There are two states that are guaranteed for everyone: You’re either one, or the other. Alive. Or dead.
And everyone who’s alive will eventually be dead. That’s a sobering thought. It’s not a topic I usually like to write about— too depressing. Too final. But I’ve mentioned before: I’m closer to the end than the beginning.
I just had a birthday. You can’t deny that 69 is old. Not decrepit. But pretty damn old. And this year, a plot twist was added to the birthday—four days later.
On June 16, 2018, I had my first heart attack. It should have been my third or fourth. My body had been adjusting for years. Valves closing? Build a workaround. Arteries clogging? Make a detour. Adapt. But that day, my heart had had enough. The right artery closed up. The left followed suit. The central had been plugged for nearly ten years— it tried to muscle through. It didn’t work. Blood flow slowed to a whisper. The remaining heart muscle started to scream. I was tearing out a rotting deck at the time. Thought I was tired. Maybe pulled a muscle between my shoulders. That explanation lasted about twenty minutes.
When I finally called for help, wiser heads prevailed, and I was taken to emergency. I had no idea how close I’d cut it. The short version? Three pathways were clogged. One got an emergency stent. Heart attack stopped. One can’t be stented— so in a month, it’ll be open-heart surgery. The third?
Still under negotiation. I’m still processing what happened in the ICU. And what’s coming next.
But for now— I’m still alive.
A Work Progressing 