I'm Too Young For This Shit: Me & My Heart Attack

Ok, it's been a while. Things have been a bit busy, what with the moving cross-country, starting a new job, and having a kid. Through it all I'm continuing to deal with an existential quandary about my place in and relationship with organized Judaism, so the blogging about religion has somewhat tapered off.

Oh; also there was a heart attack.

As you may have heard around Facebook, I had a minor "major health incident" almost three months ago. You may not have know the details, though, because at first I was hesitant to post them online. Then I was... embarrassed. Not sure why that's my reaction, but it is. I decided it was time to write this post, though, and be a bit more open about the whole thing for one particular reason:

There are absolutely no resources out there for people who have heart attacks in their 30s. Or at least none I can find online.

Granted, the over-50 crowd make up the bulk of coronary heart disease (CHD) patients so it makes sense to cater to them, but you would expect with the hyper-niche formation that has become emblematic of the internet that something would be out there. I have my own theories about why it's like this. First, I suspect that, like me, many younger CHD survivors are too embarrassed to talk openly about their experience. Add in the rarity and it becomes nigh-impossible to gather a critical mass. Second, I suspect that, like me, 30-somethings refuse to accept the possibility they are having a heart attack.

So there's not enough of us who survive the experience in order to bond over it.

I wouldn't have gone to the hospital myself if it weren't for my loving, wonderful, hyper-protective wife. I had been feeling fine, or at least not noticeably bad, and spent the afternoon gaming with some friends. On the way home I started feeling some pain and assumed it was tension-related. When I got home I told Alex; she said that if I wasn't feeling better in 10 minutes we were going to the hospital - "just in case". Nine and a half minutes later we were in the car.

Many experts recommend that if you even think you might be having a heart attack or other life threatening emergency you should call an ambulance rather than drive yourself because you'll get seen sooner. I now agree. We walked into the ER, I told them I was having chest pains, and they directed me to a lovely blue plastic chair where I sat for nearly an hour. Then to the exam room. The nurse hooked up some wires, checked my EKG, and promptly ran out of the room.

That's usually a good sign, right?

She came back in, strapped me to the gurney, and pushed me into the hallway, alternately yelling at people in her way to either move or help.Then I met the nice doctor who got to tell me I was having a heart attack.

Oh.

There followed some crying and some staring quietly into space while they prepped me, inserting and withdrawing various objects and substances as appropriate. I'll spare you for now the details of the operation and my stay in the ICU, although I may tell those stories sometime, to return to my main point:

It sucks to have a heart attack in your 30s.

Granted, there is no good time to have a heart attack but having one so young adds a special twist. When I go to physical therapy I'm the youngest person in the room by an order of magnitude. Many of the people I meet there tell me they took or are considering early retirement to reduce their stress load - not so much an option for me. They talk about their children coming back home to help or spending as much time as possible with their grandchildren while they can; meanwhile I'm wondering if I'll be around long enough to see my 7-month old son graduate from high school. Or get married. Or learn to walk. Even if I do, will I be able to play with him? Will I be able to teach him sports ("That's great, doctor, because I couldn't play sports before the operation!"), take him camping, or wrestle with him, or  will I be the perpetually weak, tired father on the sidelines his whole life? Having to take more than ten medicines a day or stick to a harsh diet plan for the rest of your life means something very different at 63 than at 33.

I should add that as of now I'm recovering as well as could be hoped. Physically, there was little damage and few lasting side effects. Pharmacologically, it'll take a while longer to get used to the new pills - and the inevitable experimenting until we find the right cocktail. Emotionally...I'm getting there.

I hope in writing this that I can reach other people my age who have CHD to let them know they are not alone. We are here, we are survivors. If you you just went through this and need someone to talk to, contact me. Likewise, if you went through this a while ago and have any advice, I'd be glad to hear it. I'm trying to remember that, long run, this will be a good thing. We found the problem early and with minimal damage, giving me time to learn to manage it. When I reach the age where CHD becomes a more common, more serious problem, I'll already be an expert on the medication and lifestyle.

I know that. It's just hard to internalize.

To my son

I heard your heart beat yesterday.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

I want to record it and make it my ringtone,
or lay out speed bumps on our street so when I drive at the right speed
it makes the same rhythm.

Convert it to a data stream and send it into space,
or bounce it from end to end across the internet,
an infinite loop of data. Noise. Life.

I already love you, and I don't even know your name.

You're Never Fully Dressed Without...

Shira at Al Tzitzit is right; it's been a grim weekend. In hopes of brightening things up, I present this:

I noticed, a while back, that I was ignoring people as I walked around town. I think most of us do this; it's been somewhat socialized into us, that we're supposed to keep to ourselves, don't talk to strangers, and don't be rude by staring. This is especially a problem for me in two areas: walking around "tough" parts of town (ie, those without a Starbucks) where I feel the need to project a badass attitude for safety reasons; and when I catch myself looking at a cute woman, and have to snap my gaze to the floor and ignore her so I don't get "caught" staring at her.

It's interesting that we've gotten to the point that we're taught to ignore people in order to avoid being rude to them.

I also started to think about how bad I felt when people just ignored me, like I wasn't even there. The Mr. Cellophane effect, if you will. It's absolutely crushing to be on the receiving end, and slowly I realized that maybe, just maybe, these other people were also, you know, people, and might have emotions of their own. And maybe they would like to be acknowledged as such, instead of ignored.

After catching myself doing this one too many times, I resolved to do a better job of, at the least, acknowledging people as I walked past them. Sometimes it's a nod, or a glance; sometimes I even go so far as to speak to them. A simple, "Hey," or, if I'm feeling very vocal, "Hello"!

Sometimes it's a smile.

I got a good reminder today of the power of the simple smile. Walking home from work, I passed a woman walking home with her grade school aged son. The kid looked like he was enjoying the day, but his mother just looked tired and worn out. Beyond a lack of smile; she was actively frowning.

I smiled at her, a quick, purely reflexive thing, and made eye contact for the barest fraction of a second.

As I was passing her, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big smile break across her face.

Maybe she was laughing at me - it happens often enough. Maybe her son did something funny at that moment. Either way, it looked like a genuine smile, and I felt like I helped put it there.

That made me feel good.

We forget sometimes how much impact the smallest of gestures can make. We get discouraged from giving to charity because we can't give million dollar donations. Or discouraged from volunteering because we can't spend the entire summer rebuilding homes in New Orleans. But those small efforts add up!

Working at the Scouts, I funded camp scholarships for hundreds of boys, twenty dollars at a time. At our Temple's Mitzvah Day last year, we assembled boxed lunches for a local food bank; hundreds of sandwiches were made, boxed, and delivered, and most of the attendees only put in two hours, three at the most.

Even smaller than that, I believe the little ways we interact with people in our daily lives has a big impact on the world around us. Call it the Good Omens philosophy; each individual act is just a drop of water, but enough of them create new rivers and bring down mountains.