Continuing from last week, part 2 now concludes the story and provides much more of the expression of mystical realism that I'm exploring. One characteristic of that realism, to my mind at least, is a relationship with God that is intimate rather than distant, and a relationship of communion rather than servitude. In the latter case I'm referring to the curious dichotomy of simultaneously seeing God as a tyrant before which one must grovel (we must serve God) and as a sugar-daddy who can be cajoled (through beggarly prayers) into bringing about specific outcomes that we deem desirable (God must serve us). I'm not a fan of either approach, as this story should make clear.
As before, this is a draft, so comments and critiques are welcome!
(Part 2)
My body flushes, suggesting a cold sweat with a fever, amplifying my worries. The hospital ER flashes to mind. Not my favorite place. Why the hell do these things always happen in the middle of the night? I lay down, my head recovers, my body cools or warms, maybe both, and the flushing passes.
My wife retrieves the BP monitor. 147/105. About the same as before. She grabs her phone and sits up in bed, consulting symptom checkers. The BP measurement is higher but not the ER-worthy 180+. Maybe I overdid my weightlifting earlier? I pushed myself, so it’s possible. My wife remembers that I looked more fatigued earlier in the evening.
She goes through a list of questions: Chest pain? No. Sweating? No. My body temperature is normal, and I'm talking normally, so not an immediate stroke concern.
Our son stops by on his way to bed having noticed our lights. "Is it OK if we have to go the ER?" my wife asks, knowing he can take care of himself. No worries.
For him, at least. My heart shifts into an erratic pattern. Pulsing strong, then weak. Faster. Slower. Skipping a beat here and there. Arrhythmia. Yes. Probably going to need a doctor sooner than later. We look up our clinic, then the insurance—there, they have a 24-hour advice line. Thank God for those nurses who can give a much clearer assessment and firm instructions about whether conditions warrant a wait-and-see posture, a drive to the ER, or a 911 call. Not the kind of thing I want to entrust to the impersonal Internet.
I call and explain the situation to the nurse. She finds the right triage script for heart trouble.
Chest pain? No.
Swollen ankles or hands? No.
Dizziness? No. Fainting? No. Shortness of breath? No.
Trouble speaking? Shock symptoms? Visible sweat? Unable to walk? Weakness? Pacemaker? Recent shock from a defibrillator?
No. No. No. No. No. No. And no.
This is one time that you're happy to get through an interview on nothing but negation because the "Yes" arrows on her flowchart all point to 911. The "No's," on the other hand, land in a calm place, at least for the nurse. She has years of data demonstrating how arrhythmia is neither uncommon nor life-threatening. Tell that to my body, though.
She keeps me on the phone a bit longer. My BP spikes into the 160s on the top, 120s on the bottom. My heartbeat goes through tempo changes like a child toying with a metronome. 65 jumps to 120, settles back to the 80s, jumps again, cycles back to the hum of an AC motor. The nurse respects my play-by-play but yields no concern. "If the condition worsens," she concludes, "call 911, otherwise see your doctor tomorrow to get things checked out, stay rested, and avoid stimulants like caffeine." No tea in the morning, apparently. Pity.
Nothing for it now but to try to sleep.
Fascinating thing, arrhythmia. Something's jumbled up the neuro-circuitry around the heart, a condition that many people just live with. But that's the physical side.
Laying in silence, I watch my heart, watch my breath, watch my thoughts. What's going on here, Beloved Lord? I ask, addressing God as Beloved, as I do, and talking to him mentally. What to make of this? What kind of dance are You doing in there?
I drift into a calmness amidst the beating chaos. A place I've been many times in meditation and a place I go when falling asleep. A place of stillness and communion where I feel the Beloved's subtle presence. A place at the heart of distress, even at the center of a distressed heart.
And a place where only three words are needful.
I love You.
A devotional mantra for pain, for pleasure, for tumult, for peace.
I love You.
For every moment.
I love You.
I need no other prayer, no formality, no ceremony, no requests, not even some kind of flashy response. Oh yes, I could pray: “Beloved, please fix this bodily malfunction,” but my love for God precludes begging. Or I could pray: “Beloved, grace me with a miracle or some other wondrous intervention.” Then I could write a bestseller and go on the lecture circuit. But such gifts (or curses!) have no import for me, none at all. Nothing matters but my self-offering.
