Something rather unremarkable happened yesterday; I forgot to take my medications. Every morning for the past 4 years, I’ve religiously downed half of an orange bisoprolol pill, along with a red and white Ramipril capsule, a white oblong atorvastatin and a blue baby aspirin. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve forgotten to take my meds, but what is remarkable is I only realized it this morning, one day later. And this observation made me unapologetically happy.
Months after being released from the hospital back in November 2013, and after participating in a cardiac rehabilitation program, I realized that my heart was recovering much faster than I was. While I returned to running and cycling, each time my heart skipped a beat (premature ventricular contraction) during a run, I’d stop, out of concern, and then continue. I could cycle alone through long lonely stretches of forested road, without cellphone reception, but wake in panic in the middle of the night because my heart was pounding. I spent countless amounts of time ruminating about how I came to be in this situation, after years of healthy eating, low cholesterol, 11% body fat and 26 marathons and countless other races. I felt betrayed by my heart and ashamed at how it let me down. While my heart was getting stronger and stronger, I clearly wasn’t.
Yet ever so slowly, over the years, the emotional grip of the cardiac arrest began, almost imperceptibly, to ebb. The more the minutiae of simply being alive distracted me from my spiraling ruminations, the weaker their hold on me became. While I won’t ever forget what I don’t remember about that memorable day, I’m forgetting to think about it. In fact, the only reminder of my cardiac arrest is the morning pill-taking. That I could go over 24 hours and not remember that I hadn’t taken my pills, well, that’s remarkable.