How I’m Learning to Accept Mortality and Vulnerability
I came down with a stomach flu on Christmas Day, December 25th, 2018. Complications from the flu put me hospital for 11 days and brought me face-to-face with mortality. I was unconscious for 6 days.
Had any of a number of things gone differently, I might not have been here to write this. I could either have passed on from this world or been left incapacitated, unable to write or even talk.
I took to reading Stoic literature two years ago. I thought I had begun to accept the concept of memento mori (“Remember you must die”) — or my favorite saying from Game of Thrones, Valar Morghulis (“All men must die.”). I remind myself that the glass is already broken. I don’t know when or why it will break, but I know it will. I imagine it will.
Yet the reading and thinking was academic. I wasn’t emotionally or mentally prepared when I woke up on New Year’s Day in the ICU to face the distinct possibility that I could have died.
Perhaps I wasn’t that close. My heart never stopped. I never stopped breathing. But my O2 levels dropped below 70 percent, and my lungs were filling with fluid and blood. My brain and limbs were swelling, and the doctors had no diagnosis. One of my friends who is a doctor told me recently that she was truly worried about me.
From the time my family made a 911 call when I had a seizure and passed out in the car, it took almost two hours to get to a regional ER. It was another 7 hours before I arrived at Good Samaritan Hospital in San Jose. A lot could have gone wrong along the way. Even once I was at Good Samaritan, my condition was still precarious. I was put on a ventilator and feeding tube, and kept in an induced coma.
I don’t remember anything from the first 6 days. I woke up and wondered if I’d recall any dreams or visions I had while I lay there, but I didn’t. My memory was void, dark. No faces, voices, background noises, lights. Six days of my life were blank. I felt overwhelmed, my mind frozen by the darkness.
My family explained what had happened. Over the next few days and weeks, I felt like I was coming to terms with what happened. Three weeks after I left the hospital, anyone looking at me would say I was fully recovered, or very nearly so. I was back at work part-time, had gone for a short run, and was out and about regularly.
Yet I still had this sense of unease and anxiety that I couldn’t quite pin down. My brush with mortality still lingered at the edges of my consciousness like storm clouds on the horizon. I couldn’t tell which way the clouds were really headed. What if they were coming towards me?
Before Christmas, we had talked about going skiing again if our daughters enjoyed their first trip to the snow. But now I felt anxious when I thought about it. My wife and I haven’t even talked about going skiing again this season. She no doubt feels scarred by the experience, too.
I wrote about my experience, but it didn’t resolve my sense of unease. I made an appointment with a therapist — when I’d much rather be at the dentist. I’m glad I went. The conversation with her (the therapist, not the dentist) helped me name what I was feeling.
Vulnerability. I feel my mortality clearly now. It could be anywhere. And I sensed my loved ones’ vulnerability acutely, too.
I’m young, or feel like a young 45. I’m healthy. I exercise regularly and run marathons. I try to limit stress in my life (one factor in health). I quit a job after 8 months last spring that was toxic to my mental health. I go to the doctor for checkups.
When I think about my own mortality, I think about accidents, not sudden illness. And when I do picture illness, it’s a more gradual battle with cancer, not an unexpected bout with the flu.
Until now, I felt safe from serious illness — not exactly invulnerable, but I expected I would bounce back quickly. I never imagined I could wake up in an ICU bed, disoriented and missing almost a week of my life.
Now I find myself feeling vulnerable to any illness, and anxious about being far from care. What if I’m up in the mountains, hours from a hospital? Or overseas where I don’t speak the language and don’t understand the local healthcare system at all?
We are all vulnerable — and we need to remind ourselves of that.
My brush with mortality cemented something I knew but hadn’t accepted. We are all vulnerable, all the time. So is everyone around us. So are all of our possessions (remember, the glass is already broken). It isn’t just mortality. Life is fragile. An illness or accident can scar us permanently, changing us physically, even mentally.
It’s a dark thought, but one we need to consider in our lives.
It feels paralyzing at first. I am still hesitant to go someplace remote like Bear Valley, Yosemite, or overseas. But as I come to accept and embrace my vulnerability, it feels liberating. If we accept our mortality and name it, it frees us from the dread of the unknown.
Accepting Vulnerability and Mortality
So how can we embrace our vulnerability and mortality? This isn’t so much a work-in-progress for me as a journey for me that will never end (until it finally does). I’m learning as I go, so I’ll share here in the hopes it helps you.
