By Jane Glenn Haas
The Orange County Register

Incredible fatigue. Drained and empty. I'm crawling into my bed when the phone rings. His nurse apologizes. He wants to talk to me. Can I come back?

The moment I was dreading: a sudden, crunching, tumbling sound. At the bottom of the stairway, my husband, unconscious, gurgling noises with his every breath.

The heart attack I anticipated. The inevitable outcome of his severe heart condition.

Reflexes take over. Call 911. Stay on the phone. Wait! He's moving and moaning. Oh, horror! Blood everywhere! Stay down. Stay down. Don't try to sit up! Thank God to hear the sirens. Release responsibility. Let the professionals take over. Don't die. Don't die.

Neighbors cluster outside, their shapes outlined by the streetlights. Versan comes forward first. She will clean up the blood. Lonnie will drive me to the hospital. Someone calls our daughter.

Hang on the physician's every word. He passed out and fell. No heart attack. But a 9-inch laceration. Skull fracture.

The fear is cranial bleeding. Bob is lethargic. Barely responding. For two days, we wait and worry.

In a nearby room in the critical-care unit, a young man dies and his mother shrieks her pain. Next door to Bob, an old man lives and celebrates his 56th wedding anniversary.

No bleeding. Relax overnight.

Then the next morning, worse news! He stopped breathing. He's on a respirator. He opens his eyes. I can't breathe, he whispers. I'm going to die, he mouths. He is afraid. Comfort, comfort.

Diversion. I need diversion.

One night, Lynne takes me to dinner. Another night, I have a glass of wine and pull out the address book by the phone. I start calling friends and family, time zone by time zone.

Reach out. Reach out. On the fifth day, the tears come. Unbidden and uncontrollable. Bob sleeps. Come with me, says our daughter. Come for lunch. Let's clean up your office.

Friends and family. People to share confusion and concern. This helps.

For hours, Bob has tried to give us a message. His hand is up, fingers spread. Five fingers. Then a V-for-victory sign. What does he want?

On the sixth day, the tubes come out. He wants 7-Up, he says. 7-Up.

Now improvement is measured in millimeters. A few words. The bed a bit higher. Move to a chair for 45 minutes.

His sister has come. A retired nurse, she talks "medical" and understands answers better than I do. We divide the phone messages to return the calls. The word is spreading. Like a pebble in a puddle.

Incredible fatigue. Drained and empty. I'm crawling into my bed when the phone rings. His nurse apologizes. He wants to talk to me. Can I come back?

Bob pulls off his oxygen mask.

"How many people are living in the house?" he asks. There's not room for all these people, he says.

He can't remember falling. He says he hasn't slept in days.

The plan is to get him up and about. The head is fine but the body is weak. Physical therapy and occupational therapy. Work on the muscles. Build endurance.

He won't be home for some time. But he will be home.

Friends, family, health-care professionals, paramedics, workplace comrades, even the dog. They have consoled and counseled. They have built my morale. They have given Bob their best shot.

At the hospital, an aide is joking with an old man. Oh, it is hard to get old, the aide says. My back hurts, my joints hurt, my neck hurts. Just you wait until you get old, he jokes.

Yes, it is hard to get old. My heart aches. Someday it will break. But not today.

Jane Glenn Haas is the author of "Time of Your Life: Why Almost Everything Gets Better After Fifty." She writes for The Orange County Register. Write to her at: The Register, P.O. Box 11626, Santa Ana, Calif. 92711, or send e-mail to jghaas@aol.com, or through her Web site, www.womansage.com.