My Personal Journey

Rushing from a noontime meeting to the next urgent matter, I shoveled a few bites of lunch into my mouth. After a few chews, I swallowed. No luck. Last night’s leftovers didn’t want to go all the way down. Swallowing again, it still didn’t pass. I took a drink of water but suddenly began to vomit. The pain in my chest was immediate and sharp. Dropping to my knees, I called out for help.
 
So, what happened? The bites of food I gulped down became lodged at the base of my esophagus, puncturing a small hole in my esophageal wall. An emergency endoscopy was performed to remove the food. As a stopgap, a stent was inserted into my esophagus to seal the hole. But the wound had already caused a septic infection to develop. My left lung would soon collapse.

For several weeks, I was hooked up to multiple chest tubes in an attempt to drain the infection from my body. I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink for weeks. As the days wore on, my health worsened. I experienced a seizure. Then an acute kidney injury nearly requiring dialysis. The veins in my arms started to collapse from constant blood draws, eventually requiring a picc line. Barely stable enough to walk, I required in-depth assistance to use the bathroom. Meanwhile, the endless drip of fentanyl and other medications caused delirium and hallucinations. When I was lucid, I made a concerted effort to suppress my emotional experience. I had to be strong for others, though what I was really doing was denying the seriousness of my reality.

“If this is the end, are you proud of how you lived your life?”

And, “How deep did your relationships go?”

Lastly, “How will you be remembered by others, and for what did you stand for?” 

To hear a thoracic surgeon say, “If we don’t go in and do this surgery, your odds of leaving here are not good” was terrifying. Consenting to have my ribs surgically separated was the easiest and scariest decision I ever made. After seven hours of “scraping” the septic infection from my lung, my health eventually improved. One week later and forty pounds lighter, I miraculously walked out of the hospital.
 
While an inpatient, I had a lot of time to reflect. Before going into the hospital, some of my common worries sounded like, “I wonder if my coworkers think I’m capable?” or, “I wonder if I’m saving enough money for retirement?” Now I was thinking, “Why was I irrationally placing so much value on what others thought?” Additionally, I wasn’t worrying about the vacations or the hobbies I previously said I would enjoy more often. No, instead, I was face to face with, “If this is the end, are you proud of how you lived your life?” And, “How deep did your relationships go?” Lastly, “How will you be remembered by others, and for what did you stand for?” 

It was apparent that a lot was missing from how I actually lived my life.
 
About one month after leaving the hospital, I started to realize the extent of what I had just gone through. The grieving process was immense.
 
According to Stoic Philosophy, there’s a concept about bonus time: remember that one day you will no longer live.
 
Today, when I get overly caught up in opinions and things that are unimportant and irrelevant, I remember what it’s like to feel alone. I remember what it’s like going weeks without physically being able to drink water. That desperate, soul-crushing desire for just one sip. Rest assured these realizations didn’t need to come down to such a life-or-death event.

It’s my experience that of all the known practices, mindfulness is the most forgiving to the human condition. It has guided my recovery after this traumatic experience. It has shown me how to accept pain and discomfort, while finding joy through the process of grieving loss. It has helped me connect more deeply with others and hold more empathy for the struggles of our collective human experience.
 
I wholeheartedly believe that the work I get to do now is a privilege. Because I know what it’s like to feel confused and not know what matters. I know what it’s like to lose myself in the current of popular narratives and what-about-isms. I know what it’s like to give up on my goals in the name of comfort and fear. I know what it’s like to avoid taking action, overly focusing on irrelevant distractions. Add all that up, and it equals the realization that I know what it feels like to almost lose it all.

I’m deeply grateful that I get to have a life. I’m grateful that I get to make more consciously informed choices that impact the direction I take my life. I’m grateful to be a husband, father, son, brother, uncle, in-law, friend, colleague, and provider. I’m grateful I get to wear a smile on my face from time to time.
 
To you … no matter how far behind you feel in your life right now or how harsh you can be on yourself, know that mindfulness is a practice that can help you reclaim a conscious, well-lived life. If our paths cross someday, it would be a privilege to help you establish a more harmonious relationship with your mind so you, too, can embody your life with renewed openness, flexibility, and possibility.