It happens every day
I spent some time over the last two days reading a thread devoted entirely to those who were widowed due to sudden heart attack. 8 pages of folks weighing in, and of those 8 pages of untimely deaths, only 3 of them were wives. Reading it, you begin to wonder why men’s hearts are so fragile, that they are taken so young so often.
One might wonder why a woman who lost her sweetie to sudden cardiac death would put herself through the ordeal of reading stories of others’ pain from the same experience. I’ve wondered it myself. What brings me back to the board to read for hours on end, sometimes through tears, but as often dry-eyed and calm, despite my empathy? I sometimes think I do it to test myself, to test my strength. Can I read and withstand it? Can I survive the replay? Or will it destroy me? It is, I think, the emotional equivalent of people putting their hand closer and closer to a flame to see how close and how long they can keep it there. The fact that I can do it indicates to me that there HAS been a great deal of healing, however shaky and despondent I still feel some days. And I do it for the camaraderie of combat buddies, however anonymous, who understand things I have never had to explain to them; they know only too well. I do it to learn things that they might have to teach me.
I won’t lie; the first several pages were hard for me to read, and I cried, but I felt compelled (by what I couldn’t tell you—just one of those feelings) to continue. I did gain something from the reading by the end. Because over and over again, I read stories of men who were apparently healthy, some extremely so, whose hearts just stopped. No warning. No expectation. Nothing. There were triathletes and cyclists and marathoners, men who didn’t smoke or drink or eat too much crap, lots of them, mixed in with those who did all of the above and didn’t exercise a whole lot. The ages ranged from 29 (gulp!) to 60, but the majority of the men fell into the 47-57 range. And there were some who did have known cardiac issues, and were doing all the right things: seeing their doctors, quitting smoking, getting healthy, losing weight, taking the meds. And yet they died young anyway.
And after reading all of these stories, so uncannily like my own, I came to the realization that there was nothing I could do. There was nothing I could’ve seen, even if some things seem obvious in hindsight, and with the benefit of research after the sad fact. And more importantly, I learned that it doesn’t matter if you do all the right things, or get all the best health care, or do nothing at all: it just doesn’t matter. Men just die of heart attacks in ridiculous numbers in their middle years. And the guilt I’ve had about not being more observant, more knowledgeable, more of a nag, more in general, is misplaced, and I can surrender it.
I also learned there was probably nothing he could do, either. So many of those men did get to the doctor (which, if you know anything about men, is a big deal all by itself), and were sent home with antacids, or even clean bills of health after having stress tests and EKGs, only to have the autopsy indicate that they were so sick that only a transplant would’ve helped them. That seems to have been what happened for A; “advanced heart disease,” I was told, though I never did see the whole autopsy report. (That may have been a blessing in disguise.) It appears that heart disease is a silent killer, even right up until the moment it kills you. More than one man actually went in presenting with a heart attack, and they sent him home, to die, as it turned out. Other wives were told that there was nothing that could’ve been done, that their beloveds were gone before they hit the floor, and even if their husbands had been tested the day before, they would’ve been sent home with no finding of anything wrong. That’s how stealthy this disease is. So not only can I relinquish my guilt, but I can let him off the hook for not taking better care of himself, not going to doctors, not resting more, not paying more heed to his family history.
It seems quite clear to me now that even if he had, there would’ve been no guarantee of his survival to a ripe old age more in line with my, and everyone else’s, expectations of what was acceptable. It seems that, in large part, heart disease is a ferocious, if subtle, hunter, a tiger doctors may have, at best, by three hairs of its tail, and then claim they’re controlling it, a display of hubris that cannot help but summon the stinging rebuke of the gods. That is to say, I do not get the sense that your odds are much better with medical intervention than without, so you may as well live your life and not sweat it. My sweetheart didn’t even have aspirin in the house; rounds of surgery and tons of medicines, and the feeling shitty that no doubt would’ve accompanied such efforts would not have pleased him at all. Really, who WOULD be pleased by such?
It seems to me that whether you live or die seems to be largely determined by chance, either in your life events or in your genes, or both. Some will say there’s a grand plan, that our time is our time and nothing we do can change it. Maybe that’s true; I sure don’t know. But in any case, I decided today that I’m not going to worry about it. I’m not going to get on the doctor/medicines/misery treadmill. It is not just A’s death that leads me to this decision, but also my own experiences. I have myriad orthopedic problems, and mostly I try to take care of them through pain relievers, ice, rest, massage, and chiropractic, and daily dips in the hot tub. It’s not enough, but I recently spent some time with an orthopedist, having tests that were not fun, only to have them tell me there was nothing to do for me. I have heard the same before when I’ve turned to medicine for help.
The problem is that I seem to be getting old, which is not news to me. But if that’s where I’m headed, and this is the reality, then so be it. I won’t be foolhardy; I know my body, and I know when something’s wrong. But I am not going to waste my time, money, and patience trying to fight reality for the rest of my life. To paraphrase a line I read in a book recently, I do not want to spend too much time dying and not enough time living. Death will come when it will. I have little control over that, obviously.
So despite the heavy subject matter, the too early deaths of too many, I find my burden is lightened because they chose to share their experiences, and I bless them for that. I am relieved of my guilt; I am relieved of my anger about the things I perceived he should’ve done to prevent this; I am relieved of a lot of the worry about my own health, because I take reasonably good care of myself, and beyond that, I feel it’s out of my hands.
With every step toward healing, every lesson I learn since A died, I feel a little freer. But I’m so damn tired. I am just a kid; but I feel 900 years old. No wonder my bones ache.