My Taiji teacher told me that her classmate got into a terrible motorcycle accident last Sunday. He had a super-great helmet (which got crushed) so his head is fine, but the left side of his body is destroyed. Everything is broken, torn, or sprained. Collarbone, tibia, maybe femur, arm. Broken bones mend, yes, but torn ligaments take longer. We’re talking probably at least a year if not longer. He had a heart attack a few years back–or was it a stroke? Pretty sure it was a heart attack.
At any rate, he’s in a world of hurt. He’s still in the hospital, obviously, and he’s going to be for some time. I, on the other hand, was in and out of the hospital in two weeks. This has been on my mind lately. How incredibly lucky I was.
I felt it keenly for the first month or so after I woke up. The hospital chaplain asked if I questioned why the experience happened to me. No! I’m not special. There’s no reason I shouldn’t have walking (non-COVID-related) pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke.
It’s fascinating to me when people think that they should be excepted from something because–well, I’m not sure why. It was like when 9/11 happened. So many people said incredulously that they could not believe it had happened here in America whereas I was just surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.
I told the hospital chaplain that I had no reason to think something like that should not happen to me, but what did surprise me was that I didn’t stay dead. That was where the ‘why me?’ came in. Why was I lucky enough to come back for a second time and not die again?
I know that sounds morbid. It’s not meant to be, though. The first six months I was back alive, i marveled about it almost constantly. I should have been dead. I should have been dead. I should be dead. I am not dead. That is the proper declension of that.
Once in a while, I will tihnk about it and be stunned at how lucky I am. A year and 3/4ths later, I am better than ever. I have a few issues such as short-term memory gaps and having to flounder about for a word now and again, but I will take it in exchange for being alive.
Really, that’s the kicker every time. I’m alive when I should be dead. There’s no way that can be overstated or overemphasized. I should not be here. My life should be over. The fact that I still draw breath is incredible and amazing!
Talking to the chaplain really helped. He listened to me and when I talked about struggling with ‘why me?’ and not knowing what actually happened, he said that it was good to think about what happened and learn things from it, but at some point, I had to accept that I would not know exactly what happened–or why.
It sounds trite, I know, but I needed to hear that at the end of the day, I was alive–and that was enough. I was grateful for that, and I did not need to look for anything deeper.
It’s weird whenever I hear about other people going through terrible things. Like my teacher’s classmate. He was smashed into while he was riding. How fortunate that he had a really terrific helmet, but man. The whole left side of his body smashed up! My teacher said he is beginning to remember bits and pieces, but he doesn’t remember most of it. I said he may never remmeber all of it or even most of it.
I don’t remember any of what happened to me the week leading up to my hospitalization. I don’t remember not being able to breathe or calling 9-1-1. I certainly don’t remember talking to the operator or following their instructions. I don’t remember unlocking the door and collapsing in the front hallway.
Obviously, I don’t remember the ambulance ride or the first week in the hospital beacuse I was unconscious. I suddenly woke up nearly a week later, ready to fight someone. As I’ve said, I didn’t know who needed fighting, but I was certain that someone did.
I have felt nothing but gratitude that I was no longer dead. When my brother explained to me what happened, I was blown away. I’m trying to write about it, but it’s difficult to capture how exactly I felt about it. Words are so trite, but that’s all I have. If I could draw, I would do that. If I could write music, I’d be all over that. But, no. I only do words. I’m a writer. It’s what I do.
Any time I hear about something like what my teacher’s classmate went through, I take a moment to reflect on my exerience. Not in an egotistcal way, but because I was so damn lucky.
There is no way it can be in the front of my mind all the time, especially as, to be quite blunt, it doesn’t affect my day-to-day life. How wild is it that I can say that? I realize what a privilege it is, by the way. To casually shrug off dying twice and not having to do any rehab after two cardiac arrests and an ischemic stroke. Not to mention walking non-COVID-related pneumonia, which is deadly as well.
My Taiji teacher had a friend who died from walking pneumonia. So did my brother. The latter had a heart attack that was triggered by the pneumonia, but it was the latter that aset off the chain of events.
When I think about my experience or talk about it, the thing I focus on quite naturally is that I had two cardiac arrests. Which is funny because the lingering issues I have are from the stroke. The memory issues, the groping for a word that is just out of reach, the narrowing of my peripheral vision. All of that is beacuse of the stroke, not the two cardiac arrests.
But I’m alive. And I’m thriving. That’s all that really matters. I am so damn lucky.