On the morning of Aug. 5, I was in our family room watching “SportsCenter” on ESPN when my mobile phone began to vibrate. Oddly, my wife’s name popped up.
We had just gotten out of bed, and she was still in the bedroom. Maybe Wetherly dialed me accidentally during her morning scroll, I thought. Seconds later, I heard her call out: “Mark!” I jumped off the couch and sprinted to the bedroom, where I found her holding her head.
The next hour was a blue blur of panic, confusion and sirens, ending in our arrival at the Erlanger hospital emergency department, where we found ourselves in the strong arms of modern medicine.
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Minutes later, I was talking to a surgeon who was saying words that you don’t expect to hear on a random Tuesday morning. “Aneurysm.” “Surgery.” “Intubation.” I felt my shoulders drop and my body go limp. I have sometimes wondered how I would react to the worst day of my life, and I was about to find out.