Some weeks seem to pile one thing on top of another. Last week was one of those weeks. It wasn’t one big thing, but a string of appointments that made it feel as though my body was keeping a calendar of its own, each one testing my limits.

Tuesday, I returned to my vascular doctor to begin another round of painful treatment for my legs. I knew what to expect, but knowing something is going to hurt doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Thursday was supposed to be simpler. I left work early for about four hours of dental work, or so I thought. It took six and a half hours in that chair, and I still have to go back.

By Friday, I was already running on empty, and that’s when I had an appointment with my urologist during my lunch break for yet another procedure, this one agonizing. When it was over, I learned that eventually, I was going to need surgery.

I was supposed to spend the entire weekend visiting with my great-granddaughter. But by Friday, I was in too much pain and discomfort to manage the whole weekend, so I ended up spending Saturday night instead. I was worn out by the time I left, but I was so glad I went. Some moments are worth the tiredness and discomfort.

By the end of the week, I was worn down in a way that’s hard to explain. I remember thinking, Okay, Lord. How much more? Somewhere in there, I had surrendered to it all. Not because I liked any of it or wanted it, but because it was simply what was in front of me.

Then.

Came.

Monday.

At 1:30 that morning, my husband woke me from a deep sleep. We didn’t know what was happening at first, only that something was wrong. We ended up in the ER, where doctors confirmed that he had suffered a heart attack.

Everything else got small in an instant. The treatments, the hours in the dental chair, the dreaded procedure, my surgery waiting somewhere ahead, all of it paled in comparison to the fear of losing him.

After they took my husband back for more tests and a medical heart procedure, I waited alone for an update, praying. When the nurse finally came out, she was holding his wedding band.

“Your husband had a full-blown heart attack.”

Then she handed me his ring.

His wedding ring!

A wave of dread washed over me. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

She explained that the cardiologist had found a significant blockage in a major artery and inserted a stent. The procedure was successful, and after a stay in the ICU, he was moved into a regular room for observation.

Thank God. My husband made it through. I can’t tell you the relief I felt when I knew he was going to be okay.

Maybe there’s a lesson in a week like this one. We look at everything piling up and think, I can’t take one more thing. But maybe the point was never to be strong enough to handle it all. Maybe it’s simpler than that: remembering Who is carrying me through it, because we were never meant to carry everything by ourselves.

There’s still more ahead of me. Treatments to finish. Dental work still unresolved. A surgery waiting somewhere down the road. And now my husband has his own recovery to walk through.

Maybe we can be bent by what life brings without being broken by it.

But today, I’m choosing gratitude, not because everything is suddenly okay. It isn’t. I’m choosing gratitude because in the middle of a week that seemed determined to knock me down, God kept showing up anyway. In the doctor’s office. In the dental chair. In that agonizing procedure. And when my husband needed Him most.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” — Psalm 46:1

I’m deeply grateful to everyone who prayed for us that week. I felt them. I truly did. I’m also thankful for those who were able to visit him. There is something comforting about knowing people are lifting you and the people you love before God, especially when you don’t know what the next day will bring.

So much of tomorrow is still unknown. But as I look back on that week, I’m reminded of what I do know. My husband is here. He’s recovering. And I can breathe a little easier.

And for today, that’s enough.

Mi amor. Also known as “Papa Bear” to our 3-year-old great-granddaughter.