FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: HEART ATTACK! (PART 45)

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

At about midnight, March 12, 1972, Edward experienced pain in left of chest. He tried to minimize it, as men do, denying it was anything to worry about. But I took him, kicking and screaming, to the doctor next morning. He had an EKG and was sent to Lovinggood-Horn Laboratory for blood tests.

Back home, at about 3:30 p.m. Dr. Charles Wilson ordered him to the hospital. He went to room 160 first and then to Intensive Care. There had been a coronary occlusion. In other words, a blockage in the flow of blood through the heart. Lying flat on his back, all "wired up," he was like a caged tiger.

"Now what, God?" I asked while waiting in the Intensive Care waiting room. When a loved one is in Intensive Care, a five minute visitation every three hours is allowed. I spent a lot of time in that waiting room. To try to keep myself steady, I wrote in my mind, a thing at which I was getting fairly adept:

Those two young girls over there. They are here every day at the hours designated for the five minute visit. With their gaily patterned jeans and blouses and long shining hair they seem alien to the precincts where possible death hovers just around the corner for some loved on. They sit so close to each other, their face ashen and immobile. So young. They say nothing, as if even to break the silence would cause some other tenuously held thing to break. I keep the silence with them.

And that lone woman over there, unknowingly, incessantly, she drums on the chair arm with fingers that have seen too much arthritis and probably even now are aching. From time to time she swallows noisily. Her chin quivers, then she tosses her head and passes a hand over her face as if to get rid of some miasma of overwhelming anxiety and grief. She takes out a worn compact and inspects her eyes. She must not go into the ailing patient with reddened eyes, but a face full of hope and cheer. She struggles. I struggle with her.

An old man accompanied by a daughter, I suppose, sits and toys with his cane. His hair is white and his face lined and leathery. They speak softly from time to time of mother. He is more resigned, more at peace than the daughter, for he has experienced more of everything. she knows that too but her heart cries out, "Not yet. Not yet." My heart cries with her.

The telephone rings before the appointed hour. Everyone jumps. Someone arises to answer and turns to call out a certain name. That person leaves. The others resume their vigil.

A group of women sitting around a table are talking about inconsequential things. The casual observer and listener would think them unfeeling and out of order to be talking of so many eggs in a recipe and the minimum amount of double knit it takes to make slacks, but I know the mind veers towards miniatures of reality when vague fear threatens.

I concentrate on a miniature of reality myself. There is a hang nail on my finger. I put all my efforts into removing it.

Suddenly, with no warning, a surgeon comes into the room to talk to a family group. All is deathly quiet. One cannot help hearing the muffled talking. "It has spread. All we could do." They are strangers, but my heart aches too.

I walk over to a window and look out where some daffodils are nodding in the spring breeze. "Mrs. Mosley?" someone at the telephone calls my name. It is my time for visitation.

"All right, God. Come, let's go see how he is."

Long bed-rest was what was then prescribed for coronary patients and Edward endured that until dismissal the first week in April and then some more time at home.

Edward shared a hospital room with Edward Blumenberg, affable Cape County Assessor. I suppose my Edward, in the long hospital hours, spoke to Edward B. of his worries of never being able to work on the printing presses again because it required heavy lifting of paper and other things and the doctor had warned him against that.

So the two Edwards hatched up the idea that, since it was election year, I should run for Cape County Treasurer. The idea was unsettling to me, but I tried not to show it. Back to office hours? Back to public work? Probably there would be new equipment I'd have to learn to operate. A political "upstart" may not be well received by the staunch office holders.

But it seemed to alleviate Edward's worry about how we would get along financially, so I agreed to run, although I did not share his financial worry. If the worst came to the worst there would be Social Security Disability and a tiny pension. My writing was financially rewarding but erratic.

Although a lifelong Republican and never having missed a voting opportunity, I had never taken an active part in the political structure, other than knowing who the officer holders were and supporting them.

Practically out of the politically unknown ranks, I (gulp) filed for County Treasurer. A Mr. Ludwig, the person with whom I had to file, was unfriendly, informing me that this was not a popularity contest. Thus, my toe in the world of politics got stepped on right away.

I did all the things that someone running for office did -- showing up at church suppers and other public meetings all over the county. My name tag and smile firmly fixed, I visited with all the committee men and women I could find, ran a newspaper ad, put a sign in my yard, all the time secretly fearing I might win. By-the-way, the sign in my yard got pulled up and taken away the first night by someone from the loyal opposition, I suppose. Ah, politics.

I lost the county primary by less than 200 votes. The thought has occurred to me since that if I had hired a horseman to gallop rapidly around school houses, yelling, "Vote for Mosley," a la that rider around the Loughboro School house descried earlier, it might have impressed a sufficient number of teachers to vote for me. But, alas, 1972, there would have been legal charges of trespassing, damages to school property, disturbance of the peace, etc. We were in a super litigious era that continues to this day.

Edward, of course, was disappointed and I sort of pretended to be, but was secretly relieved, especially since I thought my adventure had served the purpose of consuming time while Edward regained his strength.

Folks thought I took my defeat so graciously! They commiserated with me, pointing out that few women ever held county office, which was true at that time.

On my first daily walk around the Arena racetrack thereafter, I picked some of the lowly dog fennel along the way and it never looked so pretty nor smelled so good. Discarded soda can tab openers reflected sunlight all along the way. "Thank you, God."

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.