This week I’m forced to accept that my life may not be as long as I orginally thought. As someone in my early twenties, the common misconception is that the young are invincible.
I woke up to chest pains two days ago, out of a dream I believe, of heartbreak. I got up, determined to make it through the day as sure as the pain was determined to capture my attention. The train ride to work, the doctor’s visit, the argument with my significant other…led me to realize one simple truth. I am not accustomed to anyone caring about my health or even badgering me about it. I mean, my family cares I’m sure but I believe it is because they have to. So, with a playful smile and a deep breath I call him on the phone to explain that the walls of my chest are inflamed, that my blood pressure is too high and that I hopefully will be okay by next week.
What followed was an argument I couldn’t bear about how I don’t rest, or eat or care for myself enough and how I don’t allow anyone else to do it for me. And now, the day after…spending the day in bed, away from everyone I love…I know he’s right. I’ve never cared enough about myself to want to be healthy, all the risks for my health have been constant and not a secret and I didn’t make an effort to do anything about it. I could eat better, I could eat more, I could take more supplements, I could rest more…but I’ve never had to. There’s never really been anyone around to worry and now there is. His worry for me is extraordinary. It breeds an anger and hatred toward anything that is mildly distracting myself from being better, even when he’s the cause.
So, I will apologize, I will be better, I will get right and I will make him smile. Simply because, a smile from him is better for my heart than all the medication that can be described.