The Weight of Being Perfect
And why it’s holding you back
I think it was the dead flies on the window sill that led to my father’s heart attack.
Not directly, I should add. Rather, they were merely another small irritant in a cumulative ocean of irritants. And when you’re a Type A personality with little patience for imperfection, all the irritants in life start to add up. They release rivers of cortisol in the bloodstream, until one day you have a heart attack.
That’s what happened to my father.
We were all watching TV one night in the living room. Dad started to perspire, looked at my mother, and said, “Pat, I’m not feeling right. I think it’s my heart.”
We helped him over to the couch where he lay down. Mom told me to stay with him while she went to the kitchen and phoned 9–1–1. Dad looked up at me and said, “Keep a stiff upper lip, Johnny.”
Because Dad was a stoic.
While we waited for the paramedics, I thought about the other day when Dad came home from work. He set his briefcase down in the hallway, strolled into the master bedroom to greet my mother, and then looked at the windowsill.
“Pat, look at all those dead flies on the window sill!”
