Best preparation for fatherhood? A HEART ATTACK
Idon’t remember my heart attack at all.
It’s a shame because it sounds pretty dramatic — and without it, I might have missed out on being Oliver’s dad.
In late October 2011, I was living in an apartment above the Continental Club in Midtown. The previous night I’d gone to see Wild Flag, an offshoot of punk greats Sleater-Kinney, play at Fitzgerald’s. Later at the hospital, I found my notebook from the show, but it disappeared almost immediately.
Back then I was working as music editor for the Houston Press. I didn’t drive; long story. Apparently, I was waiting for the light rail on the way to work that morning (late, no doubt) when I collapsed on the Ensemble/HCC platform. A pair of nearby Metro cops were alerted to the commotion and gave me CPR; if not for them, to whom I can never be grateful enough, I would have died.
They say my brain went without oxygen for 15 minutes; the coma lasted 12 days. I woke up at Memorial Hermann hospital disoriented as hell, prone to drug-induced, embarrassing verbal outbursts in front of the nursing staff. All I wanted to do was read but couldn’t for days. The words just swam across the page; any lasting comprehension failed to penetrate the pharmaceutical fog.
Fortunately, I was far too sedated to freak out.
I think blacking out spared me much of the mental trauma I might have gone through had I suffered the crushing chest pains and other signs of a more typical heart attack. The doctors later told me that my arterial lining had ruptured, causing
a clot that restricted the blood flow to the heart.
Regardless, the coma lasted long enough that by the time the fact that I had almost died sank in, it almost felt like the whole thing had happened to someone else.
In a way, it had. To be perfectly honest, I had been living like someone who wanted to have a cardiac event at age 36. Afterward, giving up cigarettes and booze was easy; too many memories of how rotten they had made me feel. Changing my diet was tougher, but over time I grew to tolerate turkey hot dogs and chicken fajitas. Now I like them. Salads, too.
Bar-hopping turned into walking around the block, around the neighborhood or to and from the office. Some days I could barely make it up the stairs to my apartment after work. I’d lie on my bed for what felt like hours before I could move again. I limited my going out to shows I really wanted to review. Step by step, I got
Oliver is blessed with
boundless energ y; his
parents are not. I
turned 40 two weeks
before Oliver was
born; had I not
started walking
near-religiously after
my heart attack, I
doubt I could have
mustered the kind of
stamina a new parent
requires.
stronger.
That, it turns out, was excellent preparation for fatherhood — which, at the time, was the last thing on my mind.
My son, Oliver Edward Gray, was born Jan. 1, 2015. I am a considerable U2 fan, and “New Year’s Day” has long been in my personal Top 5; now it’s easily No. 1 with a bullet. In the delivery room, all I could do was scream “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” over and over — half prayer, half rock-concert refrain.
Oliver’s mother, Lauren, and I had begun seeing each other again in the weeks leading up to my heart attack. We had dated for a while years earlier, but back then I was in no way emotionally equipped to handle a serious relationship. In the words of the great Texas songwriter Joe Ely, “I wish hard livin’ didn’t come so easy to me.”
But any impulses of that nature were wiped out by those fateful 15 minutes, along with any memories of Lauren and my recent reconnection. To this day, I don’t recall much after August of that year.
So one night shortly after I moved back into “The Island,” as we Continental-dwellers liked to call upstairs, I met up with her. I told her I just wasn’t able to take things any further right then. It’s probably the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had; I can only imagine how she felt.
We managed to stay friendly, then became friends again, and she wound up inviting me to our mutual friends’ wedding. A few hours after they tied the knot, nearly two years to the day after my attack, Lauren planted a world-class kiss on me.
The proverbial light bulb went on.
Six months or so later, she told me she was pregnant.
“Snacks,” we called him. He was always hungry. When Oliver was born, he was no bigger than my outstretched hand. We had to feed him through a syringe those first few days. But Lord, could he eat. From ages 1-3, he blew through a few 18-wheelers’ worth of Yoplait kids yogurt; he’s since moved on to apples, graham crackers, (turkey) hot dogs and tater tots at a similar pace.
Oliver is blessed with boundless energy; his parents are not. I turned 40 two weeks before Oliver was born; had I not started walking near-religiously after my heart attack, I doubt I could have mustered the kind of stamina a new parent requires. That said, Lauren and I used to trade sleeping in four-hour shifts in those early months, and I’m not sure either of us has ever quite recovered.
But the trade-offs are huge. One has been watching Oliver getting to know his grandparents; he has bonded firmly with both sets. It’s also been fascinating to watch his little personality develop. At the moment, he loves rainbows, the show “Octonauts” and doing “leaps” off the living-room furniture that tax his parents’ blood pressure.
He started reading at age 2. From the moment he could talk, he’s coined so many priceless “Oliverisms” we’ve had to start a tally. A few of our favorites: At his uncle’s birthday dinner:
Oliver: “No more pictures.
I’m all out of cheeses.”
Watching Barbara Bush’s funeral on TV:
Mama: “Oliver, do you want to go to church?”
Oliver: “Nooooo, just H-E-B, thanks.” Telling jokes:
Oliver: “What do you call a monkey in the North Pole?”
Mama: “Ummm ... A snow monkey?”
Oliver: “Lost!”
Oliver has been a source of unrelenting joy during an otherwise cloudy time in our lives — even in his crankier moments. (He does not like Topo Chico.)
When he was about 6 months old, Lauren came down with a cough that wouldn’t go away. Several doctor/hospital visits later, doctors diagnosed her thymoma, a cancerous tumor in the thymus gland we later learned had metastasized into her chest cavity.
She’s since had a couple of surgeries, but things are mercifully quiet for now. We’ve seen enough good days and bad days come and go that we understand how to meet them on their own terms (I think). And raising this wonderful, brilliant, complicated boy has been both a magnificent distraction from Lauren’s illness and a constant reminder never to take even a second for granted.
So much of our future is uncertain at the moment, but not everything. Today I understand that if I hadn’t keeled over on that MetroRail platform, there’s no way I could have developed the kind of strength I’ll need to face what lies ahead. But I think I have.