“Don’t Ever Tell Me the Odds. I Refuse to be Another Statistic. Statistics Are For the Weak.”
They say the five stages of grief are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally…Acceptance. But you don’t always experience just one stage at a time. If you’re a perfectionist, an OCD personality who, like an archeologist, digs for clues and answers with religious fervor until uncovering the truth, those stages may overlap. For me, I am currently drifting back and forth between Denial, Anger, and Bargaining, all at once…like the tides that ebb and flow…just like the same tides that are synchronized to the mysterious moon as it waxes and wanes, just as those same tides govern my Cancerian personality and its own ebbs and flows.
It wasn’t supposed to happen to me. It wasn’t EVER supposed to happen to ME. I am the guy who watches his weight. I’m the guy who works out on average of two hours a day. I’m the guy who can run on the treadmill for over an hour without even breathing choppy. I’m the guy who eats the same meals, every day, because I know exactly how much of everything is in them, and has spreadsheets…yes, literally spreadsheets of daily meals, depending on my fitness goals…weight loss, maintenance, of bulking…with exactly how many proteins, carbs, calories, and fats are in each meal, each day. I’m the guy who saves every article from Men’s Fitness, T-Nation, and at least a half dozen other online sites with diet, fitness, and workout tips, strategies, calculators, and insights. I’m the guy who LOVES to talk to others about fitness, diet, healthy lifestyle, the guy who is downstairs in the gym setting a new PR for squats for dead lifts or bench presses while everyone else is sitting on their ass on the sofa, watching hour after hour of mindless television. I’m the guy who would get the results back from his yearly physicals and the numbers were SO off the chart good, the physician was surprised and would say, “Whatever you’re doing, just keep doing it, because you’re doing something right.” I’m the guy that people look at and say, “I wish I could be as motivated as YOU.” I’m THAT guy.
A week ago, last Monday evening, I suffered what has been confirmed as a heart attack. It was mild; the experts who poked, prodded, and studied no less than eight EKG’s, pints of blood work results and charts, all confirmed one thing; the mildness of the attack and my ability to more or less recover from it in less than twenty-four hours was attributed to my healthy lifestyle, the strength of my heart itself, and the resilience of my body, thanks to the rigorous regimen of exercise and diet I have always maintained (with the occasional cheat day or piece of stress relieving piece of chocolate candy.) Not everyone is able to iron clothes, do house cleaning, and eat dinner during a heart attack that lasted six hours. In addition to OCD, I suffer from acute self-consciousness when it comes to my looks (everything from the neck, up), as well as body dysmorphia (everything from the neck, down.) Sure, there are times when I honestly and truly think, and feel, I look really good…those times are most often documented by my now infamous bathroom mirror selfies on Sunday mornings, or my myriad photo shoots, planned with precision and prepared for like an athlete prepares for the Olympics. If I don’t think I look good enough, the camera just doesn’t roll. It’s not vanity that drives these, EVER. Its insecurity and the need to overcome those insecurities and fears by proving to myself that I can DO it. And I am almost always pleased. Is the hard work worth it? Look at the photos and tell me. Few others, unless they are career fitness models, look as good at my age. And I love the feeling of beating odds, of keeping the hands of time at a slight standstill, and I am immensely proud of the accomplishment, despite any sacrifices I had to make along the way to achieve my goal. For me, the best goal is the one not yet realized, and so I LOVE to STRIVE. People swear this is not so, but I am an extremely shy person, a textbook introvert, who seeks the solace of a quiet corner somewhere rather than the chatter and lights of the center of the room, and attention. Social situations terrify me; only in the company of a small group of dear friends who already know my fallacies, can I completely relax, open up freely, and be myself. I think that is why the photos are such a draw for me. They are a way for me to explore an extroverted, adventurous, almost racy side of my personality that I otherwise could never exhibit in front of others.
