Story/scene: "A matter of the heart," part 1

An expression of mystical realism

The following draft story/scene provides an example of what I'm calling mystical realism. It happens to be a true account of my own experience earlier this week and thus falls into the category of memoir rather than fiction. But if I didn’t mention that this was based on direct experience and presented it in a fictional context, then you’d probably accept it as fiction.

A scene like this could appear in a larger fictional story, where earlier scenes or chapters would establish the character, situation, story goals, and themes. As with any scene, it’d serve a purpose in the arcs of character and plot. I present it as a standalone piece here, however, to illustrate a bit of mystical experience within a realistic context.

In this case the unnamed narrator has no particularly extraordinary characteristics: he (which is implied, only) is middle age, married, has a teenage son, and has neglected exercise and healthy eating over the few months following Christmas (so much for resolutions!) The situation is also mundane: the narrator is simply trying to sleep but has to deal with a health issue in the middle of the night (and one that isn’t really life-threatening, although he isn’t sure about it). And what enables the mystical part is the narrator’s way of relating to God and his spiritual practices, both of which are neither special abilities nor graces but are rather choices that he’s made—choices that anyone can make for themselves.

And a spoiler alert: God doesn’t say anything or intervene in any flashy manner.

Given the length of the whole piece (~3000 words), I'm splitting it up into two sections. Part 1 here is primarily the setup for the scene and intentionally leaves you hanging. After all, a little tension and suspense is part of the fiction craft, right?

And because this is a draft, I’m happy to receive any feedback or critique you might offer in the comments. Enjoy!

A matter of the heart (part 1)

The headaches keep coming. The back of the neck, the left side of the head, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening. Hydration? Migraines? Maybe blood pressure? A few weeks ago, when visiting a dermatologist, my BP was elevated more than usual—in the low 140s instead of the low 130s. Worth another check on my home monitor.

153/94. That's different.

Give it a few minutes and try again. 141/90. Like the dermatologist's reading. Interesting.

My heartbeat makes itself known. When sitting with knees crossed my lower leg bumps up and down with my pulse. Not that it's bothersome. And my doctor hasn't raised any concerns in the past even with my BP around 135/88. The other bloodwork numbers don't indicate a higher risk for that elevation.

Yet is my pulse stronger than before? Is my heart working harder for some reason?

Physiological questions aside, that life in my heart comforts me. There’s a flutter that signals God's inner presence most poignantly, a flutter that I’ve felt for most of my life, even well before I had a name for it. It's God’s love and life, pulsing in my veins, coursing through my body, inspiring my thoughts and will. A stronger heartbeat, a stronger presence.

Two days later. I test myself again, twice. 152/99 and 149/102. Huh. More elevated even after my morning meditation when the body is otherwise rested and relaxed. And not something to ignore in mid-life. My wife and I have promised each other that, as we enter our fifth decade together, we'll let each other know about any health changes, even slight ones. We've agreed to relinquish stubbornness and pig-headed "I'm fine" delusions in favor of early detection and intervention.

I make an appointment with my doctor; the earliest slot is six weeks out. So, in the meantime, I can start with a few lifestyle changes that would be the first interventions anyway. I've been sloppy with exercise these last few months (Christmas, winter, all that), and sloppy with my diet (Christmas, winter, and all that). Easy enough to adjust and improve, and preferable to pharmaceutical side effects that my mother and brother endure. Hypertension may be a family thing; self-neglect need not be.

Next day. Shocking news from my sister-in-law. Her boss, mentor, and best friend, Roxanne, has suffered a massive brain-bleed stroke. The friend, only a few years older than us, has dealt with high blood pressure for years and struggled with meditations, often not taking them. She isn't expected to wake up, let alone survive. It appears to be her time.

Young people often wonder why us old fogeys—well, the 55-year-olds I knew when I was a kid seemed far more ancient that I feel myself—why us older folks dwell on mortality. But we watch friends suffer and die. The awareness that we have an expiration date grows keener with every trip around the sun. When we're young, this existential fact lies hidden like a moon that's on the other side of the earth. Only in mid-life does a glow appears on the horizon. Then the moon shows itself a little, rising relentlessly. We know we'll not be around to watch it set, perhaps not even to track it to the meridian.

And perhaps we may not even see it rise fully, for the possibility of just dropping dead from non-accidental causes becomes a present mid-life reality. Like Roxanne.

