A Broken Heart

I'm not sure how to start this one. I had a bit of a 'life scare' recently regarding my health that, for once, didn't relate to rehab or a psych ward (though... nevermind).  I couldn't sleep about a week ago and, mid-night, started to feel a little off.  It started in my back, like small spasms.  That's nothing new, as I've had chronic back problems for years.   But then it floated around to my shoulder... then my jaw... then my chest.  To be honest, it was all pretty subtle and my man-instinct told me to let it go, try to sleep and, "Eh, it'll be gone in the morning."

But, hey, I couldn't sleep anyway, so why not bother the EMTs, once again (they know me by name, which is embarrassing).  By the time I put on a shirt and shoes and walked down a flight of stairs, it felt like The Rock was giving me a bear hug.  15 minutes later, I was in the ER.  2 hours later, I was transported to another hospital's ER.  2 hours later, I was admitted.

Turns out, it was nothing serious - I think.  No one could ever tell me specifically what was wrong (something about my pericardium being all sacky and inflamey, probably due to a viral infection).  But a very sadistic nurse told me on Day One that my enzymies were high and I had a heart attack.   I said, "How high? High or Very High?"  And she said with a grave, you're going to die, voice, "Real High."

I wasn't really bothered by it.   Two thoughts went through my head - 1) I wanted to make sure my mom was informed and 2) I wanted one more hug and a kiss from my son.  Sadly, except for those two things, I didn't really care.  I think I may have said "This is scary" a couple of times, but that was it.

Really, I was thinking about my familial lines, what risk factors the people around me might have, what I'm passing to my son.   I was more interested in the tests they were performing on me than what they actually meant to me.  With all that I know must be special about life, I didn't much care.  I'll even go so far as to say that I was disappointed when the tests came back IN my favor.  I was hoping for some defect to be detected, forcing me to stay in the hospital.  Isn't that disgusting?

God, I hope this changes one day.  I hope that medication doesn't make me "flat" or depressed or angry or a host of other negative feelings.  Depression sucks every ounce of wind from your sails and nothing, absolutely nothing, brings enjoyment.   To the point where you don't care whether or not you just had a heart attack.  Except for that final kiss from my little guy, I didn't care how things turned out.

And that's why you can't tell someone suffering from depression to snap out of it.  The odds just aren't in your favor.  And with the mortality rate so high for people with mental illness, a heart attack looks pretty inviting, minus the pain.  Wishing for a heart attack is really no different than having suicidal ideations.  It's just letting nature pull the trigger for you.  I'm guessing that's ideal for a good chunk of people.

We drink, drug, eat, cut, slice, and even wish for illness.  To the extreme, we overdose, jump, hang, shoot... Therapy will never cure it, nor will medication.  It's intense, it's real, and the chances are good that any one of your friends has it, but hides it.  We're everywhere.   It's everywhere.  And it has so many faces, all with curled, sinister lips. It loves you and makes you hate yourself.

Boiled down, it feels like a broken heart.  But don't get me wrong - my family and friends were certainly concerned.  I received phone calls and visits and that showed me just how special relationships can be.  I truly love you all.

Also, a very big thanks to the nurses and doctors who made my hospital stay... hospitable!