One need not experience a brush with death to gain a renewed appreciation for life; a brush with serious illness will do. Earlier this year (mid-February to be precise) I began having chest pains on a fairly regular basis.
Nothing acute enough to warrant an ambulance summons, but frequent to the point of being worrisome (heart disease runs in my family).
I mentioned this to my doctor at my annual physical check-up in early March, and he said he would order a stress test.
Months elapsed with no word from either his office or the local hospital – whether this was due to human error or the inherent nature of government-run healthcare, I know not.
By the time the test was actually booked in mid-September, I felt I no longer needed it.
The pains had diminished over the summer (June-August) and I felt too fit to have heart problems. (Despite being more than 10kg overweight, I could run 5km on my treadmill in 33 minutes, with no discomfort).
I had chalked up my erstwhile pain to daily-grind stress and was prepared to leave it at that.
I was frankly annoyed by the booking: my local hospital (75km distance) was unable to run the test, necessitating a 200km drive to another hospital.
To add insult to irony, after having waited six months for the phone call, I was given 48 hours notice to rearrange my week (see government-run healthcare, above).
But the apogee came the day of the stress test.
After I’d walked briskly on the treadmill for a mere 12 minutes, the specialist scanned the heart monitor readout and announced, “It looks as though you may have [arterial] blockage; I’ll have to send you for more tests”.
He instructed me to begin low-dose aspirin therapy, and told me to “take it easy” until my next round of tests. I felt shocked and baffled.
I’m not sure what “taking it easy” means for a home-schooling mum with four active kids at home (probably not what the doctor thinks it means) but I did my best – except for the anxiety.
I succumbed to the meandering of an overwrought imagination: I felt afraid and depressed. My nights were sleepless, and I became hyper-aware of every ache and pain.
Why, I could drop dead of a heart attack at any moment! I would not live to see my daughters’ weddings, the arrival of my grandchildren; I might not live till Christmas — I might not live till Canadian Thanksgiving! (October 14).
I had better burn my diaries and start planning my funeral. I had better clean my house. Oh, no, that’s right. I have to take it easy.
Back in reality, my husband and I made arrangements for the follow-up tests (a two-day affair): the cardiac centre was – oh joy – 400km away.
We needed to book overnight accommodation and contact a relative to come and stay with our minor children.
During my two-week wait, the only thing keeping me sane was frequent recourse to the Liturgy of the Hours (online version highly recommended: no ribbons or getting lost).
I not only found comfort and inspiration, but also a kindred spirit in the outpourings of the Psalms (which, by some wild coincidence, always seem to know just what you need, regardless of whether you’re in a De Profundis or a Praise-the-Lord sort of mood).
At last came the follow-up test, which began with another treadmill adventure.
This one went much better: so much so that the cardiologist cancelled the following day’s test, and diagnosed me with little more than a larger-than-necessary waist circumference.
She ordered a healthier diet and 45 minutes of daily moderate exercise.
To celebrate my new lease on life, my husband took me out for lunch (heart-friendly of course) and then to IKEA to look at kitchen cabinets.
Of course if I do die suddenly of heart disease any time soon, the joke will be on me, and also possibly the cardiologist, but I won’t hold it against her.
If the past few weeks have taught me anything, it is that worrying about death is inordinately exhausting.
Preferable by far is to leave everything in God’s hands, and to live, pray and work with gratitude.
I am grateful for my wonderful husband and seven beautiful daughters, for my relatives and friends.
I am grateful for the Communion of Saints, the Church Suffering, Militant, and Triumphant.
I am grateful for the holy priesthood and the Mass, for the Divine Office and the Psalms.
I am even grateful for my treadmill and for fat-free muffins.