Read and think about mortality
It won’t prepare you entirely, but it will help you process it. My go-to is The Daily Stoic. My wife and I read from it every day. It helps frame our thoughts for the day. If you’re looking for more, turn to Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations (the Kindle version is free) or Seneca’s Moral Letters.
Spend your time with people and activities that matter
Focus on those that bring you joy (thank you, Marie Kondo). An acquaintance texts you and asks if you want to meet for a drink this week. You don’t have other plans so your inclination is to accept. Although she’s not a close friend, it’s the polite thing to do, and you haven’t seen her in a while. But what else could you do with that time? Go to dinner with your partner? Spend an hour with your kids? Work on a project that’s meaningful to you?
Take a moment to reflect before you accept invitations or opportunities. As Derek Sivers says, if it isn’t a “Hell yes!” it’s a “No.”
Evaluate where you spend your time
Three or four times a year, step back and reevaluate where you’re spending your time. Are there things you’re doing — or people you’re spending time with — that don’t bring you joy? Do you feel anxious about them? Do you put them off when you can? Either they don’t bring you joy, or you’ve taken on too much. Sometimes, you have to discard or rethink even those things that should bring you joy but you don’t have time to appreciate.
When I got out of the hospital, I politely bowed out of two ongoing volunteer commitments. Both felt important, but I regularly put one of them off. I was overcommitted.
Create and leave memories with your family
The ski trip where I got sick was with extended family. We treasured time with my wife’s family, and wanted to create memories with them with a shared trip. And well, we certainly created memories on this trip!
Beyond creating memories, you can leave memories for your family, especially kids if you have them. I’ve set up email addresses for both of my girls and periodically email them a note, picture or video. I don’t do this as often as I should, but it’s a start.
Appreciate the small things and be present
I get wrapped up pretty easily in work, the news, social media, household chores. Most of us do. It’s easy to get distracted and miss special moments with your loved ones, or to just overlook the wonders around us.
Be present. Put away your phone when you’re with family and good friends.
Appreciate that cup of coffee or glass of wine for a moment.
Stop and look around you, at the sky, trees, the sun, the moon, the stars. Breathe it in.
After I got out of the hospital, I started keeping a short morning and evening gratitude journal. I’ve kept with it every day and it’s helped me focus what’s important. I had been trying to keep a journal sporadically over the past two years, but after my illness, it feels much more meaningful.
Don’t Give in to Fear
Once you’ve faced mortality head on, it’s easy to stop enjoying your life because it just feels dangerous. It’s easy to be afraid, to let your sense of vulnerability and mortality overwhelm you and keep you from taking that trip.
Don’t let it. We stagnate if we give in to fear and avoid new or different experiences, or let our perceived limitations hold us back.
“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” — Helen Keller
And that’s from a woman who became blind and deaf when she was 19 months old in 1882, yet overcame the odds to graduate from Radcliffe College and become a famous author and activist. She didn’t give in to fear or doubt. Neither should we.
Name Your Fear
“Named must be your fear before banish it can.” — Yoda
This post wouldn’t be complete without a quote from the Jedi Master. One thing I’ve found helpful is to identify your fear. Write it down. Say it out loud.
I’m afraid something might happen again if we go skiing someplace remote, or travel anyplace without convenient access to healthcare.
If we look our fears in the eye, their power over us diminishes.
Find Your Inspiration
When you’re anxious or afraid, look for inspiration.
Each of us find inspiration from different sources at different times. Lately, I’ve turned to my Instagram feed just to motivate me in the morning. From Jocko Willink and Amelia Boone to Gymnastic Bodies, I’m looking to people who are doing amazing things and drawing inspiration from them.
What’s your source of inspiration? Take a few moments to find it. Not sure what it is? Follow people you look up to on social media, read their writing, listen to their podcasts, or watch their TEDTalks. Then take 10 minutes a day to absorb inspiration from them.
Make a Plan
Even after I’ve named my fear and find lots of inspiration, I still worry. That’s where planning is so important (for the anxious-minded like me). Going skiing in a somewhat remote location? Make a checklist of the items and information you need to feel prepared.
For me, that could include knowing where to find the nearest pharmacy, urgent care and ER, and making sure I pack things like a first aid kit, various medicine and hydration tablets. I’ll feel less anxious if I’m prepared for the unexpected.
I’ll cover planning and being prepared for the unexpected more in another post.
It’s all temporary. Make the most of it.
“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” — Ferris Bueller