It was a Thursday. Thursday, December 4, 2014. I was impatient and frustrated with him. He wasn’t bringing by the screwdriver I needed to hang curtains in the guest room quickly enough. He’d been working all day, providing late fall landscaping cleanup for some clients. Ordinary. Normal. Usual.

Until it wasn’t. He called me at work, said he was sweaty. I’m a nurse, and he was wanting my “permission” to take an aspirin. Instead, I advised him not to take anything and visit the ER. Being the somewhat frugal and stubborn man he is, he went to the nearest Walgreens clinic. He reported they found his temperature too low, but he was sweating profusely. I employed my critical thinking skills to determine a possible cause. He then went to urgent care, where I later heard he staggered in demanding an aspirin. Staff immediately knew something horrible was wrong, and recommended EMT transport him to a local ER. I was still at work, knowing nothing of this–only that he was sweating and “hypothermic.” My stubborn-ish then fiancé blatantly refused ambulance transport and drove himself to the hospital.

We tried to communicate, but neither his words nor his texts were making sense. All I could understand was that his mother and brother were there and tests were being taken. What felt like hours later, his mother called me. She calmly stated that he was having a CT scan, but doctors felt he had a pulmonary embolism (lung blood clot). Mama Burke relayed the doctor’s suggestion that I should come if possible. I can still remember the calm stillness of her voice. I wasn’t alarmed. Pulmonary embolism–treatable. All was well (as much as it could be.)

Until it wasn’t. Again, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was strained. His brother. His brother told me the diagnosis while I was standing there by my patient’s kitchen island. My sweet patient was sitting in her chair, questions in her eyes. My heart stopped for a bit. Aortic aneurysm he said. Panic swiftly overcame me, and I couldn’t stop the tears. They were transporting him to another hospital; if I could make it by the time the surgeon arrived, I could see him. There are these times when being a nurse is a curse; you know too much. You know statistically survival rates for aortic aneurysms are low. And by this time, I didn’t even know how bad his was.

I made it. Barely. Remember, I’d been upset with him. I only had mere minutes with him before the surgeon arrived, and I needed hours, days, to let him know I loved him. And when you may be spending your very last moments with one you love so much, those moments pass ever so quickly. Dr. Robison, he told us he wasn’t sure he could repair the ruptured thoracic aortic aneurysm. I remember him, shivering, pale, confused, asking, “What happens if you can’t repair it?” And the surgeon, he didn’t skip a beat or sugar coat, “You won’t survive.”

And I had to say goodbye. Kiss goodbye. I remember standing there in the hallway, watching his stretcher until it was gone from sight. Dr. Robison offered to let us see the scans. There was the evidence glaring at me, mocking me, killing me, the dissections (ruptures, tears) leaking his blood and suffocating him. No, it wasn’t his temperature that was too low; it was his blood pressure. His aneurysm was thoracic, so he was bleeding out, but bleeding out into his pericardium, drowning in his own blood, so to speak. Hypotensive. Surgeon wanted us to see how great the damage. He said, “I want you to see what I’m dealing with.” He asked for prayer, then left to try to save my love’s heart, his life.

We were taken to a private conference room. There wasn’t much hope for a miracle. An hour passed with no news. Then two, then six. I couldn’t eat, drink, sleep, or do anything. Except pray. I begged and bargained. I pleaded and promised. And I wrote him a letter, a long letter. A chaplain stopped by. “They’re trying to repair a valve,” she reported. That was my first glimmer of hope. Logically, if they were going to attempt repairing a valve, then there was hope for survival!

Seven long, dark, terrifying hours later, a nurse informed us that the surgeon was finishing up and would soon speak to us. I can remember everything about Dr. Robinson’s and his anesthesiologist’s conversation–their words, gestures, clothing, posture, expressions. The aneurysm was one of the largest they’d seen and had dissected in several places. Repair was successful, valve repair was complete, but there was possibility of complications. Because the new valve was mechanical, he’d always need to take warfarin and be extremely mindful with eating leafy greens. A small price to pay in exchange for your life.

February is heart month–cardiac awareness. It’s also heart month in that we celebrate love. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, our sixth to celebrate since his aneurysm survival. Our love journey hasn’t been and isn’t perfect. There were complications and bumps in the road during his recovery. And there have been countless bumps in our road together. Love isn’t always easy. Actually, most of the time it’s so hard. Remember that long letter I wrote during his heart surgery? I made a lot of promises that I’ve forgotten from time to time–

Because day to day loving is hard. We don’t always feel euphoric in love. Some days, love looks like cooking breakfast or bringing a load of laundry in from the cold. We don’t always have to feel ecstatic in love. Some days, love looks like getting up in the middle of the night to turn on a heat lamp for the pet hen or dropping off the forgotten lunch. Some days, love looks like apologies and forgiveness.

He became known as “the miracle man” with the surgeon and staff. And, he is quick to share the One who gave the miracle, gave life. Dr. Robison later told him, “There’s a reason He wanted you around–to marry her.” We did marry almost 6 months later, and God gave us a precious little girl 19 months after his life was saved. There was a reason.

The Sunday morning following his heart surgery, I had another frightening phone call. Someone wanted to warn me that she’d talked with “someone close to God,” and God “told” the person that Rudy wasn’t going to make it. Doubt flooded me, so much that others noticed something troubling me. I waited for the inevitable. And, 1:00 pm that Sunday afternoon, he began having a-fib and other complications. More tests. More scans. I couldn’t help but hear that earlier phone conversation over and over and over. Sitting by the bed, incessantly watching the monitors, a new track started playing in my mind.

Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.

The phrase repeated over and over until the other noise was quieted; it was like a mantra, a breath. I didn’t know where I’d seen it, read it, or heard it. I had no idea where those words came from. Days, or even months later, someone sent me a scripture verse: Isaiah 26:3 “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.” So, that’s where the words came from. I do not remember ever memorizing or even reading that scripture, but God breathed those words into my soul that Sunday afternoon that my heart felt hopeless and distressed. In her book, Becoming Brave, Tracey Mitchell writes, “what we hide in our hearts during secure seasons will make our hearts strong and our words sound during stormy seasons.” No, I don’t remember learning Isaiah 23:6, but I know that I hid God in my heart during the secure seasons, and He strengthened my spiritual and emotional heart and Rudy’s physical heart during those uncertain, stormy seasons.

There’s this painting that hangs in our home. Not in the same place, but the beautiful painting hangs always visible. To me, it’s a vivid illustration of Isaiah 23:6, held “in perfect peace.” When God (Love) holds us, how can we be anywhere but peace? Five years have gone, and he’s here, alive. Angry words hurl unchecked. Kisses are rushed. We sleep miles apart (it feels) with a child and doggie between us. We are polar opposites. We’re messy. Love is messy. But, consider the painting. Some days, love looks messy. Some days, love is holding the mess, embracing the messy, tenderly kissing forgiveness. Some days, love looks like moisturizing dehydrated lips or steeping a cup of tea. And that’s okay. That’s a love worth celebrating.

~Painting by Jen Byler Hines