Reasons To Go On Living

(Put another quarter in the jukebox)

By the time you read this, I will be back in Tennessee. My husband and I loaded up the dogs and drove down to be with my father. He is doing well, but his wife is in the hospital, and I didn’t want him to be alone at home nor her alone at the hospital.

There might be a delay in future posts, so bear with me. (Is it “bear” or “bare”? The choice between the animal or mutual nudity?) I will let you ponder that one.

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Life is precious. That’s not ground-breaking news. Every one of us cherishes some aspects of our lives. But sometimes we take those things for granted until we face the prospect of losing them.

When I fell ill with heart failure at the age of 36, my life had been filled with so much pain up to that point I considered whether I really wanted to take heroic measures to save my life or if I simply wanted to put the letters “DNR” on my chart. Let me die. Put an end to the shitshow of my life.

Recently divorced, no family nearby, I didn’t have much to live for. My mother was dead; my grandmother had just died after several grueling years of caring for her. My father had moved out of state. I didn’t have too many people left in my inner circle after the divorce. A lot of my friends had been in-laws, so cutting my ex out of my life cut them out as well.

The biggest thing I had to cling to at that point in time was my career, which had come screeching to a halt when my heart decided to quit. Work friends fall away quickly once you stop working.

The only positive thing I had going for me was a brand-new relationship with a wonderful man and a couple good friends who stayed by my side. Little did I know that man would become my husband who has stayed by my side through all my medical misadventures for the past twenty-two years.

Photo by Elijah Hiett on Unsplash

You know I decided to live. I decided to fight for every breath I could get. My heart transplant came nearly twenty years ago in January 2006. When that heart was new, I asked the universe, god, whoever you want to insert into the story – I asked to be able to live long enough to watch both of my stepsons graduate from high school. My wish was to see them both grow to adulthood and to be there for them while they grew to adulthood.

Of course, once the younger son graduated in 2010, I moved the goalposts of my wish. I asked the universe to let me watch them graduate from college. This wish carried me to 2015 when they both graduated college in the same year. My heart was full of pride, but then it went into severe rejection later that year, beginning my journey back into heart failure. Lesson learned. Don’t set an expiration date. Cream rises to the top, but that doesn’t make me a dairy product.

By 2018, I was in desperate need of a second heart transplant. I fought tooth and nail, moved mountains, moved myself across the country, and got that second heart transplant in October of 2018 in Nashville, Tennessee. October 6^th will be the seven-year anniversary of my second heart transplant. This time, I made no bargains with the universe for an expiration date. I’m holding out for the maximum time possible.

What I have learned is that no matter how much time we get, we’re always going to want more. Give me one more quarter to plunk into the Pacman machine. It’s universal to the human condition. We always want more – time, money, tacos.

I believe that every day, no matter how bad it may be as a whole, has at least one good thing. Those good moments strung together make a good life. They are the lifesavers that keep us buoyed up above the quicksand - all the little daily minutia like grains of sand conspiring together to suck us into a pit. Grab those golden moments - a bird, a favorite song, tacos - and hold onto them for dear life because they are what make a life worth living.

Ursula K Le Guin wrote something lovely about how every part of the universe serves a function, including every one of us, comparing us to the blades of grass in a field. I like that. I can be a blade of grass in the wind. But unlike grass, which is rooted in one spot, I’m gonna run when I see the mower coming.

I think maybe I’m a dandelion.

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