My Tell-Tale Heart
I stumbled across this old story on a recent afternoon where I was entertaining a pity party for one. I was so surprised when I re-read it how it spoke to me anew, during this particular period of my life. In The Tell-Tale Heart, (Edgar Allan Poe, 1843), the Narrator sees a film; a “veil” of sorts in an old man’s eye- maybe it’s a glaucoma or some colored spot on the iris- we’re not specifically told- but at any rate, the Narrator sees a reflection in the eye of the old man, and he becomes obsessed. He’s not obsessed with the old man himself, in fact he likes the old man. The narrator is convinced the spot in the old man’s eye is evil, and that he must eliminate the old man in order to be free from the “evil spot.”
(Sidenote: Since I’m a former 10th Grade English Teacher, of course I’m going to point out to you that included in Poe’s story is a Shakespeare reference from MacBeth….. 10 bonus points and box of chocolate chip cookies if you can find it…..Good luck. :)
That’s how I’ve been tempted to react at times during this journey of Cardiomyopathy. I’ll admit I’ve found myself whining and feeling sorry for myself over a “spot” or two a fair few times over the course of the past few weeks. For the purpose of this blog, a “spot” will be defined loosely as “shit I cannot control, and therefore have been bitching about.” You’re very welcome for the oh-so-classy definition, by the way!!!! ;)
Spot #1: I may have to have a defibrillator implanted permanently in my heart. I may have to have a full transplant. They don’t know any of these factors definitively yet. So in the meantime, in order that I don’t randomly go into cardiac arrest and drop dead, I have to wear a defibrillator vest that looks like something my kids learned to swim in, except that there is a Sony Walkman type contraption attached to it. OH and the pamphlet advertising said device features models all well over the age of 70, particularly this one shirtless guy who looks like Robert Redford’s doppelgänger. I will also take the opportunity to mention here that Robert Redford’s boobs are arguably better than mine, and I’ll admit here that I’m jealous-So that would be Spot #1, sub-Spot A.
Spot #2: You know when you get a cold or some kind of a bug, there’s kind of this linear path to full healing? For example, it’s like, OK, I’ve got this sore throat. So because I’ve had a bazillion colds before, I know that it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Then you can almost predict the next few days: the congestion will roll in, the constant nose-blowing, the difficulty sleeping, blah blah blah. Then finally about day 4-5 if it’s a particularly bad one, you’re having coughing fits but eventually it trails off and boom- by day 7 or so, you’re healthy again. Well, this Cardiomyopathy/Congestive Heart Failure has been far from a linear process. In fact, it’s been extremely cyclical, and very “hurry up and wait.” Even a clear diagnosis hasn’t been able to be nailed down, and they are assuming that it was caused by a virus attacking my heart, but the docs were only able to determine that by process of elimination. So nothing makes a ton of sense yet, to anyone- therefore I’m left holding the bag of questions: Will I live through this? What medical procedures are ahead of me relating to this, because frankly, NONE of them sound like sunshine, unicorns and orgasms. How much, if any, will I heal from this? They just cannot tell me what they don’t have answers for at this time.
Spot #3: Ever had the experience where you have an ailment and suddenly everyone is a doctor? They want to tell me about their (geriatric) relative who had this same or similar condition, and the procedures that they went through. Second to this, they would like to tell me exactly what I should be doing to heal: “Sounds like it’s time to give up your Pink Himalayan Salt Addiction!” or “You shouldn’t be here at school for this meeting- you need to be at home resting.” (Oh, jeez thanks, I’m 42 years old, obviously can’t make those determinations for myself and by the way I didn’t realize you were my parent.) Speaking of parents, even my own mother asked me daily for awhile if I was measuring my urine. Um, NO, I’m not, and if I were, I would not be dispensing details about it. Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, of course I obviously read this as people being concerned for me. But it’s just like come on, people. It’s the same reason I refuse to look this crap up on the internet. I know from experience that I’ll go on there and google my condition, and then read statistics that don’t apply to me: because I am not the same age, gender, and do not have the same genetics, causes, conditions that resulted in those statistics. Therefore, why on earth would I go on the IOP (Interwebs Of Paranoia) and become a neurotic, deranged lunatic. So please. With all due respect, I know you’re concerned and I’m thankful for that; but unless you ARE a doctor, please don’t think you’ve suddenly become a cardiologist simply because your Grandma or your father’s church organist had a heart condition. Thanks. Nothing but respect and love to you. XOXO.
Spot #4: Other people complaining to me about being sick or having some condition that is arguably not super serious (READ: “life threatening”-I’m not trying to challenge anyone else’s definition of illness and how it affects them, ok?) But what I will say is that honestly what some folks refer to as “tired” or “stress” or “busy” or “sick” will be so mind-boggling to my brain that I almost can’t compute it, much less identify with it. All I’m saying is, at first, I’ll be tempted to judge them- BUT I’m not walking in their shoes, so I can’t anyway. Once I consciously recognize it by becoming the Watcher of my Thoughts, I’ll have a CTJM (“Come to Jesus Meeting”) with myself and quickly snap out of it.
