It is Monday, July 31, when I arrive at the emergency room. I look to my left and see multiple ambulance beds, I look to my right and see dozens of sick people waiting. I am alone, but I know the drill, I have done this six times in the past year.
I walk up to the triage nurse. "My pulse is resting at 180, I have a heart condition and this has happened multiple times."
I hand over my wrist and watch as her eyes get wide. Within 30 seconds I am wheeled past all the ambulance beds and waiting people, as I try not to think about what it means that I am the priority.
Once out of the waiting room there are three doctors and six nurses waiting.
"We are going to give you a medication to try and bring down your pulse, but there is one main side effect: You will experience an impending sense of doom", the consultant says.
"It's okay, I've been experiencing that for the last year", I quip back. Nobody laughs. Tough crowd.
That is the thing about mining your life for content, you stop living and start performing. I want to get to the callback so the tension isn't too much.
I know how to tell a story. I need a problem to overcome, a climax, and a happy ending. I want to put a bow on it.
But that is the thing about life, isn't it? There is no bow.
I no longer believe things happen for a reason. I believe things just happen and we assign reasons based on what happens. We are all telling our stories in reverse.
But we have to live in drive, we get no guarantees, and a heart that won't stop breaking is a masterclass in accepting the chaos that is this lifetime.
One day someone else will tell our stories. One day we will have our final callback. One day we will get a bow but it comes in the form of a gravestone.
Maybe that is the gift of having your heart zapped, maybe that is the gift of all the little deaths.
I get to outlive the end, I get to see the full context, and I get to experience little deaths that remind us that I am alive.
And if we are all racing to the finish line, and the finish line is a gravestone, then maybe where we end up really isn't the point.
Maybe the journey isn't just the point, maybe it is all we have.
I am no longer interested in where I end up because I have seen death and there is nothing romantic about it.
That might seem scary, but it can also be freeing. Death is meeting all of us, so we better get busy living. Living does not risk us losing, it guarantees it.
The first time I presented to hospital with my heart flutter I was scared, confused, and thought I might die. Two Mondays ago I walked in, got a zap, made a quip, and walked out after three hours.
The consultant told me about the risks for the next few weeks and I looked at her one last time, "Don't worry, I've been experiencing that for the last year", I say, as I walk into the night.
I'm not afraid anymore, I tell myself in reverse.
You didn't think I'd leave you without a bow, did you?
Smile often
Beth