On April 23, 2011, I got the call that I’d been dreading since we got married.
Armed with a caramel frappuccino, I was enjoying my first PTA board meeting. Ten minutes in, my phone vibrates. The kids are at my friend B’s house for the end-of-the-soccer-season party. One of them probably spilled juice all over themselves.
It wasn’t B. It was Mike, one of my husband’s coworkers who I hadn’t seen or talked to in two years, not since we left Virginia. Why would he be calling me–
Oh sh*t. My husband.
Though if the worst had happened, his friend wouldn’t be calling me. His friend would be at my door.
But still. F*ck.
I quickly excused myself from the meeting and went outside. “Hello?” Still confused. I knew it was Mike.
“Hi, it’s Mike. Boats’s friend. I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else but he has been in an accident. His car rolled over and they’re taking him to a nearby base. He’s going to get surgery.”
I am surprisingly rational at the oddest times. I thought about what he said. My husband wasn’t dead. He’s going to be fine. His friends weren’t at my door. I replied, “So… okay. He’s going to get surgery. He’ll get fixed and go back out?” My husband was a tough old bird. He often said the only way he’d go to a hospital is if he had bones sticking out of his body.
“Um no. he’s going to be transported to a base for surgery, then to Germany for another one. He’s coming home.”