I have a lucky dollar. Perhaps you don't believe in things like this, but I do. I guess most people believe in pennies. You know, find a penny, pick it up and you will have good luck? Or some such.
On November 1, 1992, my father had a heart attack. Cardiac arrest, or whatever term you want to use. They estimate that it was at least 5 minutes before he got to the hospital. Five minutes that he was not breathing. He was with my mother.
It seems, as the story goes, they were getting ready for church that morning. Dad didn't really feel all that well so he told Mom that he would meet up with her later for the service. Mom was teaching Sunday School and he usually would come with her.
So the story moves forward and Mom is ending the Sunday School with the normal songs with all of the classes and she spies Dad in the back of the building. He signals for her to come over to him. She does (it's important to note that my mom is a retired Registered Nurse). She notices he is sweating profusely, and he tells her that he is having some pain down his right arm and is nauseous. I'm sure that most of you can figure out where this is going.
Mom notices the symptoms and calmly tells my Dad that perhaps, they should take a trip to the hospital. She talks him out of taking his truck, which he drove to church and begins the drive to the hospital. A few minutes away fromt he hospital, Dad cries out "Martie, I can't take it" and promptly goes limp.
Folks, can you imagine what was going through my Mom's mind at the time?
She took stock of the situation, figured it would take longer if she called 911, and gunned it, petal to the metal, to the hospital. She had previously reached over and realized he wasn't breathing. She told me that she weaved the car in and out of the lanes in hopes that the police would pull her over, then give her an escort, but no such luck.
She pulled into the Emergency Room parking lot, honking her horn full blast. No one came out. She ran into the Emergency Room but there was no one around. I get sick to my stomach every time I think of that. She ran back out to the car and saw a man in a white coat and a nurse, running for the car.
To summarize, the doctor (the one who was running in the parking lot) got the ball going and a gurney was brought out, my Dad lifted on it and my mom said all the way into the Emergency Room the doctor was pounding on his chest...literally. He climbed up on top of my Dad, desparately trying to save his life.
My mom spent I don't know how much time in the emergency room waiting for news of Dad. Someone was watching over him because he made it.
I remember getting the call early in the morning on that day. It's a nightmare that I would rather not relive. I called my older brother with the news, and we got the next flight out to Florida. I remember being really numb and my husband picking up the slack and helping me pack.
I don't remember much about the plane ride. Mom had told us to come right away. They weren't sure he would make it.
I remember my brother, and my then sister-in-law meeting us at the airport. I remember looking at my brother, straight in the eye. I remember his slight nod of the head. He was still alive. It was the only communication I needed. We were all trying to hold it together.
I remember seeing Dad that first time. The respirator. The tubes. They were everywhere.
I remember touching his head, rubbing his hair. Telling him that I loved him. At this point, they had him fairly drugged up so that his heart could rest and heal. Or at least, that's how it was explained to us.
I remember putting my hands in my pockets because I didn't know what else to do with them. I remember finding the dollar in my pocket that must have went through the washer and dryer. I remember grasping it in my hand, and holding it as if it were my father's life line. I don't know why I thought that. I just know, that for whatever reason, it gave me comfort.
I remember the nausea. The bone chilling fear. This was my father. He was immortal. This could not happen.
The following days were long and filled with fear. I remember going home at night, and sleeping with my mom. She needed to be with someone. To not be alone. And so did I.
I remember that my mom would get snatches of sleep. And then get up out of bed and walk around and pray. All through the night. I added my prayers to hers.
The nurses called my father Angel. Because, by all accounts, he should not have made it. He survived. He did not need surgery. He had, obviously, some damage to his heart but at that point and time, he could control it with diet an exercise.
I still have my lucky dollar. I carry it with me all the time. Just like I did when my father was in the hospital. I have no clue why it is lucky in my mind. Most likely because it comforted me when my state of mind was not what it normally should have been.
Everyone needs their own version of a lucky dollar, don't you think?