Thoughts on mortality

I feel very small, and humble. I've never actually thought I could die, before. I mean of course we all know we're mortal and I've even had some really paranoid terror about upcoming c-sections in the past, but I've never really had rational reasons to sit and think, well, this may be it, until these past weeks. When the doctor came in to the ER and told me they were going to have to remove a dead portion of my intestines and resection them - immediately, as there was no time to lose - he said it was very serious, but he couldn't look me in the eye.

So I sat there and I waited, and I called Grant, and he didn't want to get off the phone because what if it was the last time he talked to me? The surgeon was very honest about how it was going to be partially exploratory and he didn't know how long it would take - he showed me where it was going to start and the two directions things were most likely to proceed in.

It really almost makes you a different person, to realize you're mortal and really understand in a realistic way that this could be it, right here. That nobody's promising you otherwise. No assuming you're turning 26, after all. I stopped desperately missing Elise and felt overwhelming gratitude for my sister. I felt glad that if I died, Grant could sue the pants off somebody and not have to work constantly, at least for a couple of years of the kids' lives. My prayers felt different and my faith felt stripped raw.

There were a couple of days in the ICU when I was praying that if I was going to live, I would suffer through whatever I had to on my way there, but if I was going to die, could it please just be now, because I can't deal with this pain and incoherency from one minute to the next anymore.

I swear I was the only person in that ICU who wasn't a senior citizen.

And I really believed before this experience that since becoming a mother my focus on dying is all about leaving the kids behind - that terror of my chilren growing up without me. And that's there, and it's sharp and awful, but now I realize I also have a whole lot of totally unrelated, selfish fear of dying. I want to live for reasons that have nothing to do with them. I don't feel done. I wonder if anyone ever does. I hope so.

I've realized I have very lofty expectations for my life. Most people in this world live to be 40 or 50 at the outside, right? Think of people in parts of Africa, and most of India, and soldiers in Iraq. Heck, most people throughout history have died in their 20s or 30s. But not Tina, the modern American. I feel entitled not just to see my kids grow up, but to have life on the other side of that - for Grant and I, for a writing career, for school and all kinds of things. I expect to see and love and watch grandchildren grow up. I feel owed a lot of time, when most people have not gotten a lot of time, and I understand in a new way that it's a lot to ask and may not be in the cards. I have some relatives that have lived into their 90s and even beyond, and I've seen very little death. But the truth is that what I want - what I've always basically assumed - is a rare, rare thing for any human to have.

Anyway, yeah. 26 sure does feel different than 25, and I don't think it has one thing to do with the birthday. I don't care at all that my belly is big and swollen. I don't mind looking at this (extremely gruesome) incision. I feel comfortable in my skin and like some really hard things - getting the drainage tube yanked out of stomach and yelling out loud at the doctor, daily heparin shots in the belly, nurses digging around trying to place IVs unsuccessfully...are small stuff and don't really matter. I'm still alive. My face looks strange in the mirror, probably because I lost weight when I didn't eat anything but ice chips for 9 days. Everytime I glance in the mirror I think of a deer in the headlights because my eyes seem so much bigger.


It was almost surreal to be home at first, still all covered in adhesive from tape and leads, like "This is how this went. It could have went the other way." And then existing outside of systems others have implemented to care for everyone and keep things running, is surreal, too.



! One thing I can't get over, is what we learn to live with...I've traditionally been embarassed and repressed about bodily functions. I've certainly never thought one should rush to the hospital over constipation or bloating. Especially with kids to take care of and long ER lines, and let alone when you're seeing your own doctor on an appt basis (even if it is taking weeks...) So as a result of all that, Grant and I got so used to me being in pain and being run down over the course of a month. It got to the point, the last day - the night I finally went in - that I hadn't been able to eat all day. I was nauseus and just laying there on the couch, miserable. It hurt to even move. And even still I said, I'm going to make myself a bowl of soup - if I can keep it down, I'm staying here. I was irritated and tired when I started throwing up after 2 bites. I mean...how in the world do you get to the point where that level of upset seems ANYTHING like normal? He and Laura keep apologizing to me, for not taking my complaints seriously enough or for not forcing me to the hospital sooner. But I knew better than anyone how hard everything was, and how I felt...I knew I had ultrasound results pending. I knew I'd seen a surgeon and a GP. I just don't know.


Just some things I've been thinking. I'm sure there'll be more sooner or later. I've done a lot of thinking.