I Screamed When I Saw What Was Parked In Our Driveway. Then I Learned My Husband Had Bought It.

As I watched Tomer laughing under the morning sunshine, it seemed hard to imagine that, less than a year earlier, congestive heart failure inhibited his ability to breathe. Now, he waltzed across the driveway with a stuffed scarecrow. Smiling beside the hearse, he looked more alive than ever. 

I couldn’t spoil his happiness. 

The month dragged by. On Halloween, I didn’t join Tomer in the trunk, but I wasn’t a killjoy either. He and our kids enjoyed a great night, and when he drove the hearse away in the morning, I bid it a final farewell and moved on too. I thought it was gone for good. 

Six months later, in the spring of 2024, Tomer came home in a shiny white vehicle. He invited me for a spin. Its roomy interior included multiple rows of reclining seats, a flat-screen television and a bar. 

“I’ve never seen a car like this.”

“It’s called a CEO/VIP vehicle,” he said. 

I praised its lush interior. 

Tomer patted the steering wheel. “This was the hearse. I hired a customizer to convert it. I’m keeping it for myself.” 

It was a total transformation, and to my surprise, I didn’t freak out. On the contrary, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and relished the ride. I felt proud of my husband. He’d transformed an existential crisis into a luxury vehicle.

We enjoyed the summer months driving around in what felt like a paradoxical vehicle for fleeing death. Whenever someone complimented our car, I loved shocking them with the story of how it used to be a hearse. 

But summer ended. 

And then, we learned that Tomer’s heart was failing again. I couldn’t stop thinking that we’d lured death back by daring to ride around in a car originally intended for the deceased. 

Tomer’s second open-heart procedure was scheduled a few days prior to Thanksgiving 2024. I waited in silent panic as my own heart raced. 

The surgery was brutal. Tomer suffered a post-operative clog of his chest drains. Blood backed into his lung, causing hours of agony. Had it backed into his heart, it might have killed him.

He was still intubated when a surgeon came to update me in the family waiting room. 

“We couldn’t repair his native tissue this time, so we gave him a pig valve. Hopefully, he’ll get 10 years out of it.” 

Assuming nothing else kills Tomer first, his heart will need another operation. 

I wanted us both to climb into bed and never leave. Maybe Tomer’s heart would last longer if we just rested, forever.

But he rejected my plan, triggering my anxiety all over again.