Scrutinizing my reaction, the ship's physician, Dr. Dyer, patted my shoulder in an attempt to console his patient's hysterical spouse. "I think there's a fair chance he'll survive it, Mrs. Ripple. But he needs more critical medical attention than my staff and I can provide on the ship. Take a deep breath, ma'am. It's probably not as serious as it might appear."
"Urg, but I, uh, is he going to, oh my, um, but–" I tried to respond to the doctor's lame efforts to comfort me, but couldn't seem to form a complete, coherent sentence. Finally, I took Dr. Dyer's advice and sucked in several deep breaths before he needed to drag out another gurney. I felt my heartbeat, which had been thumping like a jackhammer inside of me, ever so slowly begin to ebb. "What are we going to do?"
"Not sure yet. I need to go have a word with Captain Radwick."
"Don't leave! Please don't leave Rip's side!" I grabbed hold of the doctor's left forearm. It would've taken a "jaws of life" contraption to withdraw his arm from my grasp at that moment.
Doctor Dyer used his right hand to try and free himself from my grip, but I was still squeezing his arm like a c-clamp. "Don't worry, Mrs. Ripple. My trained staff is well-prepared to handle the situation without my presence until I return."
His reassuring statement did nothing to bolster my confidence. I studied the staff to which he was referring: two young women who were busily fiddling with their cell phones and giggling about something one of them had read on her phone's screen. Rip could have jumped up, yanked the heart monitor leads from his chest, done a merry little jig on the bed, and sprinted out of the ship's hospital without notice, for all the attention the nurses were paying him. But I nodded at the doctor and released his arm, knowing that if I were to do otherwise, I'd only delay the help Rip so desperately needed.
Earlier in the evening, we'd gone to La Buena Vida for our belated anniversary dinner. I had ordered the grilled salmon on a bed of kale and spinach, lightly spritzed with a raspberry vinaigrette. Rip had debated for a few seconds before doing the same. As the waiter had walked away, I gave Rip a questioning look. He had shrugged his shoulders before responding. "I decided I should pay more heed to Dr. Herron's advice and start eating healthier. I don't want her to think I'm not making an effort to improve my diet."
Bull crap! I'd thought. Rip had never given a rat's behind what Dr. Herron thought about his unhealthy eating habits. When it came to eating, "salad" was not in his vocabulary. Nor was "lightly spritzed" or "vinaigrette". I had to wonder even then if my husband's sudden decision to start eating better wasn't akin to closing the barn door after the horse had already bolted.
Suddenly, before I could delve into what was really behind my meat-and-potato husband's suspicious menu choice, Rip sat his Crown and Coke down forcefully, clutched his chest, and groaned like a cow laboring to deliver a two-headed calf.
With no thought for other diners, I had screamed as if a dozen pirates had just stormed the restaurant with their long Samurai swords slashing the air.
"Help! Help us!" I'd hollered. "My husband needs a doctor. Now!"
Several waiters had rushed to our side, along with a fellow passenger claiming to be a physician. Calvin, the physician we later learned was a dermatologist, appeared almost as terrified as I felt, and did little to calm me or the patient. I bent down to assist my husband while waiting for someone to arrive who could actually render assistance. I spent the time praying silently. Looking back, I assume Calvin spent that time scanning his writhing fellow passenger in search of suspicious moles. Despite the fact the dermatologist was sorely lacking in cardiac training and experience, I did appreciate his offer to help, and told him so.
Meanwhile, a member of the restaurant's staff summoned the ship's doctor, who was at Rip's side in what seemed like no more than six-and-a-half days. It was probably more like five minutes, but those five minutes passed by agonizingly slow.
In the beehive of activity that followed, Rip was stabilized, loaded onto a gurney, and whisked away to the small hospital on the cruise ship. The other diners had all stopped eating and were rubber-necking to get a glance of the unfortunate passenger who had fallen seriously ill as he sat at his corner table. I'm almost certain I heard a diner tell his waiter, "I don't want whatever that poor sucker ordered."
