I’ve recently had what might best be described as my very first mid-life moment. At the sober age of forty-four it feels as if I’ve been initiated into a secret fraternal organization—so secret in fact that I didn’t know it existed until I was qualified to join. My epiphany—if you want to call it that—arrived early in the morning last Saturday.
Early on a Saturday morning? That should be your first clue that I’m about to divulge a mid-life incident. Who in their right mind would want to get up early on a Saturday morning? It used to be one of life’s great pleasures to sleep until noon on a Saturday morning. It used to be (back in the days before kids when Tamiko and I had an apartment on the Danforth) that we’d lie in bed together late into the morning, then wander along the Danforth, stopping for breakfast at the Detroit Eatery near Chester station, then drifting from the cheese shop to the butcher’s to the fruit market. But now, whether I want to or not, I find myself rising (as I do every other day of the week) with the first light. More and more I remind myself of my father, and the realization brings a chill over my spirit. Has it come to this?
And so there I was on a Saturday morning: showered and shaved, a breakfast of potato wedges and eggs at a local greasy spoon and then off with Tamiko to an arena in Hamilton for 8:00 a.m. Tamiko was helping to organize the Canada Cup—a trampoline and tumbling (T ‘NT) event for national level athletes. Tamiko wanted to be there before the athletes started arriving to warm up. And so, playing Sancho Panza to her Don Quixote, I was there to support her however I could.
But something was off. At first, the feeling was indistinct — a free-floating oddness that hadn’t yet settled into my body. I stepped outside for some air and some space. Maybe if I got away from all the noise and all the busyness of people preparing for a full day of competition. But the uneasiness only grew. Then something distinct—a numbness in my left arm. What the … Then a touch of nausea. I went back inside and as I walked through the cinder block and concrete corridors a roaring mounted in my ears. What the …
Could this be a heart attack? Aren’t these the symptoms? Have I eaten one potato wedge and egg breakfast too many? Oh, come on, Dave. You’re only forty-four. Then I thought of my neighbour who dropped dead at the age of forty-six. He had been fit. There were no indicators. No warning. And I thought of Tamiko’s cousin. An MI at forty-two. He had always been slender, always looked healthy.
I sat on a bench and drew in a deep breath. Then my mind took me on a little journey through some of the stupidest reasoning ever to spark my synapses. The puzzle that I was wrestling with was this: should I tell anybody how I’m feeling? If I ask for help, and it turns out to be nothing, then I might look foolish. On the other hand, if I say nothing and it really is a heart attack, then I might suffer irreparable damage. I might even die. I decided that I would rather die than look foolish. Yes. You read my words correctly. I sat down, clamped my mouth shut, and prepared to accept whatever should happen. In retrospect, I realize that I wasn’t really concerned about looking foolish. More than anything, I didn’t want to be a bother. I didn’t want to inconvenience my wife who had worked so hard to bring off a successful sporting event.
As I was mulling over my options, Tamiko walked past and noticed my weird expression. She asked what was wrong. I tried to speak but nothing came out. Strange. Why can’t I get my words out? Finally, I pointed to my left arm and said: “Numb.” She was a bit distressed and called over a friend who’s an RN. The friend asked me a few questions then told Tamiko to call 911. Tamiko spoke to the 911 person and relayed questions to me: Any pain? No. Difficulty breathing? No. Blurred vision? No. But I did notice one thing — a tingling on the left side of my face, especially into my sinus. Hmm. There’s something familiar about this. Then I told Tamiko to cancel the call. Everything was fine. I was getting a classic migraine, but for some unfathomable reason, the symptoms were occurring in a jumbled order. With a squirt of Imitrex, I was set for the day—embarrassed, but healthy.
Although the incident had a positive outcome, it gave me a “benchmark” moment. For a couple minutes, I had taken seriously the thought that I might die. That in itself is unremarkable. However, what struck me was my attitude toward the prospect of my demise. I wasn’t particularly disturbed by it. There I was, in the middle of a competitive event, surrounded by athletes in peak physical condition. In some respects, I feel not much different than I did when I was that age. There is a continuity in my body, a refusal to forget the teen-aged self even though it’s acquired more girth. But in at least one respect, I recognize a significant difference.
I wouldn’t describe the difference as an awareness of mortality. I’ve had that awareness for some time now. It was presented to me in an unequivocal way more than twenty years ago when I had an encounter with the grill of a car and found myself lying on the pavement, wide-eyed as a tire brushed past my cheek. But Saturday’s benchmark revealed to me a shift in my attitude toward that awareness. I no longer find it fruitful to posture myself in a fight against death. I’ve lost interest in the whole business. Yes, I’m going to die. For a long time I’ve known this as a simple fact. Now, I accept this simple fact as a spiritual truth.
But where can I go from here? After reaching a state of equanimity as I contemplate my own end, is there nothing left for me but to wait for its arrival? Another feature of my “benchmark” experience gives me a suggestion. I was afraid to speak for fear that I might look foolish. As I reflect on this, I find myself entertaining the growing suspicion that my life could become richer if only I would cultivate foolishness. If I feel the freedom to appear foolish, then I have overcome one of my fears. But if I allow my fears to dictate how I should live, then I’m not really living—and a heart attack won’t make me any more dead. And so I choose to live, even if that means that sometimes I make a fool of myself. I would rather die laughing than die of embarrassment.