An Unexpected Call

Processing a weekend of sudden crisis, windowless rooms, and the small glimmers of light that carry us through

I had a different post ready to publish about a week ago. Instead, something happened that weekend that I am still struggling to process. So I started writing.

© Manuela Thames

If there is one sentence you never want to hear from a doctor or nurse, it is this:

“We are doing everything we can.”

I heard those exact words on a Saturday afternoon at 3:00 p.m.

When I saw my husband’s name appear on Caller ID, I assumed he was finally calling to let me know he was on his way home after completing the 80-mile bike race he had ridden that morning. I had started to wonder why it was getting so late, but I figured he was probably celebrating with fellow cyclists.

It had been an unusually hot day. The sun was relentless. Earlier, I had checked the weather app and noticed an extremely high UV index along with an air quality warning. None of it worried me. My husband is an experienced cyclist who has completed many races like this before - some even longer and more demanding.

When I answered the phone, it wasn’t my husband’s voice I heard.

A woman introduced herself as a nurse and explained that someone had found him lying on the side of the road. He was disoriented and drifting in and out of consciousness. As often happens during long-distance cycling events, riders become spread out over many miles. Another cyclist had come across him and called 911.

Then came the words that were almost impossible to process.

“He is in the emergency room right now. We had to place a breathing tube down his throat, and the doctors are working on him. He is very sick, but we are doing everything we can.”

As she spoke, my body reacted before my mind could catch up. My heart pounded. My chest tightened. I felt nauseated. My thoughts raced in every direction while I fought to stay calm.

I was terrified. I was in complete disbelief.

At the same time, I realized I had no way to get to the hospital. My 19-year-old son was with my 16-year-old son, who had been dropped off for a scheduled driving lesson. Still trying to absorb what the nurse was telling me, I ran to my neighbor’s house and asked for help.

Then my phone rang again.

It was my oldest son.

“Mama, did you hear? I’m coming to get you.”

For unrelated reasons, he had tried calling his dad’s phone. The same nurse answered and explained what had happened.

A few minutes later, we were on our way to the emergency room.

I could see the fear in my son’s face. He could see it in mine.

As we drove, we held tightly to each other’s hands and repeated the same words over and over:

“This cannot be happening.”

“This cannot be happening.”

“This cannot be happening.”

On the way, I called two close friends and asked them to meet us there. The thought of walking into that emergency room alone felt unbearable. I needed support. I needed people who could stand beside me while my world suddenly felt as though it were falling apart.

They came without hesitation.

When we arrived, we were led into a separate room so the doctors could speak with us privately.

The family room.

I looked around. There were no windows. Tissue boxes sat on nearly every surface. A few outdated magazines were scattered across side tables.

I didn’t say it out loud because I didn’t want to frighten my son any more than he already was, but this room looked like a room where bad news was delivered to the patient’s family. It was so surreal, I felt like a character in a medical drama show.

I looked at my son and started to put my arms around him. Holding him in that room because he was afraid his dad could die today was a moment I will never forget. But he also stepped up in ways I never wanted him to have to. With absolute certainty, he took care of me more than I took care of him during that time.

A few minutes later, two doctors entered and introduced themselves. One was the resident. The other was the attending physician.

They seemed kind and calm, but there was a heaviness about them that I couldn’t ignore.

They sat down, and I wanted to interrupt them and say, please, just get to the point.

Instead, I waited.

They explained that they were still trying to understand exactly what had happened. They were running every test they could think of. My husband was on a ventilator because they were concerned about protecting his airway. They believed he was suffering from heat stroke, but they could not yet rule out other causes for his collapse.

Then they began asking questions.

I answered no to all of them.

“He is healthy,” I said. “He’s never had seizures. No heart condition. Nothing that we’re aware of.”

As the conversation continued, there was one question I desperately wanted to ask. The question every spouse wants answered:

Is he going to be okay?

But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I was afraid of the answer. More than that, I could see that they didn’t know yet. They didn’t have to say it; I could see it in their faces.

Finally, they told us we could go see him.

My son and I stood and began the long walk down the hallway, holding tightly to each other’s hands. Tears streamed down my face. Every step felt heavy.

Part of me wanted to turn around. Part of me didn’t want to see what waited on the other side of that door.

When we entered the room, the atmosphere felt overwhelming. Machines. Monitors. Nurses and doctors moved quickly from one task to another.

And there was my husband.

He was surrounded by people working with urgent determination to keep the worst from happening. A breathing tube protruded from his mouth. Ice packs covered his body as they fought to bring his dangerously high temperature down.

A nurse told me I could talk to him.

So I did.

I took his hand, leaned close, and told him I was there. I told him that we loved him.

I don’t know whether he could hear me.

In that moment, I didn’t know whether I was witnessing the beginning of his recovery or the worst day of our lives.

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As you can guess, the story ends well. Otherwise, I would not be writing about it... yet.

But I needed to get this part out. It’s not even everything.

I am still processing what happened, but I am also filled with awe and gratitude: for life, for friends, for strangers, and for the countless acts of kindness that carried me through one of the most frightening weekends of my life.

We are home now and recovering. I will share more in the coming days.