I wanted to yell at the gawkers. Tell them all to mind their own business. I felt as if Rip and I were on display for their onboard entertainment that evening. But then I realized I would've been rubber-necking myself, had the stricken diner been anyone else in the steakhouse other than Rip.
Once Rip was lying flat on a bed in the small onboard hospital, I waited in trepidation to find out what would happen next. When I heard Rip whisper my name, I glanced at him. Pardon the expression, but he literally looked like death warmed over: ashen skin, eyes shrunken into his head, and appearing as if he'd aged twenty years in as many minutes. I swallowed hard and said, "Do you need something? What can I do for you, honey?"
"You can relax. I'm going to be all right. I promise."
"But, how can you promise me that–"
"Have I ever let you down before?" Rip's voice was barely a whisper.
Before I could reply, with his right hand pressed against his chest, Rip's eyes closed. He became so still that he appeared to have stopped breathing. I gasped and clutched my own chest.
"Oh, my God! Is he–"
Not certain herself, one of the young nurses checked his vital signs on the monitor, and said, "No, ma'am, I'm sure he's just exhausted. Heart attacks have a way of taking it out of a person, you see. They can be a real buzz-kill."
Not appreciating her turn of phrase, I breathed a sigh of relief and watched closely to detect Rip's chest move up and down and his nostrils flare slightly as he inhaled.
"I have good news and bad news," Doctor Dyer said after he re-entered the curtained-off partition surrounding Rip's bed. He briefly scrutinized the information on the heart monitor. Without asking me which one I wanted to hear first—the bad news or good, he continued. "I've decided the best plan of action at this time is to do nothing."
"What?" I was aghast, justifiably baffled by his remark. "Was your plan to do nothing the good news or the bad?"
"That was the bad news. I'd considered having him airlifted to the closest trauma center, but finding a reputable cardiac hospital near our location in the middle of Glacier Bay would have been challenging, to say the least. Not to mention, the captain informed me that landing a chopper on the helipad during the current weather conditions would be next to impossible. Loading your husband into a basket from a hovering helicopter would be even more risky than waiting until we reach port in the morning. We'll arrive in Victoria, British Columbia–"
I hated to interrupt, but I was at my wits' end. I couldn't quite visualize any silver lining to the cloud the doctor had just painted with his bleak remarks. "Please, tell me the good news!"
"Your husband's vital signs have improved greatly. I think he's out of the woods. For the moment, anyway. I'm not a cardiologist, mind you. But, judging by the EKG we just ran, I don't think his heart has sustained any permanent damage. I think this cardiac event was more of a warning sign of clogged arteries than a potentially lethal case of cardiac arrest. Mr. Ripple should be fine resting in here under close observation until morning."
"Okay." Not comfortable with the doctor's "should be fine", I glanced at the dark-haired nurse who was smoothing out a ragged edge on the nail of her right index finger with a metal file. I felt uneasy about Rip's fate if left under the "close observation" of Dr. Dyer's young nurses. I'd feel better if he were left under my own close observation. I'd watch him as if I were a soaring red-tailed hawk waiting for a mouse to quiver on the ground below. If the heart monitor even hiccupped, I'd summon the doctor immediately. Although I'm sure the nurses were a lot more capable than my shaken mind was giving them credit for, at the time I wasn't convinced they'd bother summoning the doctor unless the heart monitor had flat-lined. "Would it be all right if I stay in here with
him overnight, Dr. Dyer?"
"Absolutely! In fact, I'd recommend it. Naturally, we'll monitor him continuously until we reach port. If he takes a turn for the worse, we'll have an ambulance summoned to the port to transfer him to the best hospital in Victoria. Once they believe Mr. Ripple is stabilized and it's safe to do so, they'll transfer your husband to a cardiac center in Seattle. But, if he maintains the vital signs he's showing now, we'll wait until we're stateside, in the Port of Seattle the following day, to transfer him. That would be much better for both convenience and financial reasons." With that, the doctor conversed briefly with the nurses and then parted the drapes to exit the cramped cubicle.
