break news not brains
The other day, I was on one of my little walks after work when I ran into a running friend of mine. While I don’t have much occasion to interact with this guy we share a lot of mutual running friends. I try to say hi anytime I see him and he does the same. I don’t think I’m connected with him on any of the regular social media channels but we follow each other on Strava. He’s been pretty focused on finishing his degree this semester and doesn’t have much extra time to spend perusing his Strava feed. I do see him post runs occasionally but its on the order of once or twice a month.
He was on his way to a building on campus to finish a project. It was in the same direction I was headed, so I started chatting and walking with him. We exchanged the usual “how-do-you-dos”. The rest of the interaction went a bit like this:
He must’ve seen something on Strava a few weeks ago because he asked, “How did your race go? Weren’t you were doing a marathon or something.”
I affirmed I had, in fact, run a race with; “I did a 50 miler?” unsure if that was what he was referring to.
He expressed the usual disbelief that anyone would run such a distance but continued to inquire about said race’s outcome.
I responded with something nonchalant like: “it was as alright, not the best day but ok. I only made it 25 miles, but it wasn’t terrible.”
I don’t remember if he asked why I didn’t finish or if I just barged into the next sentence because now the “event” is just something I have to get out of the way: “I had a heart attack so I had to drop out.”
The look on his face and abrupt stop informed me that he had not been made aware of this new development in my life.
His face lightened a few shades and gravity seemed to have a greater effect on his lower jaw than before.
After the shock wore off came the: “What?!?!? Are you ok? That’s crazy! Are you doing alright?” and so on…
I replied with a variation of what has become somewhat of a canned response: “yeah, I’m doing pretty great, I feel mostly normal now.”
Then it’s “what happened?!”
I gave him the condensed edition of the story and the ultimate conclusion: “we’re not really sure. We’re still trying to figure it all out.”
I think I say ‘we’ because each time I have this conversation someone else joins the club: “those of us who are not really sure what happened to Paul”.
Sometimes, at this point, in similar interactions, we go over the list of medications I’m taking or the doctors I’ve seen and will see or the cardiac rehab I’m going to. Not this time.
He must’ve said something about running because I explained that I was on a walk right now because I currently wasn’t doing as much running.
We reached his destination, he stopped, and I could still see he hadn’t quite recovered from the shell shock. In an attempt to lessen the blow I left him with: “Oh maybe when I can run again we can go for a run together”.
Like that we parted ways.
I felt kind of bad for him. I’m not used to shaking people to their core.
I’m also not used to having big news.
After a few dozen similar interactions I am discovering this may not be the best way to deliver the news. The change in intensity from understated race report to traumatic, inexplicable, life-altering medical event seems to leave people feeling like they just got off a roller coaster they didn’t agree to ride.
I’ve got to come up with a new method. I’m open to suggestions. No bad ideas…
I’ve considered getting a t-shirt that says: “Ask me about my heart attack” in big red letters across the chest, or a baseball cap.
Or only tell the story to people who are sitting down.
It’s difficult, to some degree, because there are no obvious physical signs. No crutches, no cast, no scar, just a little bruise on my arm where the catheter went in.
When we were first getting ahold of family members in the hours after the surgery my seven-year-old nephew asked my father-in-law: “Is Paul going to look different?”. I don’t.
I have another problem too. The shock value is starting to be lost on me. I forget it happened. Then I’ll be sitting in an intersection, waiting for the light to change, and I’ll remember:
I had a heart attack.
What’s wrong with me?
I didn’t go on a big run this morning and I’m not gonna go home and go for a run tonight either.
I go to “rehab” twice a week…
Then the light turns green and I have to focus on not adding “traffic accident” to my year in review. One ambulance ride was enough and I move on.
Its strange how one day turning into the next, sun down then back up again, has a way of diluting those crazy things that happens to us, like a sort of emotional entropy. I slip back into routine very easily, so while this isn’t normal by any means, it has become “regular” to me. It’s just the way it is now and life goes on.
Did you come here for an existential foray into the intricacies of the mundane? Me neither.
All that aside, carrying a “bomb” around everywhere is teaching me a few things. It’s not always the easiest thing. I don’t understand it most of the time. It permeates every aspect of my life, but on the outside, its still the same life. I wonder: “does this person already know? Am I gonna have to break it to ‘em? How are they going to respond? …” I also inevitably become the center of attention for longer than I am comfortable with.
And then I wonder, who else is carrying a bomb around because they too afraid to drop it for whatever reason? I don’t know how yet but I hope I’ll learn there is a way I can help them carry it around so its not so heavy.
For now I’m looking for heart attack survivor world records…
🙂
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