I have changed in so many ways since my medical trauma/crisis. By the way, I’m still searching for a way to talk about it that is both accurate and not off-putting/sympathy-eliciting. Right now, I’ve settled on ‘life-threatening medical crisis’, but that’s not quite right. I’m a changed person because of what I went through. The fact that I died twice and came back has profoundly affected me. And yet.
How do I mention that I died without sounding overly dramatic? It’s a conversation-stopper, and it’s not something that it’s easy just to slide into the conversation. Even without getting into the details of non-COVID-related walking pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke, saying I died twice is a jolt to the system. Not to mention, some people may not believe me. I’m not sure I’d believe me if I weren’t me.
I’ve mentioned several times that I cannot find anyone like me. All the stories I’ve read about anyone who’s survived a stroke or a cardiac arrest, well it did not go well for them. I think that’s another reason I don’t mention it when I talk about the experience online. It sounds like I’m lying. K pointed out that it’s my story and I don’t have to feel like I can’t tell it, but I don’t want to be throwing it around all over the place.
But.
You cannot understand me without knowing that tidbit about me, either. I mean, the essence of me hasn’t changed. I’m as snarky and sassy as before, but there’s a profound difference. I don’t take any day for granted. I know how fucking lucky I am to be alive, and I don’t want to waste a single day. I appreciate my body for carrying me through the abyss. It’s fucking amazing and I’m so proud of it. I love how solid it is and how much it could bend without breaking. How it looks doesn’t matter (though I’m in love with the curves and the muscles) because without it, I would not be here. That’s not some metaphysical musing; it’s a cold hard fact.
I was unconscious for a week after suffering all the aforementioned ailments in twenty minutes. I was hooked up to a half-dozen different monitors to keep me alive. I was pumped with sedatives, barbiturates, and narcotics. My body was put on ice to keep me alive. Not literally, but figuratively. I was on a breathing machine the whole time I was unconscious.
I died. TWICE. I should have died a third time. My brother was told he was going to have to decide if he wanted to pull the plug on my life support or not. The doctors had no hope for me. A family friend who is a doctor saw me while I was unconscious and said I had no chance. Ian talked to his father about me (his father is a heart doc, I think. Definitely a doc) and his dad was pessimistic. Nobody with any medical knowledge had any faith that I would pull through.
My brother told my parents to come out for three months in part so that they could have my funeral. K told me she had many conversations with her husband as to whether she should fly out to see me while I was in the hospital or wait…until my funeral. Ian said he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in to save me and made increasingly desperate deals.
All the while, I was unconscious, unaware of what was happening. I don’t remember a thing from that time. No bright lights; no angels; nothing. One minute I wasn’t; the next minute, I was. That’s the way I always describe it because that’s the way I experienced it.
I spent my whole life hating me. I wanted to die. Passively, but still. Then, when I actually died, my body said, “Not tonight, Satan. Get thee behind me!” I rejected death (twice) and embraced life with a vengeance. Not only life, but myself! I am cute AF! My body is slamming! And I am a great person, worthy of love.
Look. I have my flaws. I could recite them because I’ve had a lot of experience doing that. I used to think about them all the time and wonder why I was still alive. I didn’t feel like I was worth it because that’s what my family and society had taught me.
Now, you can’t tell me shit. I am all that and a bag of chips (I’m also old), and I won’t hear anything to the contrary. I’m aware that I don’t want to be arrogant so that’s my check on that, but to be honest, after decades of beating myself up and hating on myself, I’ll take an abundance of self-love any day of the week.
It’s time, though. I’m coming up on my year re-birthday. I want to share with people the joy that is the current me. I want to find a way to let people know that they are fine just the way they are. I don’t want to put qualifiers on that, though the impulse is strong. But I want people to love themselves as they are. Especially women. Dying has helped me see what utter bullshit the societal standards on beauty is.
Yes, I’ve known for decades intellectually that it’s bullshit, but I still wanted to whittle my frame away into nothing. If you’d asked me would I rather lose a hundred pounds or live an extra ten years, I would have chosen the former. I wouldn’t have even pretended it was about health because it’s solely about looks. I wanted to reach that nebulous ideal of womanly beauty–which doesn’t fucking exist.
I’ve been really into Lizzo lately and it’s because she’s pure joy. She embraces herself and delights in her body. She’s not just suffering her body in silence or being grudgingly neutral about it. She’s gleefully celebrating it and daring you not to do the same. I feel the same right now .I’m fucking hot. Anyone who doesn’t feel the same can fuck all the way off. I don’t need to be everyone’s taste, but anyone who wants to neg me about my body will be met with a wall.
I don’t fucking care what others think and it’s so goddamn liberating. And, it feels a little dangerous. I can see why society has wanted to force women into a proscribed and prescribed notion of womanhood because we can’t have them thinking that they’re fine the way they are, can we? That would free up their minds to do so much more–like change the fucking world.
I can’t tell you how light I feel (pun intended) now that I’m not consumed with hatred for my body. It was always in the back of my mind, even if I wasn’t focused on it. I felt apologetic for taking up so much space, and I wanted to fold myself into as small a ball as possible. I felt I should apologize for, well, existing. Now, I’m defiant and in your face. I’m here, damn it, and I will not apologize for it.
We’re coming up on eleven months. Nearly a year since that fateful night. It’s time to get serious about putting myself out there. That’s my goal for year two of the new and improved me.