What Matters
It has been less than three weeks since my dad was admitted to a hospital for quadruple bypass surgery; it has been just more than two weeks since I have known that I would still have a father to actively love and hold outside those walls. As a therapist, I have been more than familiar with the stages of grief outlined by Elizabeth Kubler Ross; as a person, I have only just been acquainted. Gratefully, this was not my first experience at reflecting upon--and acting from--self awareness; I now recognize that this practice buoyed me in a time of uncertainty.
My dad had experienced a single incident of chest pain. He told a friend and, upon the friend’s urging, he followed up with a doctor. The doctor proceeded with testing, followed by further testing, and still further testing. All of this having been unbeknownst to myself, my dad casually mentioned over a Sunday lunch with family that on a date in the near future he would be administered “twilight” drugs (light anesthesia) to test the condition of his arteries. The date mentioned was a work day for me; so, given my brother’s availability, we decided that he would be with my mother during the procedure. Problem solved. End of story—except that it wasn’t. Something inside of me was unsettled. Maybe, in retrospect, I had registered an awareness that despite my dad’s nonchalance, the mere mention of the procedure imparted its significance. Maybe I was paranoid? Maybe a power greater than myself that I choose to call God was speaking through my intuition to me. Regardless, part of me was aware that—God forbid—if something bad were to have happened, I would have kicked myself for not having been present for and with my loved ones. Clients could be rescheduled—being there for my family could not.
Less than an hour into my dad’s scheduled, exploratory procedure, my family and I were called back to speak with the doctor; we were told that more would be required to care for my father than originally was expected. While my dad, a physician, had initially explained to we lay people that, worst case scenario, he expected that his arteries might require a stint, the doctors had found significant blockage—multiple, massive blockages, actually. A stint would not suffice. We were in shock. My dad, at first glance, was healthy as a horse: he literally had walked across Spain just three short years ago, he had a healthy diet, his weight was ideal and his resting heart rate was lower than average. Yet, the test results resounded otherwise.
So, onto the premiere hospital with the premiere cardiologists he went. In as much as the blockage was found prior to damaging my dad’s heart, the bypass was considered urgent—not emergent. Yet, due to the severity of the presenting problem and potential ramifications lest it be exacerbated, my dad was kept in the hospital for observation for the duration of the weekend: Friday, Saturday and Sunday. My dad, the ultimate do-er, or he-who-cannot-be-idle, was in holding. We were in holding.
Finally, Monday came: the day of surgery. I again took off of work; this was a no-brainer. No one would have wanted me to attend to their needs at that time—I could hardly attend to my own needs at that time. In the company of my loved ones, I waited. In the moments immediately prior to surgery, I did not say “goodbye” to my father. I had said, “I love you,” countless times over that long weekend. I had hugged my Dad as many times as possible without offloading my anxiety onto him (I hope!). In that impregnable moment, I simply said, “I will see you when surgery is over.” I held fast to hope and refused to even consider—much less entertain—negative outcomes, though they were looming in the back of my mind. This was my denial and bargaining.
With gratitude, I can now say that my dad’s operation was a success: he is now home, recovering and has even reported having walked 8,000 steps just a couple days ago--less than three weeks post-operation! With hindsight, I can see how I had endlessly vacillated between the numbness of shock, denial and bargaining. It was not until the surgeon met with my family post-surgery that I had the peace—the relief—wherein I had the space to breathe deeply and to truly feel the magnitude of all that I had been carrying: a deep knowing that my dad had been heading into the great unknown, wherein I was powerless, and that at that crossroads, efforts intended to heal my father and to prolong his life could also have caused him to have died.
I’m grateful to all of the doctors and nurses that cared so well for my father. I’m grateful to the countless friends and family that lifted my father up during this difficult time. I’m grateful, also, that I listened to the still, small voice within me that told me to be present—to consider what matters and to weigh it against what I had within me to give. As such, I am even grateful now to past, difficult experiences that have taught me to become connected to myself and to my truths—my values, my beliefs—and to notice how they manifest in my thoughts, feelings and bodily sensations. I’m grateful that, albeit through trial and error, I have learned that I feel most comfortable in my skin and sleep best at night when I live in integrity: when I act in accordance with what I believe.
My hope in sharing this is that you will reflect on what matters to you and that you will use that as a filter for your decisions both large and small. Living in congruence affords serenity; its absence can yield anxiety and unrest. While anxiety can and often does have many causes, one simple—but not easy—thread to follow is to evaluate your congruency: Do your insides match your outsides? Is the person that you are the same as the person that you believe yourself to be? Can you sit in stillness with yourself in quiet moments? As my uncle says, when you act with integrity, or personal congruence, you give yourself a “hook to hang your hat on,” which brings with it a measure of peace.
I *hope* that you have—or find—peace. I hope that you rest easily knowing—and living into—what matters to you.