On The 4:33 A One-Year Journey of a Life in Transition

Labor Day Weekend

Little did we know this would be the last holiday we would all share together as a family. As always, everyone came to our home. Traditionally, Carol and I would go shopping days before and buy enough food to last a month. We would always go back and forth as to how much to buy. Our new home in Jersey has a beautiful backyard and pool, a perfect setting for an end-of-summer celebration. Plus both Chris and Danielle live less than fifteen minutes away.

I still see the images of smiling faces of family and friends sharing that day, as if I’m watching an old super-8 movie. When I reflect on that day, oddly enough the one thing I remember most is the group picture. There we are, some twenty of us setting up for a traditional family group picture and once again, Carol and I are standing in the background. Seems every group picture we have taken, no matter where we are, Carol and I are in the background. I remember saying just before the picture was taken, that I wanted us to move to the front of the group. Too late, the picture taken, the moment passed. I wish we had moved to the front because you can barely see us, especially Carol, in the picture.

I would see that picture posted on Instagram and Facebook the next day from several friends who were at the house, smiling faces, enjoying life, enjoying each other but it will be that group picture I remember most. I think this is a good representation of our life as a couple: family and friends celebrating together for a wonderful life moment at our home with us in the background. It’s a symbolic memory to serve as our last picture together.

September 4: The Day Before The Heart Attack

What I remember about our last day together are visual snippets. Danielle is at the house coming by after work to pick up my grandson Aiden, who just turned four, and my two–year-old granddaughter, Aubrey Lynn. Carol would babysit Aiden and Aubrey four days a week and Danielle would sometimes stay for dinner, which always made us happy. When I arrive at the house, dinner is already on the table. Carol had a great way of timing our dinner so it would be done as I arrived home. I never could have imagined this would be our last meal together.

After dinner, Danielle and the kids leave, and Carol tells me we need to go shopping to pickup salmon because Danielle and the kids are eating over again tomorrow. We head out to Wegmans, a popular food chain in New Jersey but not popular with Carol, who thought they were pricey and didn’t have the name brands she preferred. We used to go back and forth about shopping there, as I liked the diversity of food products and the large layout. As we drive to the store, she teases me and says, “We’re going to your favorite store.” The only reason we are going this time is because Carol does like their fish. I pick out four beautiful pieces of salmon. This is a moment I would never have recalled if it hadn’t turned out to be the last time we ever went shopping together.

As we head home, Carol asks if I wouldn’t mind stopping at Rita’s for some Italian ice and ice cream. Although I’m tired, I say, “Sure,” because I know Carol needs to get out of the house after being home all day. I give her the ice she wants and go back for mine. I turn around and look at her. I can still see Carol sitting on the passenger’s side eating her ice. Another simple, non-descript moment that has become so prominent in my mind and now in my heart. How I wish I could go back to that moment and change everything.

September 5

I remember the morning of September 5 so clearly, so visually. The alarm goes off and as I gradually wake up, Carol sits up from her side of the bed, with her back to me and says her foot is hurting again. A few months back, her foot was so badly sprained she could barely walk on it. She pauses, frustrated, and tells me, “Just when I’m starting to feel good, now my foot hurts!” I reassure her that it’s something we can take care of and I tell her to make an appointment to visit the Emergency Care doctor who helped her last time or make an appointment to see the podiatrist.

That was to be our last conversation in person. When I think about this, it’s so appropriate in a way. I always understood Carol had a challenging childhood and her history programmed her to expect the worse. We had spoken about this often during our life together. She was accustomed to tragedy and, as a defense mechanism, was always preparing for the worst-case scenario. It limited her in that she never truly allowed herself to exhale for a long period of time without feeling vulnerable or expecting something bad was just around the corner.

Carol and I had many joyous times in our lives, and I would always be happy whenever I saw her happy at these moments, relaxed, smiling, and embracing the beauty of life. In reflection, throughout our marriage, I tried to help Carol feel peaceful and not grow anxious or worried about things. Her being peaceful and happy was a goal I tried hard to help her achieve. During these times, she would often say, “I wish I could have your sense of peace,” and I would always respond, “You can.” I don’t remember much after that brief morning conversation, only that she was upset and frustrated.

My next memory of that morning, after telling Carol to make an appointment to see the doctor is being on the New Jersey train heading to New York Penn Station. I am sitting with my friend Nick, who I met when I first started taking the NJ train from the Matawan-Aberdeen train station. I always try to get the corner seats that face each other so we can speak more directly. As I am talking with Nick, my cellphone rings. It’s Carol. She never calls me when I’m heading to work so my first instinct is that she is anxious about her foot. She tells me she made a doctor’s appointment at Urgent Care for her foot for 4:30 p.m., after she is finished babysitting. I tell her I will leave work early to take her.

Twenty minutes later, Carol calls again. This time she sounds anxious and says she called Danielle and my daughter–in-law Melissa, and told them she couldn’t baby-sit. For Carol to do this, I know she is truly not feeling well. I ask her what’s wrong and she tells me she is feeling very anxious and wishes I were with her. Thinking she is having another panic attack, my natural reaction is to do what I have done so many times before, try to calm her down. She tells me she will call me back.

What I don’t know at this time is Carol is having heart-attack symptoms. The conversation with Carol on the train, telling me she wishes I was with her, stings deeply now and I play that moment often. How could I have known she was heading for a heart attack? If I was with her, I could have helped in some way, calmed her down, let the paramedics in, taken her to the hospital. Maybe those few extra minutes would have saved her. Did I ask her if she wanted me to come home? I honestly don’t remember. Do I not remember because it hurts too much? I am at peace with at least one thing: I never for a moment thought Carol was in a critical life-threatening situation.

The Call

I’m in my office and at 10:54, I receive a call from Carol. She tells me something is terribly wrong. I can tell from the tension in her voice she is in crisis. My initial reflex is to once again try to calm her down but my instincts tell me this is more than just a panic attack and she is in real distress. I tell her to call an ambulance and that I’m on my way home. She says she is going to call which tells me this is serious. She tells me, “ I think this is it. Goodbye, Sal.” The words hit me like an overhand punch. Time abruptly stops, my brain is stunned, and every part of my body goes numb, life never to be the same. I ask her why she is saying that and once again tell her to call an ambulance, but she is already in the process of hanging up. I can only imagine the anxiety and fear she was feeling at that moment.

Never did I think those words would be the last Carol would ever speak to me. Did she know she was having a heart attack? Did she truly believe she was going to die? It pains me to know she was alone and afraid and I wasn’t there to hold her, help her, save her.

I would find out later that Carol had also called Danielle that morning, who also thought she was having another panic attack and tried calming her down. Carol then called her closest friend Linda, at 11:13 a.m. She told Linda she missed Carroll Street, the street where she lived her entire life, and wished her mother were here. Her last words to Linda were that she loved her and had to go.

The Train Ride Back Home

I race out of the office and head to Penn Station on 31st Street and 7th Avenue. It normally takes me eighteen to twenty-minutes to walk from my office on 23rd and 3rd to the station. I check my NJ Transit app. There is an 11:20 a.m. train. I have just enough time to race and catch that train but it’s going to be tight.

I’m outside and start walking at a fast pace. Taking a cab in the city at this time is ludicrous and I would never catch the train. After making this walk back and forth from the office for over a year, I’m in shape and my wind is good. However, my legs unexpectedly begin to feel like cement halfway to the station. I assume it’s stress and keep moving.

I call Melissa, who lives in Matawan, about a fifteen-minute...