I felt a sense of relief at the doctor's assessment of Rip's current condition. I prayed my husband's vital signs would remain stable, at least until we reached Seattle. I knew Canada practiced socialized medicine and wasn't sure how, or if, our Medicare policy and insurance supplement would be of any use in the neighboring country. I could see visions of our dreams of an upgraded RV, if not our entire nest egg, being destroyed like a mobile home park during a tornado. I glanced down at my anniversary ring and briefly wondered if Rip had purchased it under an "all sales are final" constraint. But I couldn't have returned it anyway. It'd meant so much to Rip to buy it for me.
I moved my chair next to Rip's bed and picked his hand up off the sheet to hold it while he slept. Within minutes, I'd dozed off into fitful slumber. But not before I'd said a heartfelt prayer, asking God to spare the love of my life and make him well again. "Lord, take me if you need an extra angel. I can't promise I'll be quality angel material, but I need Rip more than he needs me."
I knew my husband would not have agreed with me. But once again, as in the majority of disputes we'd had over the last half-century, he'd be dead wrong. Pardon the pun.
Chapter 5
"Vroom." I jumped in alarm as something white and willowy flew over my head at break-neck speed. I glanced around the dim, dusty room I found myself in, but saw nothing disconcerting. I then dropped to my knees following a loud scream that reminded me of the sound Penelope used to emit. Penelope was a pet peacock my family had owned when I was young, and her loud screeches could cause even the healthiest person's heart to skip a beat. The next thing I knew, the lights went out and I was alone in pitch darkness. I suddenly felt something feathery running up and down my arms and began to see flashes of light exploding all around me. I knew, without a doubt, I was in a building being invaded by angry spirits. From out of nowhere, I heard a low, resonating voice whisper, "You'd better leave while you still can."
I knew the threat was directed at me, and leaving is exactly what I wanted to do, but I couldn't locate an exit. Squinting in the darkness, I scanned the room but saw no doors or windows from which to escape. It occurred to me that I might be in the process of losing my ever-loving mind—one flipping marble at a time. At sixty-eight, I was too young for the men in white jackets to come take me away and put me in a home for the mentally unstable. Not for my own protection, of course, but for the rest of society's safety. Because, after all, there's no telling what a deranged lunatic who heard and saw things that didn't exist might do! More importantly, my husband needed me right now more than he ever had. Bat-crap crazy, or not, I was determined I wasn't going to let him down. But first I needed to find a way out of the room full of horrors.
Just then, I felt a slight breeze and spotted faint light coming from a narrow window in the far corner of the room. I made a mad dash for it. As I reached the open window, it slammed shut and the face of an older woman stared through the glass at me with an accusatory expression. I felt myself losing consciousness and reached out my arms to break my fall. Just before I hit the floor, I jerked awake. I sat up in bed instantly and glanced around to get my bearings. I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized the bedroom in our travel trailer and saw Dolly curled up on Rip's pillow beside me.
I realized it was only a nightmare I'd experienced, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the terrifying dream had been a premonition of things to come.
Chapter 6
"Not on your life, Buster Brown!"
"Oh, come on, Rapella! What's one cheeseburger and a few fries gonna hurt?" The pleading look on Rip's face nearly made me give in to his request that I make a run to the nearest fast food joint and stealthily sneak a combo meal back into his hospital room. But I stood my ground. I wasn't going to love him to death—literally! And I wasn't going to tell him about the nightmare either or he'd be worried about my mental state. I needed him to focus on his own well-being instead of mine for a while.
"It was things like cheeseburger and fries that landed you in this cardiac care unit to begin with," I said. "You'll just have to make do with whatever's on the tray they bring in for you, which should be arriving any time now."
"Oh, joy!" His grumbling turned into a cough. He clutched a red heart-shaped pillow to his chest to lessen the pain as he attempted to clear the phlegm from his throat. His cardiac surgeon's personal nurse had brought him the pillow while he was still in ICU following his triple-bypass surgery.
As if on cue, a skinny, haggard-faced woman, who looked like she should be a patient in the ICU enclosure next to my husband's rather than carting trays of food from one hospital room to the next, scurried into the room. She sat the tray down in front of Rip and lifted the lid off of his plate in a tentative fashion, as if she wasn't totally sure whatever was under the lid wasn't hazardous material. Her uncertain expression was unchanged even after she'd observed the contents. She studied Rip's face for a moment before saying, "Sorry."
