One of my flaws is that I reach the end of things–and I’m done. I’m pretty patient with things along the way, but once it starts to bother me, there is little to turn that ship around. The reason is fairly obvious. Things and people don’t change. Or rather, they change very little from day to day.
Let’s talk about websites in general. When I first forayed into the wild world of the webs, it was back during the 2008 elections. I visited several political websites, which was exciting at first. But then later, it felt very limiting. The very thing that drew me to the websites (lefty politics and rad commenters) was the thing that made me frustrated after several months. I reached the point when I knew what each person was going to say, and I was sure they could say the same about me. The discussions became circular, and there was very rarerly a moment of surprise. My brother would probably say that it was because of my ability to read people, but I’m not sure it’s that unusual. To be frustrated with the limits of a group, I mean. And I don’t think it’s just the internet–it happens in real-life groups as well.
There’s a saying: Familiarity breeds contempt. It’s the reason why it’s hard to keep the spice in a relationship. The longer you’re with someone, the less impress you become. This is not a personal dig; this is human nature. It’s simply not viable to go around in sheer wonderment all the time.
It’s like when I died twice and came back alive twice. For the first several months, I woke up in wonderment evvery day. I would look outside my window and marvel at how beautiful it was. And it wasn’t particularly stunning–but it was unexpected because I should be dead or unconscious. So, being alive was a wonder, and I felt it in my bones. I would stare for several minutes and just savor not being dead. I know that sounds morbid, but it really wasn’t.
Side note: This truly is a one-in-a-million experienc, and I have not found anyone who has gone through something similar. Yes, there are people who have death-defying experiences, but not to the extent of what I went through. A few months after I left the hospital, I Googled to find support groups. I could not find any for people who have had cardiac arrests for a very obvious (if grim) reason–90% of people die from a cardiac arrest. As for strokes, more people survive those, but many people are in no shape to do group therapy after a stroke.
The fact that I had non-COVID-related walking pneumonia that led to two cardiac arrests and a stroke IS a singular event. Not any one part of it, but all of it together. Then, the fact that I didn’t need any rehab after–well, that is incredible as well. I don’t talk about it often except with my friends and in my blog because, well, who the hell is going to believe me? Or relate to me? I do mention my medical crisis from time to time in the RKG Discord or in forums, but I never give out the details.
K said that it was part of my life so I should not feel weird about sharing the details. I do, though, because it sounds like a humblebrag. Also, it’s not something I can just casually throw into a conversation without context. It doesn’t sound real, which is another reason. If I read it online, I would think the person was lying.
90% of people who have a cardiac arrest die. 80% of those who have one in a hospital. If the patient gets immediate CPR, their chance of surviving increases to…30%. 1 in 3. That’s still not great odds. Better than 1 in 10, obviously, but still quite low. I was lucky that my heart was in great shape before all this happen and that what triggered it all wasn’t a problem with the heart itself. It was the pneumonia.
I had no rehab, no PT, and no surgery. I was unconscious for a week, and then I woke up. I was walking on day five, and I was out of the hospital on day seven (after waking up. I was in the hospital in a coma for a week). So from the minute I passed out in my front hallway to the moment I returned home from the hospital, it was roughly 12 hours shy of two weeks.
That was blowing my mind on the daily when I first came home the hospital.
I should be dead.
That was the refrain that beat through my brain. Not in a downer, gloomy kind of way, but in a true sense of awe way. I should be dead, but I wasn’t. I was alive to see the sun shine outside my window, over the golf course I live on. I was alive to type frantically on my keyboard as I listened to Social D on my laptop. I was alive to be high as a kite, feeling no pain. Those hospital drugs were strong, yo, and it took two weeks of being home for them to completely leave my system. I was alive to pet my cat, Shadow, and feel the comfortable bulk of his radiating body nestled on my legs. I loved his plaintive mews as he made biscuits. And even when his face was one melted mass of goo (from the drugs. It made everyone’s face melt for a week or so after I left the hospital), he was my furry buddy who had been with me for the last decade and a half. I was alive to message with my besties and plan to see them in the future after I was strong enough to have them come visit. I was alive to write about my experiences in many different ways.
It wasn’t until about six months after I came home that I stopped thinking about it every day. I still think about it frequently, but it’s just a ‘huh, that happened’ thought and not the full wonderment every time. This is normal, and it wouldn’t make sense for me to have the fullbblown reaction every time I thought about it. As fantastic as it is, as much of a lifechanging experience as it’s been, I cannot keep reacting to it as if it just happened yesterday.
When I’m writing about it as I am now, I do stop and marvel at how unlikely it was to have happened. I do experience the wonder once again because, say it with me, I should be dead. The fact that I’m sitting on my couch, listening to Barry Manilow singing about miracles and contemplating getting up to get my Indian leftovers, well, that’s fucking amazing. It’s the mundanity of it that nearly brings me to tears.
That’s why something that has become, for a lack of better word, normal, can still be incredible. I’m sure in a longterm relationishp, it’s the same way. It’s comfortable like old slippers for most of the time, but then once in a while, it just hits you in the face with how lucky you are to have someone you love by your side.
I’m so fucking lucky to be alive. I never take it for granted, but sometimes, it just becomes background noise. That makes the times when I do feel it that much sweeter.