PROLOGUE

 

It was the date that never ended. Until it did, abruptly, on the cold wood floor in our living room.
 

Moments before, I walked out of the bedroom on my way up to the upstairs bathroom to get a fresh bandaid for the stitches in my finger. As I walked out, past the sliding door, I saw both dogs outside. In the rain. That makes no sense. My head swiveled left, and I see her collapsed on the couch. Oh, that’s happened a few times before over the previous months. She’s short of breath again. 

 

But this time, she was unresponsive on the couch. Her lips were blue. No reaction to yelling her name, slapping her face, a sternal rub. My First Aid merit badge from 50 years ago in Scouts leaps forward from the back of my memory. “Oh No. Oh No. Oh No.” Those words came out from somewhere. Can’t feel a pulse. Don’t feel a breath. Start a couple of breaths of mouth-to-mouth. I hear gurgling in her lungs. The couch is too soft, so I move her to the floor. 

 

Start real CPR. “Staying Alive. Staying Alive. Staying Alive. Ah Ah Ah Ah. Staying Alive.” I’m going to need to call 911. Hustle the dogs into the kennels. More CPR. Unlock and open the front door. More CPR. Put the phone on the coffee table. Dial 911. It’s so mechanical. I hear myself saying, “I found my wife unresponsive on the couch. I have begun CPR. She is 61 and under treatment for Cardiac Amyloidosis and underlying Multiple Myeloma.” The rest is a blur. 

 

It’s all been an automatic reaction so far. Then I start to think. Wait a minute. Am I supposed to be doing this? How long was she down? Is she dead? She does not want life-saving measures. I ease up a little on chest compressions. No, no, you don’t know. “Staying Alive. Staying Alive. “Staying Alive.” As I give her mouth-to-mouth, I wonder if this will be the last time I kiss her? “Staying Alive. Staying Alive.”

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The Paramedics come in and take over. Ronin charges from the bedroom, escaping from his kennel. I struggle to grab him. Blood everywhere. Did I rip out a stitch? Ronin goes back into his kennel like the good boy he is. They put a defibrillator on, but it won’t shock her heart. More CPR. I answer the questions they ask. I say that I have a durable power of attorney for healthcare and she does not want life-saving measures. They ask for a copy. Do I have a DNR? No. The ambulance comes in and advances treatment. More blur. EKG isn’t flatline, but it’s not normal. There’s nothing to shock. They keep doing CPR. I feel stupid standing there, watching them press on the bare chest of my lifeless wife. So, I feed the dogs in their kennels. She’d be upset if the doggies missed their breakfast. 

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I hear them say, “We are taking her to Sutter Memorial. Don’t follow up too closely.” I respond that I have to button up the house and will leave shortly. Back to mechanical mode. Print out the Power of Attorney doc. Put my computer in a backpack. Make sure the dogs have water. Drive to the hospital, my mind racing. Oh No. Oh No. Oh No. 

 

It was the loneliest drive of my life. And the first drive without Beth by my side.