Um.
Um.
Um.
Ah…
Well, I guess I’ve almost used all the stumbling phrases that come to mind, so I better start. How much should I share?
To say I’ve had a challenging time, it doesn’t quite cut it. We’ve all had a difficult time, starting with Covid. But for the Hinkle’s just before Covid was recognized as a global pandemic by U.S. organizations, and we all changed our lives, my husband was having some heart tests.
See blog post below, which is way too detailed but a little bit funny: https://www.fridaynightwritersgroup.com/2020/04/02/the-nose-lady/
Prior to his heart tests, we were just a couple who had been together for a long time. We did the usual things older people do, dental and doctor appointments, flu shots, watching TV, going out to eat and a movie. I’d been writing less than twenty years, and I led a critique group, and my husband had his hobbies.
The only thing that might have been unusual about us was that we had a menagerie that we cared for, including a German shepherd, and seven cats, both domestic and feral. Our house was filled with cat trees, catnip toys and dog chew toys.
Then came his open heart surgery in April, 2020. The first and only call I received from a doctor let me know he had survived the surgery and wouldn’t be able to talk until the next day.
He’s away from home for four weeks between the hospital and the rehabilitation facility, I’m allowed to visit and touch him twice and view him through his window in the intensive care unit (ICU). For me that was hell, for him, I don’t know.
He came home with several scars. I was expecting the wound on his chest, but not the one running down the full length of his right leg or the seven one-inch-plus stab wounds on his chest where the surgeon drained fluid from his lungs. Those were a shock and still… They notified me of these procedures exactly zero times, which left me wondering what else I hadn’t been told?
But his nurse did call at 3:30 a.m. and said, “Your husband checked out.” That rolled around my brain a few times before I said, “What do you mean by ‘checked out?’” What I’m thinking is he died; he got up and walked out. What? She responded, “We were having a conversation and suddenly he just stopped talking. What do you think happened to him? Why did he stop talking?”
I responded with “He might have had a vasovagal syncope episode (fainting) or he just fell asleep.” What I’m thinking is who’s the nurse? If there’s a problem, call the doctor. What can I do from home; they won’t even let me in the hospital. However, I patiently explained to her his history of fainting and reminded her that he was on heavy duty medication for the pain.
Needless to say, I didn’t fall back asleep and my sister probably didn’t either, after I called her. My sister answered the phone with, “Is he okay?” At least I wasn’t scared all by myself. Looking back, I could have waited until the next morning to tell her, but at the time I just needed to hear her voice. I bet she’s sorry she answered the phone.
He finally came home with a homeless guy look, unkempt hair, needing a haircut, manicure and pedicure. But he was home again and he was all mine.
He spent the rest of the year healing, gaining stamina, and strength with an unbelievable amount of doctor and cardiac rehabilitation visits. By August his left knee was in a metal brace, and he was visiting different doctors and having additional tests for the problems they found when he was in rehab. All the issues resolved were ignored or considered minor in the next year or two.
Like many people, my husband and I had Covid shots as soon as they were available. After having more than five each, we gave up and are taking our chances. Cloth masks are a thing of the past. I found them stored in a drawer like a piece of clean clothing. My leopard printed mask was accidentally thrown away when I was exiting a surgery center after I had laser to remove the minor cataract regrowth on one eye. It was so easy, it was hardly worth mentioning. Just another tick in the six-year clock.
The years and the issues blur as my husband had pneumonia twice and was hospitalized. He fell a couple times and needed emergency visits. He had two more fainting spells that I witnessed firsthand. I finally understood why that nurse called in the middle of the night. Those fainting episodes are frightening, his speech becomes slurred and then non-existent, his eyes roll backwards and he passes out. There I am holding him, so he doesn’t hit the floor. I can’t lift him or call 911 until he’s safe. So, I just wait.
My own health had some ups and downs. After the doctor removed a kidney stone, the support staff broke my collar bone and tore my rotator cuff getting me off the surgical table. The fat lady did not sing, she screamed. Four and half months later and a lot of pain medication, I still have rotator cuff pain almost every day. But I did learn how to wash my hair with my left hand, leave my hair to air dry, cram deodorant in the crevice that used to be the underarm space that could be accessed when I could lift my right arm. Forget shaving, just call me Sofia Loren.
Next came the five months that I kept complaining verbally repeating to my expensive out-of-pocket concierge doctor how much my chest hurt, the constant coughing, the fatigue… I ended up driving myself to the ER in the middle of the night. I was hospitalized with a rare and life threatening saddle embolism. A blot clot that was obstructing blood flow to both my lungs. I was on several medications and had breathing treatments several times a day. Suffice to say I was under treated by a less than competent physician, but she did visit me in the hospital.
Three of my closest friends, writers, died over between 2021 and 2025 leaving our critique group missing members and my heart aching of loss. I had been in a critique group with these two women and one man for eight to twenty years. They helped develop my writing skills and nudged me to grow in different genres. I could call them day or night and cry. I could ask them about a spiritual issue. They could turn to me whenever. I’m not sure how much I helped them, though. Then came the loss of a friend that we had known since moving to San Luis Obispo, in 1999. Have a slight clue how much her family hurts, hurts us. I wish I had Superman powers to turn the world backwards just to ease the pain of my friends’ families.
We lost our German shepherd, Luna, three of our feral cats and our indoor only, Ragdoll, Annie. Luna was our last dog, one of my ferals was almost twenty and tamed until I could pick him up, Big Boy. Annie had been with us for many years, loved to help change the sheets on the master bed and washed my face with her sandpapery tongue. Big Boy would rest his chin on my shoulder as I held him.
My husband had a total knee replacement in March this year. It wasn’t the knee that acted up in 2020. That brought a heap of problems, the least being those fainting spells. More calls to my sister. Oversharing is just a part of having Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and my sister calls my venting, my superpower. It has been overactive in the last six years.
Bottom line, though, is I have my husband and he has me. Thank you, God.
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