Obviously this experience is hardwired to a heightened sense of one's own mortality. Initially at least, emerging strongly as a sense of grief for the loss of a type of naive optimism around dying. A purely operational viewpoint, that it is all quite a way ahead and over the horizon, so nothing to be too concerned about in the here and now. Now it's not as easy to countenance being so blithely casual about life.
As my parents grew older my Mum would talk a lot about her concerns over which of them would die first. Who would cope better post bereavement? As it turned out it was my Dad who outlived her. He coped with her loss, by remaining emotionally as resolutely genial and unreadable as he had all his life. If anything, her death appeared to be a moment of release from being the carer for an increasingly dependent ( and ever so slightly unappreciative ) spouse. He lived his last years doing whatever the hell he liked. Embracing his newfound independence until even that was no longer tenable.
The age gap between Hubby and I, means our relationship has its own particular dynamic around death built into it. Barring illness, accident, plague or war, the more likely scenario is it will be him that will outlive me. That some day I will die and pass on to who knows what, feels a huge wrench, however I try to spiritually reframe it. The end of earthly existence is filled up to the brim with an immense sadness. This world is after all any of us has ever known. And the "unknown' beyond it, is just that 'unknown', which is hard to feel anything concrete about, apart from a subconscious fear of what it's secretiveness conceals from us.
These thoughts about precedence, feel dwarfed by the idea of leaving Hubby behind to cope with my death and its aftermath, all on his own. There is a good deal of pit of the stomach anguish surrounding that. I've been gently approaching the idea lately. I can sit with it only for a short while, but strangely it appears to help me relax when I do. To not hold it too tightly contained anymore. My head and heart certainly require some sort of realignment to what is going to be the actuality.
After writing this, I unaccountably feel the desire to apologise. This may be very English of me I know. That my going on and on about my heart attack is seen as an unforgivable self indulgence. Though I'm not sure, as a focus, it is entirely a good thing. Its something I'm giving time and space to, for now. But at some point I will move on. There is a desire to allow this change in perspective to percolate and bring a different mojo into my post heart attack life.
In the last month or so, this one incident, has redefined the boundaries of what my world view can encompass. It confines it within a restricted diet, where what I chose to eat or not eat could be a threat to my continued existence. Not to mention the exercise regimes, daily walking distances, and not lifting things that are too heavy lest I casually bust a vital artery.
Within the most pessimistic of mental parameters of this body of mine being unwell, I've assumed being careful all the time. The minds capacity and my lifestyle have been frozen inside this bubble of illness. Every choice, gesture and action having developed a propensity to be ultimately a life threatening concern. That I have to become this perfect representative and active proponent of a new faith, in order to be saved, to be set free. And that salvation will only be realised by my becoming the most ardent true believer, resulting in being well again. The definition of what 'well' is left entirely in someone else's ministering hands.
Once your state of existence has been analysed, medicalised and diagnosed, you have to work really hard not to feel you have been compelled to join a cult of asceticism. Centering around prescribed renunciations and prohibitions. What is and is not considered good, beneficial healthy behaviour. The whole direction of your life taken over by this supremely scientific religion that has no joy left within it.
I'm aware that the body feeling unwell whilst your mind is not can become a well meaning prison. I feel empathy for those whose lives are ring fenced by their bodily frailty or disability. In a constant fight to prove what you are still capable of. But then the mind too can become unreliable, beginning with not being able to instantly recollect things, places or people, and ending with a gradual slide into self forgetfulness. And what I presume will be the really painful bit in-between, when self awareness of one's decline is still present, but resolutely unable to prevent any of it from actually happening. Despite all my whimpering protestations, whether short or long term the future prognosis is clear. The prospect of death has shown me its calling card, with the date ever so carefully obscured.
Today, is just one day where I'm railing against the sense of restriction, and it has to be said, I'm both self pitying and a tad bored with the self pitying. This small moment of rebellious angst against a small but significant loss of control, is ring fenced by the fortune telling barbs of impermanence.
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