As the stick-thin woman left the room, I looked over to see why she'd apologized. On the tray was a carton of milk, a wiggly square of green gelatin, a dinner roll, some sad-looking green beans and a glob of mystery meat. I'd have bet on chicken, but couldn't be certain it wasn't pork, or not even meat at all. If it was something like tofu, it was best for everyone concerned if Rip wasn't made aware of the glob's true identity.
The only thing I was certain about was that I couldn't have choked that sorry selection of hospital food down if my life depended on it.
But my husband's life very well could depend on his willingness to adapt to better eating habits, even if the food selections weren't what he would've chosen if given his druthers. This particular cardiac center was renowned for its outstanding cardiac care, not its mouth-watering cuisine, so I tried to put a positive spin on his lunch. "Hey, look! You're not on a liquid diet like yesterday. The roll looks quite tasty." Too bad they didn't give you any butter to spread on it, I wanted to add, but kept my own roll-hole tightly closed.
Rip gave me a look I tried not to read too much into. I'm sure it was meant to make me feel like the worst wife in the world for not agreeing to pick him up a decent meal at a nearby fast-food restaurant. I blanched as he picked his knife up and banged it down on the roll several times. THUD! THUD! THUD!
"Got a chain saw handy I can cut into it with?" Rip asked.
"Well, um..."
"You want it? Wanna see if it's as tasty as you think it looks?" Without waiting for a response, he flung it toward the trash container. I'll admit that a dinner roll really should not sound like a brick hitting the side of a dumpster when hurled into a metal trash can. But I couldn't cave in every time he complained. His health depended on my perseverance. I'd have to maintain a tough love attitude until Rip was back on his feet.
"What were you expecting for lunch, Rip? Mashed potatoes, gravy, and a thick juicy T-bone? And perhaps a hefty slice of cheesecake for dessert, just in case there's still an artery inside your body that's not on the verge of being clogged shut with plaque?"
In response to my question, Rip shoved the table away from his bed. "This crap's not fit for a dog."
"Fine! Go on a hunger strike if you'd like, but I doubt it'll improve your menu options any time soon. I'm not going to sabotage Dr. Murillo's good work by smuggling in junk food for you to kill yourself with. If that's your goal,
why don't you just ask to be put on a morphine drip until you keel over like a hollowed-out oak tree in a windstorm? Why not just save me and everyone caring for you here the time and trouble of trying to give you a second shot at a longer lifespan?"
I'd about had it with the pity party Rip was throwing for himself. Except for genetics, perhaps, he had only himself to blame for his current predicament. Doctor Herron had warned him repeatedly of the potential ramifications of his devil-may-care lifestyle. The cardiologist, who'd performed his bypass operation, had done the same but more emphatically. And yet, even after the open-heart surgery, Rip was refusing to take either one of their professional recommendations seriously.
I decided to change the subject to steer his attention away from the unappetizing lunch. In hindsight, I probably should have segued into a more appealing subject. "We need to get you set up for the therapy Dr. Murillo recommended."
"I'm not convinced it's necessary." Rip shook his head in denial. "I've heard several people say that cardio rehab is vastly overrated."
Are any of these people still among the living? I wanted to ask. I didn't, because I didn't want to get Rip riled up when he should be relaxing and resting quietly. I was pretty sure one of the "several people" Rip was referring to was a fellow police officer he used to work with who pooh-poohed the idea of rehab following his doughnut-induced quadruple bypass. He'd died six months later of a massive stroke. The others were probably the imaginary friends he always counted on to back him up when he needed support for one of his more preposterous opinions.
The man was seriously stomping on my last nerve. I momentarily visualized myself wrapping my hands around Rip's neck and trying my damnedest to choke the life out of him. I was that annoyed by his attitude that evening.
More than being merely irritated about the situation, I was scared. How would I ever make Rip follow his doctors' orders once we left the hospital? I wouldn't, I suddenly realized. As hard as I tried, I'd likely never make him see the light.
Rip Your Heart Out Page 3