It is a story as old as a 70s family drama on ABC, CBS, or NBC. Remember kids, only three networks for those kind of shows back then. A middle aged man in the midwest feels a crushing chest pain for about a week and finally decides to venture out to the ER in the aftermath of a winter storm.
This requires digging the car out, chipping off the ice, and determining the exact right moment to tell his partner the exact right thing (by text) so that he is sharing valuable information but not contributing to said partner’s discomfort or anxiety.
As with all things at all times, it is about minimizing the discomfort of others you know. (If the midwest had its own coinage that very phrase would be stamped on the back, probably surrounding an image of a heroic parent holding a screaming toddler, books for her/his doctoral program, a bible, and the meals they just cooked for the incapacitated neighbor).
The journey, although arduous, was successful. Two hours later I was sitting in Bob Evans (on brand, right?) having comfort food and thinking about just what a crazy person I was. Had it been a real cardiac event the stress of digging out the car would have left me like Luke Skywalker on Hoth, but with no warming animal carcass for safety. Just the barren frigid flatness of my driveway. Perhaps with enough energy to beckon a squirrel for some cuddles. I doubt the squirrel would have obliged, especially if the squirrel had seen the Empire Strikes Back.
And what was the verdict? A side effect of covid had led to swelling and inflammation surrounding my lungs. Making it super painful to… well…. anything. Other than some medication, there was nothing else to really do. Other than rest, relax, and let my body calm down from whatever stresses it.
Let’s see. In this day and age. Working in sales. More attuned than I should be to the events of the world, politics, and in the middle of a major house renovation already teetering on weeks off schedule, you want me to… relax and de-stress?
Probably should just print the memorial service invitations now. At least I will know they got the order of services and the music right.
Alas, here I am. I made it to the next day. Not dead yet. Yes. It still hurts. And no, the bathrooms are not done yet. And yes, our nation is still in quite a bit of a pickle.
But last night brought a glorious dinner with a new neighbor friend. My partner and I, by virtue of the car having been dug out earlier, were able to provide transportation to one of local favorite spots for food, wine, and conversation.
Conversation about fears, frustrations, the challenges of love, and the possibility of it all. The hard work of making anything work- love, a career, an ominous snowman in the yard. We ordered the desert, swore we would only eat a bit and take the rest home. But at the end the desert plates were clean. The only thing left to take was the memory of the conversation and of the joy of being present in each other’s lives and sharing this crazy thing that is our life today.
It was fear of missing out on that which motivated my perhaps misdirected efforts to get to the hospital a few hours before. It was that fear that made me tell jokes and entertain the hospital staff making them more comfortable even when it was their job to do that for me. The ER physician complimented me on my “pleasant disposition”- something I am embarrassed to admit may have happened a few times before in situations where I perhaps should have been a bit more freaked out and less focused on the feelings of strangers.
It was fear of not doing those things to be done that lingers behind, just like this aching pain behind my right lung. Maybe I can do something about that fear, even if I can’t do much about the pain.
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