Prior to my 2nd chance, I had a good life. Sure, some things were a bit challenging. My husband had a good job, I got along with my parents. Had some rough patches with siblings. Few friends, but good ones.
In retrospect, I can see the currents running under my life that possibly put me at the perfect near-death situation. I’m not a walking example of taking the best care of my health. I’m not a poster girl for doing everything wrong, either!
But, I wasn’t happy. I’d been writing for about 5 years. But I was struggling with finding motivation to keep writing. I was scared to even consider the idea of sending anything to an editor, let alone an agent. I was convinced that I was fragile. That I would crack under the withering eye of rejection. Period.
In fact, I lived my life by this credo. Taking chances meant getting hurt. Taking chances meant guaranteed failure. I would not be able to handle failing. Rocking the boat with ambition at this stage in my life would see me drowning. Nothing was worth the risk of being told I sucked.
But I’m also a very practical woman and I looked at over two million words written and was finding it hard to justify my spending this much time on writing without a payoff of some sort.
Then, the sudden cardiac death…three days kept sedated, another seven undergoing test after test. And no smoking gun, no absolute diagnosis. No damage to speak of. My heart just sped up, fell out of rhythm, and then stopped. I walked out of the hospital with more fear than I could handle. Because if they didn’t know why, it could happen again. And what if my husband wasn’t there to administer CPR?
A month later I had an interior cardio defibrillator installed. If my heart did it again, this device would shock my heart back to rhythm. I felt better. But still…scared.
A month after that, my father died. He’d been failing. And I handled it. Really well…too well. (A symptom I later came to understand.)
Two months later I took a cruise to Hawaii with my husband. Two days out of Honolulu, in the middle of the Pacific…my ICD shocked me. Now, this is what it’s supposed to do. If I need it. I didn’t need it. Twenty four hours later, it did it again. I went to the infirmary and they found nothing wrong with me.
It took another two days before I got in to see my cardiologist, who was able to reassure me, I hadn’t had another heart episode. The ICD made a mountain out of a molehill. It was adjusted to be less sensitive and I was sent home. (I was probably dehydrated, which can mess up the smooth running of the heart.)
A month after that and I was sitting in a Starbucks, reading my newspaper and there it was. My ICD manufacturer was under recall for faulty leads. (Leads are the actual plastic coated leads that run from my ICD, at my left shoulder, into my heart…to deliver the shock.)
Another doctor’s visit and I was told the recall was for a very rare fault and we’d be keeping a very close eye on my leads. The device was programmed to alert me if any variance in the ability to deliver a shock was detected.
Sigh.
A month later I suffered my first anxiety attack and was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. I began to see a therapist. And as we talked, I realized how deep a grip fear held on my life. I revealed to her I was writing. And she asked why I hadn’t been looking for a publisher. I told her I was scared of rejection. Her reply?
“You almost died, what is scarier than that?”
Smart woman!
Two months later I signed up to attend the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention in Pittsburgh and a class for Aspiring Writers with Judi McCoy.
Because my therapist was right. And whenever I get scared of rejection, of ‘failure’, I remember her words.
It’s been three years, and I am still writing. I did suffer rejections. And they didn’t crush me or kill me. They hurt, but I didn’t drown in that hurt. I now have an agent who believes in me. And I believe in me.
I mended fences with the siblings, I finally cried for my father, friends changed and I dove into the internet and met a group of writing pirates who welcomed me. Asked me to join their crew after I kept sneaking aboard and posting clever comments, under the pseudonym of 2nd Chance. ;-) They are a great group of writers and I am blessed to be part of that blogging crew.
I can honestly say…my sudden cardiac death was a blessing. It was the kick in the ass I needed to wake up and start living my life. I still get scared. I still need the occasional Ativan.
I turned 50 in December and I’m living my second chance.
May the realization that fear is simply a fact of life and nothing more than ballast to keep you on an even keel come to all of us. Without the nearly dying part!