Traumatic Hiatus: Taking a Detour to the Dance

I found out the other day what it would be like not having my wife; I don’t think I have the mettle for it.

She woke me up at about 12:30 in the morning. She said she had a terrible pain in her chest. She was moaning and crying out and bending over. Her usual reaction to any indisposition is embarrassment. She doesn’t like to think that anything could be wrong with her.

I was alarmed. I decided to wake up our doctor. He said to call the paramedics and have her taken to Huntington Memorial Hospital.

I called 911. A few minutes later a fire engine came. Then the ambulance. One of the ambulance men looked familiar. Big, good-looking man named Jim Goldsworthy. He said, “I remember you.”

He was one of the crew that had taken me to County Hospital when I had my “arrhythmic episode.” He said, “I didn’t think you were going to make it.” I almost didn’t.

They took my wife away in the ambulance. I followed in my car. By the time I parked and went into the emergency unit she was already in bed with tubes in her arms.

The duty doctor, Dr. Roy Antelyes, said it was too early for a diagnosis. He said he was going to call our doctor, Tom Callister. I hated to think of that poor man having to get out of bed and get dressed, but of course that’s his job.

Meanwhile, the duty nurse, Melanie Crowley, was being very cheerful. I don’t know how they can be cheerful in those places.

Dr. Callister arrived and began examining my wife. He said they would have to make some extensive tests. It would take time. She told him the annual dinner-dance of her counseling center was Friday night (the next day) and she had to be there.

The doctor shook his head. “No way,” he said.

He said the cardiologist would examine her in the morning.

I got home at 3:30 and went to sleep about 4. At 7:30 she called. “Were you asleep?” she asked.

Not only was I worried about her the next day, but I felt guilty when I had to do her chores. She is really overworked. First, I had to feed the cats. She feeds five wild cats every morning. They gather on the front porch, whining and screeching. I hadn’t the slightest idea how to feed them. I found a large can of cat food and divided it between two bowls and put them out on the porch and withdrew my hands quickly. If that wasn’t enough for them let the beggars starve.

Then I had to feed the dog. Then I had to make coffee. She had given me a list of last-minute chores pertaining to the dinner-dance. I had to go to Supervisor Ed Edelman’s office to pick up a resolution. I parked at The Times, walked up hill to Temple and Grand, and found Edelman’s office on the eighth floor at the end of a long hall.

Then I had to deliver the resolution to the Southern California Counseling Center, of which she is administrative director. She believes that the dinner-dance can not take place without her. Everyone was stunned to hear that she was in the hospital. She is not supposed to get sick.

Then I had to keep a date to talk to the Friends of the Center at a luncheon in Beverly Hills. By then I was a nervous wreck. Then I drove to the hospital. Because of new construction, the hospital is almost inaccessible. I had to park in a new parking structure and take a shuttle to the hospital itself. I carried a bouquet given me by the luncheon hostess. The hospital is a labyrinth. It took me 20 minutes to find her room, and it was guarded like Ft. Knox. She was in intensive care.

She was watching a soap opera. She said they hadn’t found any heart damage but they had to do more tests. She said she was going to get out. I said, “No way.”

The next morning she called me and said to stand by. She was going to get out. I was afraid she was simply going to put on her robe and escape. “Don’t do anything foolish,” I told her.

I had to feed the dog and the cats again. I was really beginning to appreciate her. The phone kept ringing. A deliveryman hammered on the door. Later she called and said to come and get her. She had talked her way out. She told me to bring her some underwear, a dress and some shoes. I found the designated articles and stuffed them in a shopping bag and drove to the hospital.

She was ready to go. “You’re not going to the dance,” I said hopefully. “You bet I am,” she said.

I was frazzled out, but I had to dress in my tux and escort her.

They think she had a hiatus hernia, whatever that is.