Facing an Unfamiliar Truth

I am not fine.

There. The truth is out. Sometimes the truth I cannot say seeps out through my finger tips and onto the keyboard. Then the small black letters sit there, staring at me from the computer screen, the flashing cursor and me just waiting to see what comes next.

How is it that the world continues? The sun is just coming up. A single ray breaks through the cloud cover and fills the apartment with liquid gold. Birds sing the light into being. City traffic starts to move over rain-soaked pavement.

I always say I’m fine. It’s a habit. A way of reassuring others that I don’t need much from them, that they don’t need to be afraid. A way of reassuring myself that things are not as bad as they seem, that I don’t need to be afraid.

A year ago, early one morning in the city- before I’d allowed the thought that my marriage was unravelling- I phoned the tele-nurse to see if she thought I should go to a hospital emergency ward. I hadn’t been able to take a full breath for over twelve hours. There was a constant and penetrating ache in my back, as if someone had slipped a dull knife blade between my ribs.

The night before, preparing to give a talk at a local venue, I’d had to lie down on the floor and wait for my wildly beating heart to slow down. Lying on the carpet, I’d put my hand on my chest. Like a trapped and frantic animal, my heart seemed to be throwing itself against my rib cage, seeking a way out or a way to knock itself out and find relief in unconsciousness. It was beating at six times its normal speed, skipping an occasional beat, shaking my body from head to toe.

Minutes before, on the phone, my husband had told me he was not going to keep a promise. He’d forgotten. Made another commitment. Something more important.

I told myself I was fine. My heart begged to differ. There was nothing to do but lie on the floor, breathe slowly and wait for it to pass. And it did. Suddenly the rapid fluttering stopped. There was a pause, a moment in between tachycardia and a normal pulse. Silence. I felt suspended, as if a decision was being made at a cellular level, beyond or behind or below consciousness, about whether or not to continue. I waited and watched, unsure of the outcome.

Then, my heart resumed beating at a normal if slightly irregular rhythm, like someone staggering away from the scene of a car crash. That’s when the ache in my back had started, like a kink from trying an impossible yoga posture, as if some part of me had stretched beyond its limits in order to continue.

The next morning, I still couldn’t take a full breath.

The nurse on the phone asked a few questions. Then told me she was dialling 911. She thought I might be having a heart attack.

Really? I said. I’m fine.

An impossibly short time later, two firefighters, a police officer and two paramedics were leaning over me.

Really, I said between small sips of air, I’m fine. It’s probably just stress.

The police officer shook his head and went into the hallway. A firefighter put an oxygen mask over my face. One of the paramedics said, You are aware that stress can cause a heart attack?

I lifted the oxygen mask and reassured them all. I’m fine.

They attached electrodes to my skin, while I wondered if someone would put that on my gravestone: She said she was fine.

When I was growing up, my parents were worried about my brother- unhappy and sullen, smoking dope, drinking beer, skipping school to hang out in the small town pool hall. My mother told me they never worried about me. They knew I’d be fine. I’m sure she meant it in gratitude- one offspring they did not need to be concerned about. I’m sure she meant it as a compliment- a testament to my strength and common sense. I heard it as a job description. My job was to be fine, even when I wasn’t. So, I have very little talent for not being fine, for recognizing when I am not fine. Once in a while, I wonder: Am I fine? Who should I ask?

The firefighters left. Forty-five minutes later the paramedics told me they didn’t think I was having a heart attack, although they recommended seeing a doctor.

So now here I am, a year later. My marriage is ending. My husband and I are separated. Could I say I didn’t see it coming? My heart did. After a decade together, I am not fine with the loss of my home, marriage, husband and dreams of deep intimacy and a shared life.

There is some relief in being able to lay down the burden of always been fine.

I am not fine.

And that’s okay.