My fingers are rapidly tapping out a staccato rhythm, much in the same way that my heart beat drum beat sounds out the moments of my life. I am particularly aware that at any instant that could change. Such was the case five years ago tomorrow when at age 55 on the way home from an intense gym workout, I experienced severe symptoms that I knew heralded a heart attack. Call it oxygen deprivation or denial, but I didn’t immediately go to the closest hospital, but instead, I went home, canceled an appointment with a client and then defying sanity, drove myself to the ER. What happened next is highlighted in this article that ran in Elephant Journal a few years ago called A Heart Attack Brings Aha Moments. In it, I highlight the immediate journey from symptoms that I ignored to the beginning of recovery.

As I look back over my shoulder in anticipation of my 5th cardiaversary on June 12, 2019, I am astounded at how far I have truly come. I have downgraded from a Type A+ workaholic who cringed when told I couldn’t go back to five days a week workouts and who thought that unless I was sweating copiously, I wasn’t doing it right, t0 a Type B- who welcomes naps and sauntering rather than galloping through life. I have changed jobs, have declined to take on more than humanly possible, have learned to say no, have remembered that I have no ultimate control of the outcome of anything, have stepped away from toxic relationships, have begun to make peace with my past, have embraced what I do want, have given myself permission to say yes and no with equal ease, have shaken off responsibility for the actions and feelings of others (that one is particularly challenging since I am also an empath), have forgiven myself over and over for what I can not change, and have appreciated each precious moment, since I don’t know how many more might be granted.

These days find me at the gym 3-4 times a week with walks in between. Many of the walks occur while carrying a sign that reads Hugmobsters Armed With Love. I had begun this labor of love on Valentines’ Day weekend of 2014, a mere four months prior to the life-changing event that I had no clue was looming on the horizon. At noon, the group of a dozen of us disbursed throughout 30th Street Station in Philadelphia as we opened our arms to embrace those passing through on their way to who knows where. One of the people was an Iraq War vet who told us that he was the only survivor of his platoon and he had survivor’s guilt and thought about joining his comrades, “until I met you people. Can I join you?” In the midst of tears, someone handed him a sign and he was off the races, opening his heart and arms. I realized, more than ever that we had something wondrous and that it would become a passion and purpose for me. I hug it out in parades, marches, rallies and vigils, at my polling place on Election Day, at sporting events, farmers’ markets, and Pride fests. I have hugged in PA, VA, OR, NY, NJ, DE, CA and in Canada. A year ago, I hugged my way across Ireland.

As I look back five years post heart attack, I see the Hansel and Gretel Breadcrumb Trail that wound inexorably back to decisions, emotions, thoughts, and feelings that had me tethered to a hospital bed with tubes and needles, beeps and swishes of fluid coursing through me. A stent now props up what was a fully occluded artery, meds are taken daily, major mindset and lifestyle changes keep my ticker in synch with the rhythm of life.

Yesterday, I was interviewed by a major women’s magazine about my FREE HUGS work/play and the journalist asked how it helped my heart since that is one reason I do it. I told her that it compelled me to sloooow down and be present with the other person and with myself. I breathe deeply and hug for at least 20 seconds unless the other person lets go first.

Grateful for my wondrous and wonder-filled life, with love in all forms, extraordinary family and friends, creativity, fulfilling work that supports me well and in ever-expanding ways, spiritual practice, health, and well-being, hugs, cuddles, laughter, and bliss…yes, thank you and more, please.

What I say is that the woman I was died that day, to give birth to the one who is writing here. She had to die because she was killing me.

Photo Credit: Pixabay