Snapping out of that thought involves launching into a self-lecture, commencing with (admittedly sometimes out loud) “Oh girl…. naw, don’t go there, don’t you do that. If you judge, you’re just setting yourself up to compare and despair.” And as the saying goes, ain’t nobody got time for that!!!!!!!!! And I for one, certainly don’t have the bandwidth. So you know what? Maybe someone’s case of the sniffles or their backache is reason for them to cancel their meeting with you and stay in bed all day. So what. Silver lining is I get an unexpected free afternoon to do something I might have been needing to get done. Maybe the sole reason for their stressful day entails Starbucks ceasing to make the seasonal pumpkin spice latte, and perhaps the icing on the cake was they somehow got shut out of their Netflix account. Sobeit. That is their capacity at that moment- that’s what they can bear right now. And so it’s NONE OF MY BUSINESS. But you know what IS my business? To STAY IN MY OWN LANE and be GENTLE and LOVING because *my* so-called problems will look like a day at Disneyland to someone else. Case in point was a documentary I watched on starving babies in Yemen last night…. from the comfort of my snuggly, warm bed, with my well-fed babies asleep in their comfy, warm beds. Perspective. I’ll take this heart thing any day, over and over again, thank you very much.
Bill Wilson, founder of Alcoholics Anonymous once said, “It is a spiritual axiom that whenever I am disturbed, there is something wrong with ME.” I mean, I’ll be the first to admit the phrase “there is something *wrong* with me” isn’t probably the best choice of words, but you get the point: This is when powerlessness (feeling disturbed) becomes my power (there is something wrong with ME.) Meaning when I am bugged by something, it’s my opportunity to choose how to respond- which is practicing self-care within the realm of acceptance. As Mother Theresa said, “I will not participate in a march ‘against’ war, but I will march ‘for’ peace.” It’s all in how I’m looking at it- yep, it’s our old friend from Psychotherapy-Ville: Cognitive Reframing, whom I realize I discuss with great frequency. (Because I have a built-in forgetter and need constant reminders when that default of negativity rolls around that have power to choose how I respond.)
In my practice of acceptance of Cardiomyopathy/CHF, I’ve realized this is really just the same tune, played on a different instrument. I think about the more than one unplanned pregnancies I’ve experienced- What was I to do about it? Sit around and pout for 9 months and be pissed off? Seems hardly beneficial. Better to trust that I don’t know what’s good for me, and that maybe it’s not even *about* me. (What a concept-imagine that!) But I do get to choose how I want the experience to affect me as a person: do I want to be bitter, or better? Am I going to lean into it or am I going to resist it…..which we all know that resistance is like shoveling snow in a snowstorm- a pretty much fruitless endeavor; a fool’s errand. I might as well use my energy to choose my response.
Likewise, there really is no sense in trying to “kill” whatever spot I think is causing my angst- in the end it will only involve me putting myself in a figurative prison. When I falsely believe my perceived problem will end when someone else changes their behavior- or when this circumstance changes, I’ve just buckled myself into a seat on the Merry-Go-Round of Disappointment. It’s the victim mentality on infinite loop, and I can tell you firsthand, it’s not a very attractive quality. Like the Narrator, I may not see the old man’s eye anymore if I kill him, but I will sure as shit hear that heartbeat thumping steadily from under the wooden plank flooring. It’s like those trick candles on a birthday cake- you blow them out once, but they relight and blaze right back up again.
Mmmkayy, by the way did anyone find the MacBeth reference in The Tell-Tale Heart? I’ll give you one last clue: the word has been mentioned repeatedly in the above prose. Yep- that’s right, the word “spot.”The Narrator says: “I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the dammed spot!” In Act V Scene I, Lady MacBeth is sleepwalking through the castle, hallucinating and rubbing her hands together as if she were washing them. “Out, dammed spot, I say!” she cries. (Lady MacBeth was responsible for the death of King Duncan, but she couldn’t wash the blood off- so she was lamenting over the “stain” of the shame and the guilt that wouldn’t “wash” off.) In the same way, after the murder, the Narrator cannot escape the Old Man even after death, as evidenced by the sound of the beating heart ringing in his ears from the floor boards where he buried him.
So. The Narrator’s problem is not the old man, and it’s not the “spot” itself. My problem is not the Cardiomyopathy or the Congestive Heart Failure. It’s not the Robert Redford Swim Vest. It’s not the unpredictability, or the snail’s pace at which this healing progress (if any) is measured. It’s not the Interwebs of Paranoia. It’s not anybody else and their attempts to relate to my condition OR tell me how to heal from mine. No. None of these things are my problem. My problem is when I choose to fight what’s happening with a spirit of non-acceptance. I’m in control of my response to what’s happening. Acceptance isn’t a negative word; it doesn’t mean "lay down and die”- it’s actually a positive word; more like a refusal to be in denial. Does a first responder roll up to an accident scene, all judge-y and pissed off that an accident has occurred, looking around for someone to blame for what happened? Nope. They assess the situation and respond accordingly. In the same way, it’s futile for me to pull a Nancy Kerrigan and play the “Why Me?” card.
With gratitude, I’m reminded that the tale my Heart has reminded me throughout this process is that my power comes from my powerlessness. For me, that’s the most serene and successful “spot” in which to plant myself.
“Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers…” (The Tell-Tale Heart, Poe, 1843.)