Things have been all scrambled up here in our world. Turns out Tom didn't have heart attacks when we feared he did; that was a condition called atrial fibrillation, an abnormal heart rhythm. But the a-fib became so bad during his stress test--treadmill, not chemically induced--that he actually had a small heart attack. That's what the doc calls it: a small attack, determined by the level of enzymes found in his blood. I can tell you this: his small heart attack scared the peewaddling out of me.
He's been in a hospital in Austin since Thursday. Tomorrow they'll do an angiogram to determine the level of damage and stent if necessary. (Beyond that, my mind refuses to go.) Is it serendipity or coincidence or something scarier that tomorrow's the seventeenth anniversary of his quad bypass?
I'm driving into Austin every day. They say I could stay in his room and not have to drive back and forth, but I gotta come home for Max. My poor cat hasn't been outside in quite a while. I get home, I feed him, I feed me, next thing you know it's dark. I'm gonna try to take him out for a little while before I leave this morning.
The house seems so foreign without Tom.