Yes, being first selectman of a small town in Connecticut was a nonstop thrill fest. I smiled at the thought. Truth was, I loved my job. Even moments like this.
It was my last appointment of the day, and I didn’t have any committee meetings tonight. Maybe I’d head over to Caro’s if John was already parked in front of whatever war documentary he was watching these days. If she didn’t have plans, that was.
“Yeah, well, people always bitch and moan if they skid half an inch, so I can’t win for losing here, Barb,” Lou said.
“We’re halfway through the salt budget, and we’ve only had two inches of snow so far. You know we’ll have at least four or five more storms this year.”
“Like I said, I’m the one who gets blamed!”
Lindsey, my secretary, opened the door.
“Barb?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m so sorry, but you need to take this call. Right away. Lou, out you go.”
I picked up the phone. “This is Barb Frost, how can I help you?” I said in my warm, mayoral voice. Most people who called my office wanted to complain about something, and I found that being polite always shocked them a little. I grew up in Minnesota, where manners were drilled into us. This was New England.
“Mrs. Frost, it’s George Macon.” George was a paramedic in town, but I didn’t think we had any issues with the first responders. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask for new equipment. They just got a new ambulance last year.
“How can I help you, George?” I said.
“I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Frost. Your husband is on his way to the ER, and he’s unresponsive and not breathing on his own. Seems like he took a bad fall off his bike. Can someone drive you to the hospital? Right now?”
Gosh. Right now sounded real ominous, all right. My mouth moved for a moment before the words came out. “Of course. Thank you.” I hung up.
Mind you, I’d always been good in emergencies. My mind could prioritize needs and get things taken care of in near-perfect order. When Juliet was eight and sliced open her hand so deeply the blood was pulsing out of it with every beat of her heart, I wrapped it tightly, told her to keep it over her head, and put her in the car rather than calling 911, mentally doing the math on how long it would take the ambulance crew to get there versus how quickly I could take her to the hospital myself. At the same time, I was wondering if I should tourniquet her arm, but I was thinking that might cut off her blood supply. I remembered my purse so I’d have our insurance card and grabbed her Pooh bear for comfort. Got a blanket to tuck around her in the car in case she was going into shock. We were at the hospital in under ten minutes, and I only went ten miles an hour over the speed limit, because I didn’t want to drive like a crazy person and cause an accident. That wouldn’t have helped anyone, for Pete’s sake.
When Sadie was bitten by the neighbors’ dog, same thing. Ice for her face, call to the police to secure the dog and get proof of rabies vaccination, call to Caro to ask her to pick up Juliet from school, call to the hospital to tell them we’d be needing the plastic surgeon, not some resident who wanted to practice stitching, thank you very much. Six months later, you could barely see the scar.
But now . . . with John in the ambulance already . . . I felt kind of . . . well . . . frozen.
Because tomorrow, I was planning to tell my husband that I’d be filing for divorce.
And even with that, and though I’d often pictured myself a happy widow . . .
I did not ever see this moment actually happening.
Unresponsive. Not breathing.
“Barb?”
I looked up. I was still at my desk. Lindsey, the dear girl, had her coat on. “Why don’t I drive you?” she said. Guess she knew, then.
“That’s—that’s a good idea, Linds. Thank you, hon.”
My hands were shaking as I grabbed my purse. Things seemed to be moving in slow motion. I should’ve been well on my way to the hospital right now, but instead, I wasn’t quite sure what to do next.
“Don’t forget your coat,” she said, because I had.
Then time sped up, and we were on 95, and I had Juliet on the phone, and she would be on her way as soon as her sitter got there. I don’t know what I said to her, to be honest.
“Do you want to call your other daughter?” Lindsey asked, and no, I didn’t, because it didn’t seem fair to Sadie, not if ten minutes from now I’d be telling her her dad was . . . was dead.
My throat was tight. I kept swallowing, but it didn’t help.
The doctor was waiting for me in the hallway of Lawrence and Memorial, which I knew wasn’t a good sign. I wondered if Westerly would’ve been a better choice. But maybe not. Maybe this place was better for unresponsive, not-breathing patients.
“Mrs. Frost, I’m Dr. Warren,” she said. “We’re going to have to chopper your husband to UConn, okay? He’s getting a CAT scan now, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a ruptured aneurysm with massive bleeding. His condition is grave, I’m sorry to say, and he’ll need surgery as soon as possible to relieve the pressure. We need you to sign these forms.”
Grave? Massive? Did she have to say massive? My breathing was loud enough that I could hear it.
“Just sign here, and here, and initial here.”
Forms. Yes, God forbid we just treated him. God forbid I got to stand by my husband and hold his hand and reassure him.
An old man was wheeled in on a gurney into a stall. Because the ER was like a barn. There were barns nicer than this, frankly, with all this beeping and noise and chaos and people in different-colored scrubs. Barns were beautiful, peaceful places. Sadie had taken horseback riding lessons, and the barn had been so gosh-darn pretty, but she lost interest after—
“You can see him now,” the doctor said.
Oh. The old man . . . the patient they’d just parked . . . that was John. I could barely see him amid all the people in there, the equipment. He was in a neck brace. Intubated, too. His face was bloody, his eyes shut. There were electrodes and wires and an IV, and he looked so unlike himself that I nearly told the doctor there’d been a mistake.
But those were his hands. Old man hands, but wearing the ring I’d put on it fifty years ago. He’d aged well, but his hands looked old now. Then again, they may have looked old for some time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d noticed. We weren’t the hand-holding type.
People were talking, but I didn’t listen to what they said. They weren’t talking to me, anyway.
“He’s very healthy,” I said. “He’s been taking real good care of himself. Swimming, running, riding his bike. He wants to do a triathlon in the spring. I told him, ‘John, don’t be crazy, you’re seventy-five years old.’”