I had myself a little pity party a couple of weeks ago.
I had been feeling unusually tired as a result of having a breakthrough case of coronavirus in August, and was discouraged about how slowly I was recovering. Then I learned a childhood friend had passed away from cancer. A heavy rainstorm revealed a leak in the foundation of our house. The transmission went out in one of our cars.
So I was already feeling pretty down-in-the-dumps when I suddenly found myself in the hospital emergency room, being treated for diverticulitis.
I’ll spare you the details, but I was admitted and given all manner of tests and treatments over the next few days. I was beginning to feel better when a routine X-ray revealed that my heart is enlarged and not pumping as it should, thanks to COVID-19.
“You’re in congestive heart failure” was the matter-of-fact diagnosis following an echocardiogram.
Now, that’s some kind of news to get, lying flat on your back in a hospital bed.
I had just been up on the garage roof a couple of days before, cleaning the gutter, and had been eying my next home improvement project. I regularly wrestle and cuddle and lift my young grandchildren, and I have medals from several 10K races. (Full disclosure – I walked, not ran, the whole 6.2 miles but by golly, I finished!)
I wanted to be chopping firewood in my jeans and my old flannel jacket, not lounging around, hooked up to an IV cocktail, wearing a shapeless nightgown open in the back.
I felt small and afraid and angry. Why me? I don’t smoke; don’t drink; don’t indulge in recreational substances unless you count Dr. Pepper.
Suddenly I was on a regimen of medications, wearing a heart monitor/defibrillator, admonished to “take it easy” and scheduling a raft of ongoing tests and appointments.
It felt like everything was black and bleak. You know, a pity party.
I lay there, contemplating the injustices of aging. Just when you’re beginning to think you’ve finally got it all together, everything starts to fall apart.
Then my natural optimism began to assert itself.
I can’t really help it; it’s the way I’m made. My dad used to joke that if he put my sister in a room full of toys, she’d say, “They’re probably all broken,” and if he put me in a room full of horse manure, I’d say, “Oh, boy! We got a pony!”
My head can know the grim facts, but my heart always wants to go to a lighter, more upbeat place.
So, I turned that optimistic light on my current situation, and suddenly it didn’t seem so awful after all.
I wasn’t dead, first of all. That’s a huge plus, in my book, especially when you’re trying to make decisions about what the rest of your life might look like.
Had I been born a couple of centuries sooner, I would probably have croaked from the diverticulitis before they found the heart problem. I wouldn’t have had antibiotics available to fix me right up, medications to mitigate the pain, therapies and treatments to strengthen my heart.
Another bright spot was the excellent care I received. From the doctors and nurses to the techs and dietitians to the lady from housekeeping who hummed the whole time she cleaned my room, everyone at our local hospital took wonderful care of me.
My Leader family rallied around me, easing my worries about how my responsibilities would be taken care of in my absence and helping me ease back into working at my own pace. They continue to be considerate and perceptive, allowing me to work on a reduced schedule to accommodate my ongoing severe fatigue.
And of course, my family has been there for me. My husband and I just celebrated our 45th anniversary, and he knows me well enough to be solicitous when I need him to and to go away and leave me alone when that suits me better.
My children and grandchildren, near and far, have been there for me in hundreds of ways. My sister brought me a bowl of homemade soup, garnished with edible flowers, the day I came home from the hospital. Friends have called, texted, posted to social media with well wishes and offers of help.
It makes me smile to think of how loved I am, and how the prayers and good vibes of so many people are focused on getting me better.
When I sit down to my Thanksgiving meal this week, I’ll have so much to offer up in gratitude.
Whether it stretches on for several more decades or is over before you read this, my life has been amazing. This has been a wonderful community to grow up in and, later on, to raise my family in. I’ve been so incredibly fortunate to have a job that allows me to come in contact with so many different people, to learn so much and (hopefully) to have something of an impact.
I’m lucky to have a big family of healthy, happy people who cherish me.
I wish that feeling for everyone. Whatever the state of your ol’ tickers, may you all have a happy Thanksgiving.