Am I ready to leave this body at any time? Would my soul be satisfied with the spiritual progress I've made in this lifetime, were I suddenly struck down by a heart attack or a cerebral hemorrhage? Maybe it's morbid thinking to even entertain such thoughts. Maybe it betrays a damnable lack of consideration for our son. But he's only months from turning 18 anyway and that's why we did a whole estate plan soon after he was born with all the details of trusts and guardianship and contingencies. Preparedness is preferable to probate, even if we weren't alive to suffer through it.

And it's preferable to denial. Facing the reality of death is not an affirmation. More of a rehearsal, a chance to search the heart for lingering desires and incompletions and attachments and "what about this's?" and "what about that’s?" If there's an affirmation, it's an affirmation of freedom.

And that freedom always leads me to the same conclusion: Beloved, I love you more than all else. If it's your will that I leave this body, then I'm ready, even in this very moment. But I'm also ready, as you've seemed to intimate, to stay on this spinning rock for quite a while longer, partnering with you to act in the world.

Its why here, in mid-life after a successful corporate career that I'm delving into the creative writing ventures that have long moldered on the shelf of "someday." That someday is now and may include returning to college for advanced degrees. Even if my time is short, I choose to live as if there are still decades ahead. Someday, too, perhaps, I'll be one of those old dudes who gets a free super-senior season pass at the ski resort, speeding down the hills—not as fast as I might nowadays, but still at a good clip—trailing a long white beard, if I can stand to grow it out.

The weekend arrives. This one is unique, for I'm driving my son to one of the few-and-far-between digital SAT testing sites available for March. There were more in June, but he didn't want to prolong the wait. So, here we are in the car for an hour and a half each way, and we'll be spending the night near the high school to be well-rested ahead of the 7:45am check-in time.

I don't sleep that well. Is the room too warm? Or is my throbbing heartbeat keeping me awake? Am I nervous about the test, vicariously absorbing my son's own anxiety, mild as it seems? After all, we've been prepping and studying and he's done very well on practice tests, and he usually performs even better when the stakes are real.

I do sleep, though. Morning arrives: we bathe, we dress, we eat, we check out, we get him checked in, and off he goes. Meanwhile, I walk in a park, do some shopping, pass forty minutes looking through a library book sale. He's happy when I pick him up, confident in his performance. We go have lunch, pick up an order at Walmart, and head home.

Three hours of driving rarely gives me any trouble, but for both of us it's like we just got back from our trip to Egypt last fall, which capped two weeks of ungodly early mornings with fifteen hours of flying back with an overnight layover in Istanbul followed by a four hours' drive back home from San Francisco. For God's sake, all we did was drive to Chico and back and take a test! But maybe it's the post-adrenaline let-down, maybe it's the release of months of preparing for both PSAT and SAT, maybe the relief of passing a critical milestone.

Whatever the case, my pulse remains strong, as do my physical concerns. Thus I observe with modern allowances the ancient proscriptions for the Sabbath more than usual on Sunday. Keep things simple. A few chores, spend some time outside, stay relaxed. Take a nap. Sleep well enough that night. Maybe I'll have come down from the weekend by the morning. Yet the blood pressure monitor still gives me high readings. Maybe I just need more rest. Or maybe I need to work out the tensions with a little better exercise. Maybe lay off caffeine for the day. Not like I'm a six-cup-a-day coffee junkie. I don't even drink coffee. Just a cup of black tea in the morning to mitigate my rendition of Migraine Minuet No. 23. And a caffeinated (zero sugar) soda every other day. Not really much at all. Still, my soda intake was higher over the weekend as we ate out a couple of times, so it's good to lay off and focus on hydration instead.

Bedtime. Hoping that more rest shakes off the lingering strain as the strong, throbbing pulse draws more attention. Beating, pounding almost. I roll over once, twice, then again. Use the bathroom, then lay down again, wondering, worrying. Another trudge to the toilet. More wondering. Maybe I should check that blood pressure again, check if anything strange is happening. I'll have to go downstairs to retrieve the monitor.

I sit up, but my head goes light, like when my blood pressure plummets when getting a shot or a blood draw. Strange. Worrisome.

My wife isn't sleeping soundly, given my restlessness.

"Are you OK?" she asks.

"I don't know. I'm feeling funky."

(The story continues in part 2. And yeah, I use that word “funky.” Blame Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, a movie that left an indelible mark on my generation.)