The Present Truth

In re-telling the story of my arrhythmia diagnosis the other night I heard myself lie. This has happened before and it bothers me the same way that walking past litter on the sidewalk does. I know I should stop and pick it up, and most times I do, but when the small task seems ridiculously banal, borderline passive-aggressive, I lie about my larger responsibilities and walk on. The lie in my story was about my response to pain, doubt and faith in myself. At the time the symptoms were coming after me like a crazed blitzing linebacker. I was literally running for my life. Without adequate blood flow to brain my entire thought process was compromised leading to the false narrative that I was, and here comes the augmentation of truth, about to take my final breath at any minute. While this was indeed my reaction to the yet to be determined chronic atrial fibrillation, the tangential grossly limited physical capability, the loss of income, the building debt, the leaky roof and more and more frequent episodes of arrhythmia, made if feel like a hell was destined to enter. 

That was five years ago. I am still here. The condition was, after six costly trips to the ER and several thousand dollars, diagnosed and treated, the treatment ending with the insertion of a pacemaker, the cost of which, although life extending, cost me my house as payment. This is all true. Painfully so. It is also past tense. The myriad lessons from the experience I now carry with me everywhere much like the pacer in my chest. I don’t leave home without them. 

Almost immediately after the procedure, now ‘celebrated’ annually on Oct 10 of every year, the healing process began. The device, set to kick-start my heart back into sinus rhythm should it try to default lower than seventy-seven beats per minute, this in response to the condition known as Bradycardia, a too-slow beat, has worked flawlessly every day since implantation. However, and this is where the subjective analysis starts, there have been other, even more pronounced symptoms popping up with alarming and more intense frequencies. Things that have caused me on several occasions to whine to the cardiology team that there is ‘something else’ going on. I have researched MS, Parkinson's, Muscular Dystrophy and a host of other possibilities trying to provide clues to the professionals. They remain as frustrated as I. 

And yet every day I rise from under my warm and toasty comforter, make a quick assessment and head down the stairs to tackle the day, hopefully even to seize it by the balls and squeeze any remaining meaning and value I can. 

I am telling this same old story again but changing it mid-sentence this time, an on-the-fly audible. This to reflect the reality that 1) I overestimated the initial situation, incorrectly feeling the shadow of doom knocking at my door, and 2) That this has been the longest consecutive streak of ‘wellness’ since the surgery now over five years ago. Meaning, that 1) I was wrong and 2) I am alright. 

So why play for the sympathy? Why portray my loss as a sentence handed-down by a corrupt capitalistic system? Why not celebrate the now instead of cry over the then? 

Because the truth hurts. I made a series of weak choices, as anyone under rendition might, that all contributed to the abrupt and dramatic interruption of my game plan. I went looking for a scapegoat, someone to blame, a villain. Finding no one in central casting to play that part, I assumed the role myself and began the blame game. 

In the telling of the story and listening to my verbal edits, it has become apparent that I may be moving ever closer to a better understanding of its lessons. Shit happens and things change. Stay with your pain, accept it and move towards improvement. Everything is impermanent, nothing lasts. Let the suffering, loss of ego (and property) go. Move with courage and gratitude into the new day. Love deeper. 

Change your story. The moral is to tell the present truth not to exaggerate about the past.