat tight, assuring him (and myself) that everything was okay, that daddy was in the hospital but would be back soon. Even though I knew it was true, in my sleepless, haggard state, I couldn’t help envisioning the worst case scenario. Derek dies, and I am left with our cat. How much does cremation cost? Could I afford to stay in New York? Would I even want to? Would I have to have services in his hometown?
I would be widowed at 28 years old after just over a year of marriage. I didn’t even have a full-time job. I couldn’t see myself climbing out of the depression and grief of being widowed enough to keep up with my freelance workload. I’d have to move back in with my parents. Would his family resent me for moving back to California with his ashes?
I called my dad. I felt bad; Derek was going to tell his mom in the morning and I didn’t want my family to find out before she did. But I could not sleep or sit there without reassurance. My dad, who is cursed with insomnia, would probably be awake. He didn’t pick up for once, and I was happy that that probably meant he was getting some sleep for once. It seemed, though, that just the act of slowing down to call him snapped me out of my spiral and settled me down enough that I was able to sleep.
Derek was discharged from the hospital Sunday afternoon, which was sooner than initially projected since, minus the minor heart event, every test showed Derek as totally healthy. The official diagnosis was pericarditis, inflammation of the sac around the heart, likely caused by whatever virus he had had. Tests showed it wasn’t the flu, it wasn’t COVID; it was just some random virus they couldn’t even identify. Apparently, according to the doctors, this was becoming common in otherwise healthy men aged 18 to 29 who had received the COVID vaccine (but that we should all still get the vaccine!!). There was nothing he could have done to prevent it, really. It was a fluke, a freak occurrence. They’d give him some pills to lower his risk for reoccurrence, but still, it could potentially happen again.
Upon discharge, there was no guidance for Derek to take it easy or to not eat a big ol’ burger the moment he left. Derek even asked each doctor if he should avoid exercising or playing soccer for a bit; it was only the third doctor who said he was good to go, but maybe don’t run? I asked if he should work less or take some time off (no, nice try though). With a couple of prescriptions, a few hospital grippy socks and instructions to schedule a follow-up visit with the head cardiologist, we left and went home like our weekend hadn’t just been upended by a serious medical emergency.
I know this experience is mostly Derek’s, but I am the essay writer here, not him (and he has also given me free rein to write about it). I don’t entirely know what it was like to go through that, to be told all of a sudden that you were having a mini heart event (not a heart attack, he reminds me), and that if you had waited a day longer, you might’ve died. I imagine it’d be scary as hell. Luckily, Derek is incredibly tough, as well as emotionally and mentally stable. He still has a lot of room for improvement, though, when it comes to describing his physical symptoms.
Bless this man who, after going home from his own birthday party, came all the way back to the hospital to see how Derek was doing and bring my a desperately needed phone charger.
I wish I could find this on YouTube, but it’s the episode “Lucy Gets Into Pictures.” She’s showing the bellboy she can act so she dramatically goes “WHAT ROOM IS MY HUSBAND IN???” all frazzled and hysterical and then runs off.