Over the years, my phobias and insecurities, many of which stemmed from my early teens, caused me to become a different person, a better version of myself. While I read about and learned about culture such as art, music, and history, I also began molding my exterior, affectionately referred to as my “Chassis,” with diet, exercise, and the adoption of a healthy lifestyle. I watched my parents and other family members prematurely age from a lack of motivation and dedication, and I vowed that I would never follow in their path, that I would do it differently…better. And I did a great job. I am almost completely unrecognizable to the teen and young adult of years ago. Through trial and error and the occasional injury and setback, I learned about my body. I learned of both its strengths and weaknesses, limitations, and often, I learned how to push past those limitations. I have mastered the ability to put a little quality weight on, in the right places, and I have also learned how to drop ten pounds, also in the right places, with little effort, and in record time. Your body has its own language, but you have to learn how to speak it before you can communicate with it effectively. I thought I had come to understand my body and most importantly, trust it. Trust is very hard earned with me, but over the years, my body earned my trust.
And then last Monday happened, and not only did the trust disappear overnight, but my own sense of self-identity as well. My already shaky self-confidence shattered.
My body failed me. My body let me down.
Still fluctuating between denial, anger, and bargaining at this point, I have moments when I honestly wonder if the so-call “experts” may have been wrong; perhaps it was not a heart attack, but something else that exhibited similar symptoms, and I was pigeonholed into a diagnosis; often, people see what they want to see, based on what they think they are seeing. I’ve also been very angry…it has taken me a few days to be able to say that, because it’s a negative feeling most of us try to avoid, but YES…I am very angry this may…okay…evidently, happened to me. Why not the fat, out of shape, sofa-potato who never heeds well-intentioned health advice from people like me? I’ve also had my share of bargaining…I should not have reached for that damnable 150 calorie bag of chips out of desperation because I was hungry and nodding off…oh, I have beat myself up over what to me are horrendous food choices, when to most people they are normal, everyday luncheon fare. Never mind that I drink a gallon of water every day, was faithfully eating for dinner, EVERY night, the same chicken breast, rice, and broccoli or green beans with NO salt, NO butter…or eating healthy, protein rich poached eggs and oatmeal for breakfast while others were opting for McDonalds…it didn’t matter how much better my choices were overall compared to most…those little bags of chips, or few pieces of candy were strictly off limits, I knew, and yet I gave into temptation anyway…if I had only been stronger, better…maybe last Monday would not have happened. Or maybe it would have, regardless.
To just about anyone who knows me, I am (or is it “was” now?) the healthiest person they knew. But for me now, I feel as if I have lost that title. I’m broken. I’m damaged. My body let me down, betrayed me in what I feel is the worst way it ever could, and I am so ashamed of that. I want to have confidence in my body again, to trust my heart to do right by my body again, but right now, I haven’t gotten there. I question every move I make. I resent the medications I am being forced to take, because my body betrayed me. I resent the fact I cannot go downstairs, climb on my treadmill or workout in my gym. What are looked at as annoying, useless wastes of their time to most, are sources of happiness and therapy and accomplishment for me. And I want, and NEED, to get back to all of that as soon as possible. I’ve lost a huge part of my identity because of this heart attack…Goddamned thing that you are…and even in the throes of denial, anger, and bargaining, I am already making plans to bounce back, and better than ever, harder than ever, and even more relentless than ever…it serves my body right for letting me down, and I WILL win over it…but I also know that before that can happen, I will have to experience a period of depression, and then, finally, acceptance…acceptance this really did happen to me, acceptance that in all probably likelihood it was NOT something I could prevent, and then put on my sneakers, pick up a dumbbell, or hop back on the treadmill…perhaps at a slower speed for a while, and perhaps with a monitor strapped to me for a few months…and allow my body the chance to prove to me once again I can trust it.
Will I finally trust my body and heart again one day? Of course. But it is going to take time. It won’t happen overnight. But I am the most determined person you will ever meet, so it will happen. And every step forward, every milestone, no matter how large or small, will be like heaven to me. And I will come back stronger for it. Credit the stout resilience of the Irish half of my heritage and the proud, determined aristocratic French genes that refuse to bend and break, but I know my heart, although a little damaged and in need of some healing, will prevail, and I will once again be able to view myself as the paragon of health that I was just a few short weeks ago. One thing is certain; I never walk away from a fight, or a challenge, and once I am cleared by the doctors to begin my fight, the battlefield will be conquered as mine again. I require it. I refuse to be defined by anything other than my own definition of myself.
Stay tuned. This next chapter is going to be glorious.
