Living, Dying, & The Shape of My Heart

I had no idea I’d be dying somewhat slowly but surely on a rainy Monday March morning. 

In 2010, at the age of 37, I was closer to death than many get that are lucky enough to make the trip back from the abyss.

I wasn't feeling too great the week before, but that weekend had been judging at a leather contest weekend in Indiana.  Because you know, leather never sleeps.  I was fortunate to share the weekend and general frivolities with a good number of my leather family and we were making the most of the time, as we do. 

Returning home on Sunday, I didn’t feel great and I attributed it to being away, drinking too much alcohol, eating differently… you know, a leather weekend.  I told myself I would feel better after some rest in my own bed.  But when I woke up Monday, I felt worse.  I’m not an alarmist so I knew some bed rest world help me feel better.  On a trip out of bed to get some water, I felt a stabbing pain in my abdomen.  Something was very wrong, and at that point primal instinct of “get back to a safe place in bed” was all I knew. 

After a somewhat dismissive and disoriented conversation with Michael where I asked him to go to the drugstore and talk to the pharmacist for an easy fix, he knew something was wrong and came home from work.  I’m lucky he did, as he’s one of people who saved my life that day. 

Twelve hours later after much medical ado and morphine, I was told by personnel that I was going to emergency surgery in fifteen minutes.  They also told me if I made it through my life might not be the same again. 

Twelve hours earlier, the pain I felt was my intestine rupturing.  I hope you heard some of the amusing rumors which went around after word of my surgery and hospitalization got out.  If only it was some exotic anal intrusion… sigh.  The source of this situation was nothing more glamorous then non-diagnosed and asymptomatic diverticulitis.  At least that’s what they tell me. 

Michael was by my side the entire time.  I had not wanted to worry my birth family; I thought I’d be in and out.  But when I heard fifteen minutes, the only thing on my mind was making sure I made the most of the time to reassure the ones I loved the most that I did. 

I shared what I thought were my last words to Michael while a phone was being located for me to make a few calls. 

I quickly took stock; no regrets but wishes for more time with the ones I loved, even though I lived a full life.  I didn't think of money, possessions, loans, obligations, or banking.  All I could feel was pain in my body, and in my mind,  intense sadness at the thought of no more time with loved ones.  Up to this point in my life, I feel I had lived in a loving fashion and had appreciated those who mattered to me.  But it didn't feel like enough.  I hadn't loved enough. 

I made calls to two people, explained quickly why I was calling, spilled tears, and told them in no uncertain terms how much I loved them.  But it didn't seem like enough.  Did they know the depth of feeling I had for them?  Had I expressed myself thoroughly up to the point of my death?  And was my feeling for them great enough for them to hold after I was gone?

I completed my calls and spent the rest of my time looking at Michael; doing my best to communicate all I felt in what I thought were my last words ever to him.  By that point we had been together over a decade, and had forged our own unconventional, but happy way the side by side.  We had celebrated little moments and big moments alike, and shared everything.  I always had been communicative, and had told him I love him every day.  But it wasn’t enough.

Before I was to be wheeled to surgery, I asked him for the lipstick from my purse, because I wasn't meeting my demise without it.  Live a femme, die a femme.  He gave it to me; he’s a good man.

When one is dying, the brain releases dimethlyltryptamine, the chemical in the body which causes us to dream.  Between dreamtime chemicals, pain, morphine, and raw emotion, I was feeling a bit “floaty”.  Factoring all those things which could dull the mind, coming as close to death as I had solidified this crystal clear ideal.  The most important truth in this life was love, and the most valuable legacy we can leave is our loved ones. 

I was pleasantly surprised to wake up after the four hour surgery.  Total joy was short lived when I discovered how much tubing and how many machines I was connected to.  Combine mechanics, physical duress, two collapsed lungs as a result of surgery and healing time; those things lead to a five day total state of being incapacitated.  My mind seldom rested.  I set myself little goals to make it through painful hours and morphine nightmares; in between I considered my relationships with loved ones.  There are no words to describe the sense of opportunity I felt when I felt I might have a little more time. 

After a week in the hospital, losing a foot of colon, gaining twenty-six surgical staples, and three weeks spent in total bed rest at home, I was very much looking forward to living and loving again.  You should have been there when I asked my elderly surgeon with his attending student doctor if I was still able to have anal sex.  The elder stammered his answer, the young doc just smiled… widely.

This experience was one of major ones which formed the shape of my heart.  My heart, it has a few dents and patches, aches with loss, and at times feels held together by a promise alone.  Other times it beats strongly, with blood and passion flowing through little reservation, and loving well past its four chambered capacity.  It’s not perfect, but it’s mine.

Friend, family, or lover, if I tell you I love you, believe it… I have thought long and hard on the nature of love and my part in it.  I damn well mean it.  It’s been a journey to death and back to tell you.

I won't face death one more time and wonder, "Did I love enough?" I didn't survive to let love pass me by because I was too blind to see it.  If you made it past my defenses to the four rooms of my beating heart, I will love you as unconditionally as possible and with all my being.

Don’t be afraid to love.  Be afraid not to.

If you want to call me a foolish romantic, you can.

Or, if you want to call me crazy, you can as well. 

But, the shape of my heart is mine and I own it.  Its condition has been earned by use:  time and trial, joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain; she’s got some mileage but runs well. 

Want a ride?