I love You.
Might I be dying? It's possible. I've rehearsed dying, in a manner of speaking. Every day. Praying and meditating. Letting everything go, withdrawing myself from the world as best I can to focus, or at least intend to focus (and sometimes even that’s challenging), on God alone. On being with the Beloved. On offering myself into his arms, as I again do when falling asleep. Perfect love casteth out fear.
I love You.
Call me away if you want, Beloved. I'm ready. In this very moment I'm ready.
I love You.
God whispers through my thoughts: “Is there anything we've left undone, dear one? Anything that would hold us in this body?” No. I can leave this moment.
My wife can finish the taxes. She'll figure things out. We’ve prepared for these eventualities already. Our son will continue to grow. If I'm to leave, then it's his karma to go on without me. If we're to have more time together, then I'm grateful. If not. I'm grateful.
I love You.
And if You want me to stay, Beloved, I stay.
I love You.
I smile, for whatever suffering this bodily distress may incur has faded to the background.
I love You. Whether I stay or go, I love You.
I continue talking with God in this way, a voiceless conversation of communion, of love. His answer comes through my calmness and my certainty of devotion.
I love You.
God is as alive in this oddly thumping heart as ever. He will be there whether in this world or the next. Always here. Always present.
I love You. I love You.
Stretches of time disappear. I venture to the bathroom again, take a drink, resume my vigil.
I love You.
Another hour, another twelve-foot excursion and back. The time on the clock has jumped again, so sleep is happening in there somehow. No worries. I don't have to be in top shape for meetings or tests or some other performance. What do such matters matter, anyway? One blessing of mid-life is discovering that waking repose can be as effective as somniloquence.
I love You.
Three a.m. My heart is still busy and jumping, but stable and consistent in its commotion. Hunger pangs join the party. I need to move a little anyway. I once worried about getting up in the middle of the night. Now, though, I've come to enjoy having some time in the utter stillness of the wee hours, followed by a second sleep as the medievals practiced. So, a slice of peanut-butter toast, some light reading, a second slice, a little more reading, an hour passes.
I rise from the counter and my head goes light again. Probably bad timing with a heart skip or segment of low BP after sitting on my knees. Another small gift of mid-life: you've experienced these things enough to act instinctively. Don't try to stay upright: there's nothing to prove here. The body won't let you prove it anyway: when it detects a shortfall of oxygen to the brain, it pulls the overrides and throws you on the floor without waiting for consent.
But consent is better and more safe. I drop to the floor. Give it a minute. Stand to walk again. Lightheaded again. Go to my knees a second time. I'm halfway back to the bedroom, so after another minute I just crawl along until I can slide into bed.
Maybe I will die after all. But no worries.
I love You.
God is with me, in the very heart of my heart, in the center of it all. Whatever happens, He is there, always there.
I love You.
The mantra continues, for nothing else matters.
Seven-thirty arrives. My wife stirs. I have slept for sure: three-some hours vanished without awareness.
And now my heart is settled, pulsing normally, steadily, gently. The BP monitor reports 119/73, numbers I haven't seen in a long time. They're a little higher ten minutes later as I've sat up and engaged with the morning, but still well below earlier altitudes.
We get an appointment for the afternoon. We'll have to drive a little farther, but timeliness is essential. I'll be able to get examined today.
Something has passed, though. A test? A blessing? An opportunity? Perhaps all of these together. A test of non-attachment, a blessing to work through something in my body, and an opportunity to exercise the kind of unconditional self-offering I hope to perfect, to make it a permanent part of my being. Expecting no particular outcome, I am grateful to God for the experience, whatever it means, whatever it brings.
At the clinic that afternoon I check out fine on all counts, including the EKG. We'll do some blood work and strap me up to a Holter monitor to check for lower-level arrythmias. Maybe these will reveal something more chronic, in which case I'm grateful for early detection and appropriate treatment.
Maybe they won't reveal anything, for maybe in the course of one evening and without my asking, God healed my heart.
Maybe it will then keep going for a long time, carrying me from mid-life into old-life.
Maybe it won't.
And the headaches are still there. I probably I need to visit my chiropractor again.
But none of these matter, because only one thing matters:
I love You.
(For a postscript of this account, which shares the interventions I took after the events of this story to address hypertension, see A matter of the heart—postscript.)