Because I don’t know what else to do right now
I’m told that at some point in time we all inevitably have this moment where we sit back and say “is this really my life?” This moment of disbelief could be the result of good things, or bad things, and it may happen in an instant never to be thought of again, or it may inspire someone to completely change their ways. Well, I just had the day-equivalent to one of these moments. What I need most right now is to purge my brain.
It’s been a few months since a trip to the heart center at Columbia Presbyterian hospital has served me a hard dose of reality. This summer, I’ve managed to feel very far away from the real life health concerns the doctors (and probably most people I know) hold for me. But today was one of those days where I had to bathe in reality.
It starts when I’m in the waiting room. I’m always the youngest one in the Center for Advanced Cardiac Care. Not the youngest ever (unfortunately), but the youngest I’ve seen at any given time in one of these waiting rooms. It makes me feel like a loner, out of place. I do things like dig through my purse for my Medicare card and stop because wait –-this isn’t the purse that should hold a Medicare card. No, that’s for people over 65 who have lived their life, met their grandchildren, people who have sucking candies and tissues in their purses and not shiny peach flavored lip gloss and ticket stubs from rock concerts.
I proceed into the rooms of doctors I’ve grown to trust yet, for some reason I still can’t believe anything that comes out of their mouths. Not because I don’t understand what my situation is and not because I think they are incompetent…. no, that’s not it at all. It’s because I truly do not believe that this is happening. I do not believe that I will need to have open heart surgery or (I even hate the words) a heart transplant. Today the doctor was talking about my life in years… in YEARS. I felt like a spectator at a sport I know nothing about and the crowd is going wild. I should feel something… anything… or at least join in and pretend? But I haven’t been able to get on that train yet.
I sit on the examining table and watch my mother ask her questions. Sure, we’re getting better at this whole thing: our business-like approach, our support for each other. Neither one of us cries or breaks down because we have a mutual protection for each other in these appointments. We hold it together. I think if one of us started crying we would never stop. I’m happy she’s there, though. So happy that we can do this together –although I’d much rather do mother/daughter shopping than mother/daughter heart failure appointments. I ache as I listen to her ask bitter questions and I study her face as she processes the answers. The doctor doesn’t look at her in the eye as she answers. I realize this is the most human trait I’ve ever seen in a doctor… in that moment I saw that she knew this couldn’t be easy for my mom (or any mom) to hear.
I’m not upset or angry or sad when we leave. We finish our business at the hospital and continue our day, and we don’t talk about it for the rest of the time we spend together. We’ve had our fill for now.
Hours pass and everything eventually gets quiet. I sit in my bed thinking about it all. “This is my life?” How could I ever begin to make decisions like these? How do I fight the urge to submit to planning your life in numbers, feeling robbed, and throwing a pity party after you hear things like “this operation could potentially give her 10-15 years…?”
Then my ever-optimistic husband says something so simple yet so right. We do our best, and we have hope. And that’s how we live. With deep, immense, hope.
1 year ago • 4 notes
