When I woke up this morning, I really wished that Saturday had been a dream. I felt fine and couldn't really remember how the pain or tightness had felt 24 hours earlier, so it seemed pretty crazy that I would feel so compelled to get Jim up, go to the ER and then spend the day in the hospital over a little tightness in my chest. Why would I want to have friends and family think I am some kind of hypochondriac? Why would I want to miss a day at Colliers? Why would I want anyone to think that I was "weak" or "sick"? Why would I spend our good money on something as stupid as a trip to the ER, blood tests, crazy beds that move around underneath you all the time, and really bad institutional food?
I started out really beating up on myself. Then, I decided I needed to stop that. I don't know what happened, and I should just be happy that I got such a good report. (I still need to call in tomorrow to set up a stress test, but basically, I feel fine.) I made my morning coffee (and it tasted just fine), sat down and wrote what I had learned from the experience.
First of all, I learned that I really do want to do a lot more things. I had been toying again with the idea of doing the Appalachian Trail. (That has been a dream of mine for many years.) When I started to imagine what serious heart damage might mean to that idea, I realized that I really do want to stay at peak performance as long as possible. I wanted to be able to hike with Ryan and Celeste when we go to Vermont later this month. I wanted to keep working at Colliers. There were lots of things that really did matter to me. A brush with whatever-this-was helped me to solidify that I really did have some hopes and dreams.
Also, it was sort of surreal to be in such a lovely suite in a hospital bed. The bed is always in the same place in the room. Despite the lovely surroundings, I realized that many people had entered Eternity from that very spot in which I was mindlessly playing Bejeweled.
And, what if it really had been a heart attack? What if this really had been my time to go Home? I don't want to be fatalistic, but death is our certain reality. At times like yesterday, I am reminded of the thin veil between life here and the life to come.
SEVENTY-SEVEN DAYS TO GO...
Seven is the number of perfection, so I would imagine that 77 has it's own special meaning. For me, it means that I am 11 weeks away from starting those last decades. Yesterday, I had a "Mortality Check". The truth is, it is better for me to live life with a sense of hope and a desire to make the most of my time here, than it is for me to live with a survivor mentality and just get by. I need that larger room that still needs to be decorated - not a mindset that wants to get small, shut down and run away.
At the same time, my days do have a number and I don't know what that number is. I need to give serious consideration to important conversations, the development of stronger relationships, and the deepening of my trust in God and his plans for me. I need to stay on the tethered line between living fully in the present and planning toward the future.
My moments count - all of them. Saturday was a good reminder that it's not all about the planning, it is about the living.
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