My Procession

Lub,dub. Lub, dub. Lub, dub is my mantra and the march that sets the measured pace of my life. As I become more anxious the song plays quickly and when I sleep the song quietly becomes a hymn.

Lub, dub, lub dub. For 45 years, I ignored this procession of beats. I don’t know why, but I thought no matter what I said, no matter how many things failed me in life, the sounds of my heart would always remain. Surely, the machine inside my body would never do me wrong. That was before the clot clinging to my heart detached and mercilessly attacked and cut off the blood supply to a part of my brain.

Heartbreak couldn’t have been worse.

Now, I can’t feel my left side from my mouth to my feet, and unfortunately eating has become a community project. Being the senior vice president of an affluent oil company hasn’t been able to help me, that is, aside from my medical expenses. I must say that I am a bit embarrassed. Family, friends, and colleagues come to see me here at the hospital, and I am not in my usual position of power. It’s not a matter of walking into a room full of executives feeling like a million bucks and demanding results for my firm. Basic functions of life are no longer basic for me. I can’t walk on my own, I can’t shower on my own, and my grandkids think I’m playing when I can only smile with half my face.

What must they be thinking of me? Are they ashamed of me? Do they think I’m a cripple? Will I ever be the same again? Martha, my wife, holds my left hand thinking that if she were to just provide a memorable touch, I would be able to feel again. I can’t feel her grasp, but I do notice her warmth. I feel vulnerable and suddenly ask them all to leave. Whether I’ll ever regain function of my left being again remains to be seen. But lying in my bed, alone, without the noise of the thriving world to distract me, I listen.

Lub, dub. Lub, dub. What a beautiful, steady sound. I imagine an aria with soaring strings rhythmically gushing forward the fuel of my life. Its metronome is persistent and thankfully ever-present. I yearn to hear its song forevermore.

Heavenly

Listening to this recitation brought chills down my spine and yeah, I cried a little. Arabic is a beautiful language. Enjoy and reflect. Oh, and here's a translation of what he's reciting.

"1) O THOU enwrapped one!
(2) Keep awake [in prayer] at night, all but a small part
(3) of one-half thereof 2 - or make it a little less than that,
(4) or add to it [at will]; and [during that time] recite the Qur'an calmly and distinctly, with thy mind attuned to its meaning. 3
(5) Behold, We shall bestow upon thee a weighty message –
(6) [and,] verily, the hours of night the mind most strongly and speak with the clearest voice, 4
(7) whereas by day a long chain of doings is thy portion.
(8) But [whether by night or by day,] remember thy Sustainer's name, and devote thyself unto Him with utter devotion.
(9) The Sustainer of the east and the west [is He]: there is no deity save Him: hence, ascribe to Him alone the power to determine thy fate"

The Lion-King

Training for the triathilon had been my life. At 30 years old, 6’5 and 225 pounds, I felt like a lion. My abdominal muscles exploded from body and chest looked and felt like steel. Everyday I worked towards a goal of being cardiovascularly, physically, and mentally fit. My mornings would consist of 3 mile runs along trails that surrounded the hills of Northern California. I could feel the pulsating beats of my heart in my throat as I pushed myself beyond the threshold of utter exhaustion. I could hear the overexpansion of my lungs in my plugged ears as I pushed towards the standard that would make me king. I swam lap after lap knowing that if I would just put in more effort than any of my peers, I would succeed. I never thought bleeding from my ass would change that forever.

It was 4 am when I realized something was wrong. Excruciating abdominal pain awoke me from my sleep. I figured it was just some bad steak I ate that night that was giving me hell. I entered the washroom thinking that I’d get it out of my system and it’d be all over with. I left the bathroom in sheer terror with a toilet bowl full of shit and cups worth of blood.

Forgive me for my frankness, but you asked me what happened. I didn’t tell anybody at first. How could this be happening, you know? I had read that when you put a lot of stress on your body, you can get something called hemmoroids and that you just need to take it easy for a while. I didn’t think much of it. I figured taking a couple of days off of my intense triathilon regimen was all I needed. So, I took those days of and got back to work. Needless to say, trip after trip to the bathroom left me with a prize of bloody shit and things weren’t getting better. Wonderful.

My girlfriend started noticing that I was losing weight in my face and that I “didn’t look right”. I didn’t want to eat anything, could only run a measly mile in the mornings before I’d be spent, and I was losing weight faster than Lindsey Lohan preparing for her next “big hit.” Did I mention the blood gushing out of my rectum? Right.

She begged me to see a doctor, which ended up in a huge fight. “I am an athlete. Things like this happen all the time. I can conquer anything. Don't you understand! What’s funny is after that fight, I stormed off slamming the door behind me feeling like a tough guy and ended up 5 minutes later setting off an explosion of red only Mr. Cheney would’ve been proud to have accomplished. I rested my head on the sink and cried a little.

So now, I weigh 180 pounds and look like a gazelle. The “shit hit the fan” in terms of my training, (no pun intended) and I’m really sick. And that’s why I’m here. You say you put a camera inside right? Medications for how long? An illness that I’ll have to work through for years and that can come and go? Flare-ups? Cancer in the future if I don’t do what? Panulcerative Colitis who?

Ok, so just tell me this. Is it something that I can overcome? Is it something that I can work to defeat? Is it something that through mental toughness, perseverance and patience, will succumb to me? You see, I have to remind you of something. Things have never come easy to me. And I will beat this.

As I finish my conversation with the mirror, I take my slew of medications, give my girlfriend a kiss, and head out for my run. I have a triathilon to win.

Both Sides of the Mirror

I don’t know why, but I can hear them all. Their voices haunt me as I gaze upon them from where ever the hell I am now. Why they chose to eat Greek salad after my death still confuses me. “He was such a beautiful person,” says my middle aged son as he wipes a solitary tear from his eye. I look at him and see a man that took me thirty years to finally know and six months to completely forget. I don’t really understand what happened. From what I hear, people started getting worried when I couldn’t remember Janice’s wedding. It was only a few months previously and supposedly I danced with my grandkids. I didn’t think much of their worries; I knew I was getting older. That said, going to the doctor was something I just would not do. “One minute daddy is opening up Christmas gifts, the next minute we find him twenty blocks away banging his cane up against the liquor store,” was the nonsense coming out of my son’s mouth at the doctor’s place. If only he knew how much I hated those stupid socks. But the truth is, whatever overcame me must have been the devil himself. I couldn’t read or write. Things that I held sacred for 67 years began falling apart before my eyes. I didn’t know anybody, didn’t care for anybody, and sadly, didn’t understand anybody. I was alone. Why was this happening to me?

What I see now must be a nightmare. I drift into a room where men in white have me placed on table. Well, most of me. It seems that my brain is on another table. Those men draped in white take slices of my brain speaking of plaques and tangles. Sounds like stuff I use to have in my teeth after supper. In any case, I know they did their best to help me. I just hope they don’t start poking away at my heart too.