My mother had a heart condition. She developed kidney failure and congestive heart failure. She was in and out of the hospital. She had to be on dialysis. After she passed away when I was 22, I vowed to exercise and keep myself healthy, as I didn’t want to have a heart condition and go through all that she went through.
I had a few instances of shortness of breath that randomly would happen with exertion for the past five or six years. I did see a cardiologist back when it first started happening, who did all the tests. He told me that my mitral valve was a little thick, but I was otherwise healthy. He didn’t recommend any treatment. I continued exercise. The past few months, I noticed the episodes of shortness of breath and chest tightness had increased. I thought it could be asthma related or anxiety, as I put in a job transfer request to take my same supervisor position, but in the city, which I had some trepidation about.
I recently went to a new cardiologist. She did an EKG, listened to my heart, which had a strong murmur, and had me describe my symptoms. She said that she believes that my mitral valve has progressed in disease. Up until that point, I had not had this referred to as my having a mitral valve disease. She said that I was having “MR”. I inquired, “What is that?”, to which she replied, “It is regurgitation.” I asked if medication could take care of the problem (even though I already knew the answer). She responded, “No, we need to do an echocardiogram to see if it needs repaired or replaced.” Having had a mother with heart issues, I kind of knew some about heart conditions. Valve repair or replacement would mean them stopping my heart and trying to fix it. Valve replacement would mean either a pig or cow made valve that wouldn’t last, or a mechanical valve that would require an anti-clotting medication for the rest of my life. I could require open heart surgery and the risks of that. Further, a lengthy life after that would be questionable. The very thing I feared, having a heart condition, seemed to be where I was at.
The Choctaw had a term, which translates loosely as “Soul-Eater,” which generated thoughts that consume our soul if we feed into them. It is kind of like an ancient term for the modern idea of the critical voice in our mind. The soul eating thoughts came: “I am going to die in the operating room”, “I will leave Stacey to deal with life stresses”, “I will not be able to do all the things we had planned”. I had an image in my mind of picturing the night before surgery with feeling like it was my last night on this planet alive and then of being wheeled into surgery, not knowing if these would be my last moments, as something could go wrong, such as their not being able to restart my heart, or the valve repair or replacement not working. Perhaps my life ending with my having a stroke. The list of thoughts went on and on.
My Choctaw and Chickasaw ancestors understood something about this. The Soul-Eater only grows on what you feed it. The moment I noticed the thoughts as thoughts — not facts, not prophecies, that’s when I stopped handing it my supper. My observing self realized this worry would not change anything. I can’t stop the moments of worry from coming, but I can refuse to follow them down. The thoughts of catastrophe, even if they are a valid risk, will not change a single result.
The truth is, we are all going to die. It’s the result of the gift of life that we have been given, which also wasn’t a guarantee. Facing this doesn’t mean I need to race in order to cram in a bucket list before something bad happens. If anything, it’s the opposite. I don’t need a thousand grand experiences. I need to stop sleepwalking through the ordinary ones, such as: the coffee on the deck, the laughter we share about things we see that bring us joy — because now I know, more than ever, that tomorrow was never promised. I can also recognize just exactly what I had been given. I would rather spend all my precious moments with Stacey, despite a shorter life than I’d planned, than to spend a thousand years without her. She was truly a gift from the Great Spirit, the Great Mystery.
I have my echocardiogram soon. I don’t know what will happen with surgery, my condition, or anything. I have no alternative but to face my fear, gain support as I do, and hold on to gratitude.
I also recently finished a new book, “Walking the Red Road Home: Returning to Life on Life’s Terms Through Native Wisdom,” written under my Choctaw name, the pen name Kowi Chito Hopaii. I’ll shamelessly mention it here, because it holds the very ideas and practices that are getting me through this, and I know they could help others, too.