If you read my last post chronicling my nosedive into medical testing, you know my perception of myself as a healthy person changed a few years ago.
When young, I thought I’d grow up, get married and live happily every after. I skipped minor details — graduating from high school, earning money for college, seeking employment, choosing a spouse, being a parent — and hit the highlights: marriage and happily-ever-after.
In constructing this fantasy, I ignored the examples of my extended family, dear friends, and good neighbors. In reality, some never marry; some remain childless; some don’t graduate; some are unemployed; some never have the opportunity to go to college; some fight debilitating illnesses; some suffer life-changing accidents.
And, happy as my childhood was, my mom and dad didn’t go around every day bursting with joy and tra-la-la-ing.
Neither did I. Once married and employed, I bumped into reality on a regular basis; never more so than when I faced divorce and its aftermath: an admission of failure and a flood of grief for what had been.
When I began my career, I entertained another irrational illusion: Retirement would happen to others, never to me. I assumed I would teach happily and successfully until I died. Then my classroom would be sealed and a placard hung: “Mrs. Bohart worked here, so step softly and get rid of your gum.”
However, in my early 60’s, reality intervened: My enthusiasm waned; I grew tired; I loathed my alarm clock. Not wanting to offer less than my best, I wrote my letter, accepted my commemorative clock, and went home.
More recently, health issues destroyed the rose-colored glasses that allowed me to pretend I would suffer minor, inconvenient ailments but remain intact and robust as I aged. In this fairytale, I died peacefully and painlessly in my sleep after snowshoeing all afternoon, snacking on carrot cake, and finishing a good book.
Then I slammed to the pavement on 6th street and underwent countless tests to determine why: electrodes plastered to my skin, my breath stilled as various machines hummed and clanked, my heart challenged by a treadmill, and, finally, an electric transmitter run from my groin into my heart.
As a result of the last test, I now live with a pacemaker: a medical marvel that should, as my silver-tongued cardiologist said, “…keep you ticking until something else kills you.”
I’ve grown accustomed to wearing an embedded mini-computer everywhere I go; but for the first few months, at odd moments, my eyes widened in surprise at the thought that I had a permanent, serious malfunction in my body and that I was dependent on a machine. These things didn’t fit my self-vision; I cherished and tried to protect my health. Didn’t that count?
With time, acceptance of my new reality slowly seeped in, like sunlight leaking through a cloud, and I understood situations beyond my control — accidents, exposure, genes — could impact my health; things would happen I could neither prevent nor fix, things I could neither control nor ignore.
I realized for optimum health, I’d need to schedule regular appointments with health professionals I trusted — and listen to them.
At last, I had gained a bit of the wisdom old folks are said to possess.