Deacair

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deacair

I have named my carrot-shaped heart-sitting aneurysm “Deacair.” (That’s Dee-care.)

It’s the Irish Gaelic word for “inconvenient.”

If one must have a fellow traveler, why not give it a name? The thing I can’t decide on is its personality. Is it a monster, like the demon sitting on the airplane wing from that creepy show, trying to kill everyone and everything aboard? Is it a little Gizmo, hoping you won’t feed it so it doesn’t have to turn into a gremlin? Is it just going to sit there and do nothing, or is it going to cause trouble? Whose side is it in; does it WANT to kill its host? Viruses don’t. Why couldn’t I have just gotten sick?

That’s the problem with a malfunctioning part. You’re not sick–until it malfunctions. And it won’t malfunction unless it gets big enough to block blood (they tend to be bigger than 5 mm for that, and Deacair is 4.5 at the big end.) Or you pick up something and strain yourself unexpectedly, or hold your breath while straining, or something scares you suddenly….

It’s a little bit like playing Russian Roulette with a heart valve, and at the same time it’s one of the most normal abnormalities ever. One in 100,000 people has one of these–although they’re all over the place: thoracic, abdominal, aortic. Little carrots (or windmills or pebbles or even hearts) gumming up the works in your bloodworks.

Annoying, they are. Everlasting, too, because you’ve got to deal with the fact that something is sitting there and it’s not going away and it’s not a good idea to go randomly in and fix it surgically because that introduces all kinds of fun new complications like infection. But all you want is for the last day you didn’t have a problem to be the way you live now. So you don’t have to think twice before shoveling dirt, or diving into a lake, or otherwise living your best life now.

So you go ahead and live your best life, because popping an aneurysm is not on your list of things to do today.

Except you might not be in charge of that list anymore. Control freaks with aneurysms are grumpy, conflicted people, folks. It’s a little claustrophobic and a little freaky and it can’t be what occupies your mind or you’ll go nuts.

And it’s inconvenient. So it’s not so much “welcome Deacair” as “ok Deacair, what do you want?”

Sigh.

Mean Christians

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A couple of weeks ago, we were coming into the calm finish to our yoga class when a woman at the back burst into projectile sobbing.

Photo by kike vega on Unsplash

Near the front of the class, I made eye contact with Becky, the instructor, and we did the woman’s non-speaking language of “yes please go check on her.”

I didn’t know the woman, but found her doubled over on a bench outside, sobbing. I sat down next to her and rubbed her back. It wasn’t a time to talk, just to signal “you’re not alone and nothing is expected of you.”

The class ended a few minutes later, and another woman with a blond French braid emerged to sit on the crying lady’s other side. Over her back she said to me, “her son was on that plane.”

That plane being the one full of people from the skating community, which collided with a helicopter. Everyone aboard died.

The woman began to talk, sharing horrific details of the crash and how she was coping. We listened in sympathetic silence, shielding the crying woman from class participants and track walkers who were trying to gauge if they should help. Most kept going, which was a good thing.

The crying woman said suddenly, “And of course my faith sustains me. But at my church some people…” then she stopped talking again.

French braid lady patted her arm. “My brother committed suicide. And my church wasn’t particularly helpful. Some people just don’t know what to say.”

“But they say it anyway,” said the crying woman, and burst into fresh sobs.

I had nothing to contribute except to continue sitting there, shielding her from curious eyes. She said a few more things, then Becky came out and gave her a big hug. Told her she should come back to class anytime, and cry all she wanted, everyone was there for her, everyone understood.

French braid lady gave the other woman a final hug, and said, “Don’t listen to the mean people. They don’t understand and they don’t get to dictate how you feel.” Crying lady nodded, blew her nose, smiled at us both, and gathered her stuff.

I really don’t want to interpret this exchange. When did Christians become the mean ones to be avoided when in pain?

Don’t answer that. Thanks.