I apologize for this picture.

In fact, I feel I should apologize for the ’70s in general!

With the exception of the Bee Gees.

Greatest. Group. Ever.

(Don’t even try to argue, I’ve had 32 years of practice and I will win the debate!)

And the relevance to this post?

This is what my husband was wearing when we met.

Angel Flight pants.

And a silk shirt.

But he drew the line at gold chains.

Leave it to me to hook up with a guy in the middle of the disco era who couldn’t dance.

But he’s still cute…..

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To understand the impact of my husband’s recent hospitalization (and the stories that will follow) requires a bit of history.

His family history.

Irish Catholic family. Big. Nine kids. He’s third from the top.

My father-in-law was an attorney. Private practice. Put every one of those kids throught private school working six 12-hour days a week.

Old fashioned discipline. He’d say “Jump!” and you had landed before the word came out of his mouth.

Heavy smoker. Enjoyed a couple of Seagrams and 7UP every night. Overweight.

You know where this is going, don’t you?

Six weeks after I met my husband, four weeks after our first date and two weeks after we became engaged, it happened.

My husband’s father had a massive heart attack.

At the age of 50.

So massive was this attack that the cardiologists at the local-hospital-with-trauma center told him he had maybe two months to live. Go home and make the most of the time you have left.

Like hell! My future father-in-law decided he wanted a second opinion, so he went where everyone went when they needed a miracle.

He went to Stanford Medical Center. It was there he met Dr. Norman Shumway. Not only did Dr. Shumway assure my in-laws that he could bypass (what turned out to be) five vessels and replace the aortic valve, but if necessary, there was always a heart transplant!

According the story we heard later, all this was discussed as casually as if you were sitting in a cafe over lunch.

And you know what? Dr. Shumway did it!

Surgery was done, weight was lost, smoking was stopped, exercise was started, drinking dropped to a minimum.

Because a pig valve was used the family used to tease that my father-in-law was eating his relatives when he’d eat pork. The more immature of the family would make snorting noises.

Let’s just say that under stress, this family tends to use humor as a coping mechanism.

Dr. Shumway gave us seven more years with my father-in-law. He gave my first two children a chance to have memories of their Grandpa and he lived to see seven of what turned out to be 28 grand-children. He gave my in-laws the chance to retire up to the family farm and enjoy what they had worked so hard to accomplish.

I wish that somehow I would have had a chance to thank him.

My father-in-law died of a heart attack in October of 1985, age 57.

My mother-in-law lost her husband and then three weeks later lost her mother, my husband’s only surviving grandparent.

A year later my husband’s mother was diagnosed with laryngeal cancer and just prior to undergoing radiation, during a routine chest x-ray, they found lung cancer.

They gave her six months.

She lived an additional, active 2 1/2 years before succombing at the age of 59 in 1989.

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To the nine children in my husband’s family, turning 50 was a major psychological milestone.

After all, both parents were dead before they were 60.

They all joke about who is going to “go” first.

Some see doctors on a regular basis. One brother has a cholesterol level over 300 and doesn’t take any medication for his hypertension.

One never, ever set foot in a doctor’s office. They felt good, they exercised, they felt they had no reason to ever go. Besides, they might have to have the dreaded prostate exam. One felt that the occasional check of his blood pressure at Safeway was adequate.

That “one” was my husband.

Even my health issues and the death of my father at age 62 didn’t get him into a doctor’s office. I told him that I felt fine and asymptomatic and my hypertension and elevated cholesterol were discovered at a doctor’s appointment.

He didn’t go.

Denial can be a bad thing.

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The above story sets the stage for what has transpired over the last two weeks.

What an eye-opener this experience has been.

I’ll never be the same as a nurse again.

I’ve now seen enough, in fact I’ve seen way too much, of the other side.