Hearts
I spent a little time at Widows Wear Stilettos today. I knew there’d be nothing new, really; the site is updated monthly. But I went over to the bulletin board anyway. I usually don’t spend too much time there, because it’s really more of a bulletin board than an ongoing discussion, like my online grief group, and the posts there are so sad, so desperate, the grief so very raw, that it’s hard to read; and hard not to. It’s hard not to, because I know that sad desperation intimately. I have passed through it, but I will never forget it. I need only pause for a moment and remember, and I can feel the aching hollow where my soul had just been violently ripped out. I will never forget. I don’t know how I survived it; the fact that I did, that any of us do, leads me to think that perhaps, in the end, we will find out that it really was to some greater purpose, because there is no reason it shouldn’t have killed us. It felt like it would; it felt so bad, we wanted it to.
What struck me today, though, as I read the posts, was that of all the women who actually mentioned the cause of their husband’s death, I would guess 80% said “sudden massive heart attack.” It kind of shocked me. That is what made me one of their numbers, and while I do not have the details from the autopsy (a fact that I’m sure is probably a greater blessing than I realize), those on the scene and in the know gave me the impression that it was more likely “sudden cardiac death,” which happens instantly, unlike a traditional heart attack, which can happen over minutes and hours. In any case, it’s the same difference. Heart disease killed the men we loved.
What are we to make of that? The reality is, heart failure is what will bring us all to our individual ends. We are considered alive until our hearts stop. It may be just that some of our hearts stop sooner than others. Is it an epidemic? Is it indicative of a crisis of health for men in this nation? Could very well be. Americans are not the healthiest folks in the world, despite having a number of advantages, but if I were to have bet on who, between A and me, would die of heart disease, I would’ve picked me. And it may well turn out that way; who knows? But he didn’t carry a lot of extra weight, despite his complaints about his belly. He was very lean, to my perception. He had a very physical job, though it didn’t do much for cardiovascular, I suppose. What he did have was a nasty family health history that took the 2 generations of men before him too early, and I tend to think he was wired for this deep in his DNA. I don’t know what to think about that. If that’s what the major contributing factor was, nothing he could have done may have helped. But I don’t know that, and if he knew he hadn’t been feeling well, and hid it, boy are he and I going to have some words when I arrive in the next life.
Sometimes I think about getting involved in the heart disease cause, but I don’t know that that’s what would make a difference. All the research in the world won’t make a bit of difference if men won’t get diagnosed and treated. The fact is, men generally downplay any illness or infirmity (unless it’s a cold, and then the world is ending!) and they avoid doctors. A himself told me he didn’t go to doctors, because they always found something wrong. It’s the same reason I only bring in my car when something’s really obviously problematic and I cannot keep driving it that way. How do we get men to take their health seriously? Because nagging is rarely effective. In my case, I only realized too late, after doing research in a desperate attempt to make sense of this, that I saw probable signs, but was too ignorant to know that’s what they were. They could’ve been a lot of things.
By the same token, A wouldn’t have appreciated a pill-popping, activity-limiting lifestyle. I don’t think even he had a single aspirin in the house, and he wasn’t one to just sit around, even on a rare day off. I wonder sometimes if that’s why he left when and how he did. If we have a choice, on some cosmic level, as to when and how we leave this world, maybe given the option of life as a heart patient, he said “Nah, I’ll pass.” And then he did.
So many questions, so few answers. Few. Ha! I’ve yet to get any; I have my speculations to keep me warm, but no answers. I have signs that this thing is bigger than I imagined possible, but no concrete indications of its true nature. But any speculation, garnished with a little faith and a lot of hope, that brings me peace I will always call “friend.”