So, earlier this morning I got a call from my mom to my cell phone.
This would normally be considered bad news, except she’d tried to reach us last night while I was off watching moon movies with Boy. And I knew they were hoping their broken AC was fixed on Monday, so I assumed she was just letting me know they were back in business, especially since I called to check in with them in that regard on Saturday.
Actually, it was bad news.
I’m sure most of you know by now that I grew up in a little neighborhood that could best be described as clannish. We were almost all related in some form or fashion, and anyway had been living together for a generation or three. We were close.
There was a family across the street from me – my aunt’s adopted brother and his family. The kids were younger than me, the oldest being a girl, about five years younger.
Her husband just had a massive heart attack this weekend. As in, shocked him back multiple times and failed. Broke ribs giving CPR. Turned blue. Airlifted to one hospital (out of state, even), had to be diverted to another because of fog.
He’s stable, now, but in critical condition.
As it so happens, I didn’t really know the guy well, but according to my mom when we were both infants we shared a crib together at the babysitter’s.
I don’t know if he had familial risk factors, but I don’t think he was in the most horrible shape. (However, being from back home, the idea that his diet was not diabetes- or heart-disease-friendly is a moderately safe assumption. But I don’t know that.)
Holy shit. Talk about a wake-up call.