Got Woke Up This Morning playing as I sit at the computer visions of Tony Soprano rolling down the highway interspersed with images of my furriest child flowing through my head.
It is two weeks ago today since we took him to the vet and said goodbye. Two weeks since I watched him stretch out under a sunny blue Texas sky while I promised him that I would watch over the family and he could rest.
Two weeks since I told him that if there was a rainbow bridge he’d find Moose, all 125 pounds of golden retriever and my father waiting for him.
Two weeks since I said if it was possible to meet again I was sure we would and if not I would thank him for his unconditional love and all of the gifts he gave us all for the 1,093,983th time.
My son says the dog went nuts the night the paramedics came to take me to the hospital. He says 23 pounds of fury tried to break through the door to come protect me from the men who probably saved my life.
Some of you know the story because you read I Fought The Angel Of Death or because we spoke after I got out.
It is less than two months since the Friday night they took me in but it feels like a different lifetime to me. It almost feels unreal, like it happened to someone else but I know that isn’t true and not just because of the mail my insurance company has sent me.
I am not shy about sharing the tale about what happened or answering questions about what it felt like to be dying.
That’s not a secret to the longtime readers who have noticed the output here has slowed down and the most recent posts all involve my thoughts and memories of the moment.
It’s interesting to me to see how focused I am in sticking my hand into the flames of that moment and reliving it. I must still be processing some of it, but my experience is different from my family who I think find some of it hard.
They understand my insouciant approach but I think it’s much harder for them than for me. I am very blunt about how I thought about giving up and letting go.
It’s not a secret.
I knew if the blood loss wasn’t stopped I would die. When I thought about putting my head down and going to sleep I knew I wouldn’t wake up.
What I cannot tell you is how much time passed between my thinking about letting go and when I made the decision to live.
It feels like a scene from a movie in which time stops and the hero has a moment to consider their options.
One of the docs told me I probably was going into shock and not rational in my thinking but I disagree. I knew exactly what I was doing and when I made the choice to fight there was never a question in my head that I would win.
****
The dog and I talked about it, or rather I talked and he listened. I told him about seeing my father and grandfathers behind the door.
I told him about how they woke me up every hour to take blood, the two IVs and how I asked each doc how soon I could get back to the gym.
I told him about how when my father was dying I told the Angel of Death I would fight him any time and any place. I told him if I won he would let my father live and that if he didn’t appear I knew he understood I couldn’t lose.
The dog didn’t think I was crazy. He wagged his tail at me and I told him I would do the same for him too.
That Angel of Death never took me up on my offer to fight as a champion for Dad or my dog, but he did come for me.
You don’t have to believe any of that, doesn’t matter to me if you do or not. But I can tell you I also told the dog about how when my father was in the hospice I said it was ok for him to let go and promised to take care of the family.
Dad squeezed my hand and I choked back the grief I felt because I wanted him not to second guess anything.
It wasn’t easy because I wanted him to keep fighting. I was 49 years old and I wanted my father to stick around.
But we don’t always get what we want, life isn’t fair and that is just how it goes.
It Could Be Worse
My friend Naomi died the night the paramedics took me in. It was about six weeks before her 56th birthday.
She had a terminal illness. I had an unexpected complication from a surgery.
It made me think of my friend David telling me that shit happens while explaining the surgery he went through after his first brain tumor.
We were 25 then.
My son will be 25 in a few weeks.
I thought of us as being so much older than we really were.
When I started the health journey I am on at the end of ’24 I remember starting to map out what I wanted to accomplish.
I remember reading multiple places about the importance of putting more muscle on in case ‘shit happens’ so that if I lost a chunk I wouldn’t be in significant physical decline.
The objective is to make sure I don’t ever lose my independence and that when I become a grandfather I can get on the ground and play with my grandkids.
Don’t take that to mean that things can’t happen any way, of course they can. All I have to do is look at my experience and I know it to be true.
Or as we say in Yiddish, דער מענטש טראַכט און גאָט לאַכט.
It translates into English as “Man plans and G-d laughs.”
Step By Step
I see the changes in my body and feel them. I am lifting as much as I did in my thirties and can visualize getting back to what I did in my twenties if that is what I choose to do.
A dear friend talks about vanity and sanity. I am not chasing vanity. I don’t need to look exactly as I did at 25 but that doesn’t mean I am settling either.
The goal isn’t to make radical change overnight but to use consistency to get myself to the place I see myself needing to be at.
Small changes lead to big victories.
I didn’t choose to live solely to see what my kids do. I have plans. I have dreams. I have goals.
Many will come true, maybe all.
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