Mending a broken heart
This morning will find me at the Red Cross Training Center for the CPR/AED class. An e-mail went out at work at the end of September indicating that the company felt it necessary to have several people on site who are trained in CPR, and it was willing to pay for the class and the time during the work day for 2 men and 2 women to take the training. I didn’t even think about it; I shot an e-mail back immediately telling the secretary to count me in, before I even knew I’d be allowed to do it on company time. I have had first aid and CPR training in the past, and I watch ER every week, but I think a refresher would not go amiss, plus there’s the “zap ‘em back to life” training now included in the course. When I told E I’d signed up for it, he said “I figured you would.”
There is no mystery to my motivation: I wasn’t there for A. No one was. If he’d received CPR immediately after he collapsed, he might’ve had a chance. He might not have, though, and I understand that, too. Realistically, I understand that our situation was such that no matter what, I wasn’t likely to be there for him at the crucial moment. I live in Arizona; he lived in California. However, I need to do something with this desire to have been able to do more for the man I loved. A chance is a chance, however slim. I don’t ever want to be in a situation where I could’ve helped if I’d known what to do, and have someone die because of my ignorance.
Sometimes I feel that way about A’s death. I had a bad dream the other night that his sister and I went looking for him, and found him not dead, but paralyzed from a stroke, and all the guilt I had about the 2 days it took me to find him flooded over me until I woke up; I could still feel it hanging on me even then. Looking back, I can see signs that may well have pointed to a heart condition in A, but I was ignorant, and they were vague enough that they could’ve been anything. Fatigue, for example. Fatigue is a symptom for just about everything out there, including living life. He was a 55-year-old man who hoisted lumber and cabinets all day long; you bet his work tired him out. I get fatigued sitting on my ass in a cubicle all day.
But when you don’t know there’s a mystery in progress, you don’t tend to look for clues; hindsight is indeed 20/20. It’s only my research since he died that pulls it all together and makes me think we might’ve seen it coming if only we’d thought about it. We didn’t. I try not to beat myself up about it. I know I am not responsible, or negligent, but the desire to have been able to prevent this somehow will never go away. The Taoists say that regret is useless; you should take what you’ve learned and do something with it. That’s what I’m trying to do. In the grand scheme, it may never matter. But it matters to me.