It’s not the prettiest picture in the world, I know. It’s no rainbow. The nondescript industrial building, the patchy lawn, the gray sky. When I look at it, though, I remember a time when I’d lost all hope—and I see something wonderful.
The trouble began with a loud crash. I shouted to my husband, Tom, from the family room, but he didn’t answer. I ran to the kitchen to find the chairs toppled and Tom slumped over, gasping, clutching his chest. A heart attack? I don’t even remember our neighbor driving us to the hospital.
Not once in our forty years of marriage had Tom been sick. He had a stomach of steel and a monster immune system. None of that mattered now. I stood in the emergency room, focused on the machine that displayed his vital signs. His pulse and blood pressure were plummeting. The doctors placed metal paddles on his chest, trying to shock his heart back into rhythm. Tom was dying.
Not yet. The doctors got Tom’s heart working again. “It’s the seventeenth,” Tom said weakly. “My lucky number, remember? No way was I going to die today.”
Nice try, I thought. He wasn’t out of the woods.
“Your husband has atrial fibrillation, an arrhythmia,” the doctor explained. Tom had two more attacks after that and needed to be shocked both times. Within a few months, however, his condition stabilized—according to the medical staff, at least. Easy for them to say.
How could I be certain? I feared another attack. I hounded Tom about his health and discouraged him from leaving the house. I even checked his pulse at random, a habit he hated.
“Stop that, Jackie. I’m fine,” he said, swatting my hand away from his wrist. “You can relax. Let’s get out. I’m going stir-crazy.”
Not even prayer gave me peace. If only my three aunts were here, I thought. Mom’s sisters had brought me through times like this before. I had been only eleven when my dad had died. My older brother Thomas had died as a young adult. My aunts had become my lifeline. Dolly knew how to handle any situation, Rita was a fountain of acceptance and generosity, and Theda could always make me laugh. They had never married and had poured their love into the rest of our clan. They were such a solid team that my family had rarely referred to them by their individual names, just by their initials—our own family trinity. After they died, I imagined them beside me when I spoke to God. That felt silly now. Did anyone hear me in the pandemonium of prayers God must be subjected to?
One day Tom suggested we visit a furniture store in New Jersey to buy a cabinet. I shuddered. The store was twenty-five miles away. Were hospitals nearby? How fast could an EMT get there? I resolved to get the trip over with as quickly as possible.
Does he look pale? I wondered once we arrived. Is his breathing strained? We made our selection, then sat in the office while the salesman did the paperwork. I tried to resist checking Tom’s pulse. Couldn’t. My hand had a mind of its own.
“Would you quit that?” Tom grumbled. “You’re driving me nuts.”
I wished I could. I wished I could stop feeling and acting like this. Driving Tom nuts? I was driving myself nuts. I stood up and walked to the window. Not much of a view—just a string of gray buildings. I glanced at the one across the street.
The letters over the door caught my attention. RTD. Exactly what my family had called my three aunts, Rita, Theda, and Dolly! RTD. Always in that order. “RTD to the rescue,” they’d say.
Then I saw the address—17. Tom’s lucky number. His birthday was May 17. We met on November 17. He grew up in a house at 17 St. John’s Place. Then there was the date of his first attack, February 17, when I’d been sure he wouldn’t make it. And yet he had. He was still here. I could almost hear my aunts. Time to enjoy your blessing and stop being afraid.
That’s when I took that photo. RTD-17. Not as pretty as a rainbow but just as powerful a promise. We’d made it through the storm.