I’m sick of people giving me advice.  Yesterday, someone at work, after lecturing me naively about my low-sodium eating options as if I haven’t done 30 days of research already, advised me on getting my affairs in order.  In getting a will.

Now this person recently lost someone close to them, so they were thinking practically — what I needed to do to make things right for the people I leave behind.  And getting a will is on my list of things to do — but Christ, was it really any of their business to talk to me about it?  It’s one thing to be the survivor after a family member dies — God knows, I know what that means after losing my father — but it’s one thing to presumptuously counsel a person who actually might be dying.

Seriously, work colleagues should not be doing this.

Now here’s the thing, I don’t know if I’m dying.  All I know is that I have a weak heart and that I’m currently in fairly stable condition.  I had a right-side heart catherization a week ago, and the cardiologist told me it looked better than before.  Not normal, obviously — but better.  My gas levels and pressures were fine.  No one knows my risk level yet.  I may need an assist device, or I may not.  I may need a heart transplant, or I may not.  I may only need medication, or I may need more than that.  The point is, no one knows.  But this person treated me as if death was a forgone conclusion.  

Now, death is a foregone conclusion for every human being on earth.  But that doesn’t mean it’s happening tomorrow, this year, next year, ten years from now, etc.  Anyone can die at any time — shit happens.  Shit has happened to me.  I watched my father die of cancer for half a year, and I’ve recently quite suddenly lost a family member.  But I’m not dead yet.  And I’d prefer if people would stop treating me as if I’m going to die in the immediate future.  Because no one knows — I don’t know, my doctors don’t know.  I don’t even feel that bad.  

I have accepted that I may die, and I’ve also accepted that I may live.  I’ve come to terms with that — I’m not in denial.  But I believe very strongly that to get through this I have to fight death with everything I have.  And that means avoiding conversations with well-meaning douche bags who have no idea what it means to have been told things like “you may need a heart transplant” or “you may die.”  Until someone has said those words to you, keep your fucking advice to yourself.  I have enough advice from my top flight health care providers, thank you very much.  Nothing spoils morale more than someone treating you like you’re going to fail in the struggle you are now committed to.  

Even if this does eventually kill me, no one will be able to tell me that I just gave up or rolled over.  I am stubborn and driven.  As a boy, my father taught me how to suck it up and keep going despite pain and doubt.  I clawed my way out of a possible future of dead-end service industry jobs to work in the white collar professional world of Washington, D.C.  

I have modest goals — live to see my girls graduate from high school.  Get my master’s degree in communication.  Live as long as my dad — if I can make it to 50, then I will have succeeded.  That’s less than 20 years.  I can do this.

And if it means replacing my heart and a lifetime of immune-suppressing drugs then so be it.  I will do whatever it takes.

And anyone who wants to tell me otherwise, or focus on the worst possibilities over the best possibilities can go fuck themselves.

As John Darnielle once said, “I’m going to make it through this year if it kills me.”

Last week, Tina and I took a walk with the girls on inauguration day to head down to the U Street Rite Aid. I actually felt pretty good on the walk — something that seemed to impress my doctors when I saw them later in the week.

U Street was filled with vendors hawking unofficial Obama souvenirs — everything from posters to calendars to books and videos. It was pretty overwhelming. There was even a store called “Everything Obama” which, I presume, is being honest about its wares.

One cannot underestimate the power of Obama’s inauguration for the African American community, but I worry that the expectations on what he can achieve are too high. Many of the posters I saw for sale depict him as a messiah figure, some even quoting prophecy and scripture describing him as the one that was promised.

I’m a supporter of a pragmatic, center-left politician named “Barack Obama,” but this other Obama, Obama the savior, is a bit disturbing. It reminds me in some what of a mirror image of the evangelical view of Bush as being god’s own President.  I like my Presidents as human beings — capable, but not infallible.  I loathe the idea of American Caesers and the cult of personality that develops around human beings.

When human beings get elevated to messianic god-men, there’s nothing but disappointment ahead for their supporters. I have high hopes for Obama, but there’s only so much one man can do.  I just wish some of my political allies would dial it back a bit and try to think of how crazy some of this sounds.  Obama can be a great President and leader, but he’s not a prophecized prophet or anything.  Setting him up as such doesn’t serve our side very well.

I had my first doctor’s appointment today after being hospitalized nearly three weeks ago.  My cardiac team is about my age and really, really good.  I felt great about them — there’s something comforting about being treated like a peer, rather than being treated by some aging gray-haired cleric of medicine who treats you like a test subject.

But the reality hasn’t changed much.  I’m doing really well for someone who’s been through what I’ve been through. Almost normal overall — that’s pretty surprising to the docs given the state of my heart.  But a weak heart means different things for different people.  My body has healthy reserves that are keeping me going in the face of all this.  If I was in my 80’s, they said, this would be catastrophic.  But I can go back to work tomorrow.

But I’m not 100% by any stretch of the imagination.  What I have will not go away, and it will almost certainly not get better.  All I can hope for is stability — being able to function as normally as I can and live as long as I can.

It changes your worldview.  I can’t think about what I’ll be doing next year, or five years from now — I have to live in the moment, in the now.  I feel fine right now.  My heart is beating right now.  I’m alive right now.  I will not die today.

And if the now stretches on for another 10 – 20 years, then all the better.

Let’s hope that’s the case.

So, it’s been a week since I came home. I’m doing better — I’m not gripped by a constant sense of despair, but I am learning my physical limitations.

For instance, I can no longer play video games. I find the physiological response extremely unpleasant — a feeling that my body has been scrubbed out by something and a wash of anxiety. This applies to nearly every game I’ve tried, but especially my old favorite, the first person shooter. I was once a fairly competitive player, but no more. I can’t help but wonder if this is ultimately for the best.

I have cabin fever — I’ve been out of the house just once since I returned a week ago, and there is a part of me that has anxiety about leaving.

However, I am able to watch scripted television again — last night Tina and I watched an episode of Sarah Connor on the DVR, and the night before we watched the Doctor Who Christmas Special. During Doctor Who, I was filled with anxiety and worry, but watching Sarah Connor just 24 hours later, my spirits were better and I was able to pay attention and enjoy the show. This is good.

I’ve also been reading “Team of Rivals,” something I was unable to do last week. I can pay attention and actually get something out of the book.

So things are getting better, but it’s a slow process — a step at a time, and despite the presence of Tina and the girls, it’s a journey I’ve largely undertaken alone.

But incrementally, I’m feeling better. Sitting up longer, on my feet longer, going without anti-anxiety medicine. As each day passes, I begin to realize that sudden death is as unlikely as it was before — that my heart has been like this for a very long while, and gradually I will return to normal. Or what passes for normal for someone with a weak heart.