We were told angiograms are pretty straightforward affairs. So when I got the call to meet Stephen in the recovery area, I was very calm. When I walked in, he was lying on a gurney and couldn’t move because he had a tight clamp around his leg to staunch the flow of blood. He had a look on his face I’d never seen before. I remember with great clarity what happened next, because things went into slow motion. He had some bad news, he said. He’d had heart attacks in spades: three last night, and at least one silent one within the past five years. His heart was so badly damaged that the doctor suspected that the condition was inoperable. And then my usually stoic husband burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. I kissed his face. I held his hand. I told him we’d get through this together.

To understand what a turning point this was, you have to know that our marriage had been volatile for years. We talked often, usually loudly, sometimes sadly, about divorce. I met Stephen on a blind date set up by my sister. It hadn’t gone well, but I gave it a second chance, and things improved. By our third date, his sense of humour and warmth started to win me over. And then there was the deal clincher: he smelled better than anyone I’d ever met, warm and sweet and sexy.

We spent a lot of time analyzing our relationship, looking for the unwritten contract that every couple unknowingly signs. As someone who had been self-supporting since the age of sixteen, to feel taken care of, to be cooked for and catered to was a treat. Stephen, on the other hand, wanted excitement. On our first overseas trip together, his first time off the continent, I took him to the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, and he scaled the highest peak in North Africa. He pored through the books in my library. We shared a love of art and theatre. In 1984, we moved in together; then, in 1986, we married.

But vipers soon found their way into our marriage. Stephen felt put upon, resentful that most of the domestic drudgery became his responsibility. I hated his hair-trigger temper; he didn’t much care for mine. Our fights were loud, dramatic, and dangerous. I threw plates. He punched holes in doors. I screamed about wanting a divorce. He called me names. When he tried to leave to cool down, I blocked the front door. Even in the white heat of our tantrums, I couldn’t bear for him to turn away.

We haven’t fought like that, like enraged six-year-olds, for years. Stephen says we’ve matured, but I think it’s more than that. Unquestionably, the heart attacks put us on the same team. We both knew there wasn’t a scrap of energy or time to waste. Suddenly, we were allies fighting for survival.

I called Stephen’s mother in Ottawa as soon as I got home. Until we had concrete results, we hadn’t wanted to worry her. I played everything down, but she wasn’t fooled. She arrived the next day with Stephen’s sister.

Stephen has a close-knit Jewish family, and you couldn’t do better in a crisis than to have them on your side. While we waited to hear whether anything could be done, they cleaned. Cupboards that hadn’t been dusted in years were cleared out. Cracked plates were tossed out. Light fixtures were removed and washed. In between, the kids were driven to lessons, hugged, and spoiled.

Friends, colleagues, and family rallied round and made life bearable. However, during that time a relative of mine accused me of causing Stephen’s heart attacks. Well, did I? As I built my career and left him to make the dinners? As we had yelled our way through yet another Sunday morning, even though we never so much as raised our voices to anyone else? I had to ask myself that question as I lay in bed, unable to sleep. But medically, it’s much more complicated than that.

Many in Stephen’s family had died young. I knew this. However, there was a nasty surprise in store. Nobody had ever spelled out the legacy of heart disease that dogged the family, until his mother sat on his hospital bed and drew a diagram. His maternal grandfather and grandmother had died of heart attacks at forty-two and sixty-three, respectively. Of his mother’s eight siblings, six died young of heart attacks. Since many of them had also had cancer or diabetes, we hadn’t made the connection. Most were dead by the time we married, but how could we not have known?

Now we were fighting back. First there would be a thallium stress test, to determine which parts of Stephen’s heart were receiving blood. Two days later, an angioplasty, a procedure where balloons are inserted into arteries to keep them open. I couldn’t write down questions fast enough: Prognosis? Odds? Next steps?