Being Benedictine

A month before my birthday, I wasn’t sure I was going to have another one. 

Lately, I have been contemplating aging and dying more than usual. Turning 60 feels different than turning any other age before it. I take seriously the advice from The Rule of St. Benedict to “Keep death daily before your eyes,” but most often I heed it by how I live my daily life. I try not to dwell on the actual dying part. But this year is different.  

Less than a week before he turned 60, a long-time friend suddenly passed away. He went to bed not feeling well and didn’t wake up. Colin and I would share birthday greetings every year, even if we hadn’t seen each other in a while. Now that will never happen again.

I have spent the few months since his passing considering how quickly life can change, how we are never promised another day. As grateful as I am for each new day, I can still be filled with fear at the idea of dying.

And that was my state of mind when, after breakfast on a Tuesday morning, my throat felt unusual, like I hadn’t swallowed something completely. I asked my husband, Joe, to look at it before I joined a Zoom meeting.

“Looks okay,” he said, so I drank some water and filled my mug with coffee and prepared to begin. Less than ten minutes into the meeting, my eyes started to itch. I realized I was experiencing a health emergency when I looked in a mirror—in real time, I could see my eyes swelling and closing. (Remember The Incredible Hulk? That transformation is what came to mind as I watched my eyes and face change shape.)

On a hurried internet search, my symptoms indicated “anaphylaxis: a sudden, severe, and potentially life-threatening allergic reaction.”  I had never experienced anything like this, so I knew I needed emergency care, and fast. I told Joe something serious was happening, and we needed to go RIGHT NOW. Worry and anxiety are not new to me, but I experienced panic and fear as I never had.

“I am so scared,” I said.

On the way to urgent care, between hysterics and Hail Marys, I could only think of dying and not wanting to, and that we needed to hurry, knowing things can happen so quickly. After my husband dropped me off near the door, I cut the long line, crying for help. Within minutes, I was given my first injection of epinephrine and instructed to get to the emergency department.

“I am so scared.”

When we arrived at the ED, I was escorted past other waiting patients, hooked up to IVs, given a second EpiPen injection, and had blood tests. Several doctors, specialists, and nurses came in and out.

“I am so scared,” I told Joe, for perhaps the hundredth time.

Doctors recommended that I be admitted to the hospital to be monitored. If I had a rebound reaction and couldn’t swallow, I would be put on a ventilator.

“I am so scared,” I kept saying.

Joe told me I’d be okay, to think positively, to stay calm- perhaps excellent advice when I am in my right mind. But I was hysterical. I screamed, “Colin probably thought he was going to be okay too! Things happen; people die!”  Colin certainly didn’t think he would die the night his blood sugar was low. How could Joe tell me I’m going to be okay? Sometimes things aren’t okay. Sometimes people die.

Joe was next to me every minute, holding my hand. I know he wanted to make me feel better, to help me calm down, but the words felt hollow, trite. Nothing matters when fear and pain overwhelm. All I wanted was to live one more day, and I knew he couldn’t promise me that.

While nurses were taking my vital signs, a priest entered the room. He asked if I was Catholic. Some days I feel more or less Catholic than others, but I responded, “Yes.” He asked whether I wanted the sacrament of the sick.  My mind heard, “last rites”—and I responded, “I hope not!” He seemed a little surprised, and offered the Eucharist instead, which I accepted. Later, upon reflection, I realized my childhood understanding of the sacrament- that it was given when death was near- triggered my abrupt reply. I was definitely trying to avoid that! The Eucharist had a calming effect. I was a little less hysterical, and I was grateful he came in.

The next day, some thirty hours after symptoms developed, I was released from the hospital. I was prescribed antihistamines and steroids, and as the suspected cause of the angioedema, my blood pressure medication was changed. From now on, I must carry an EpiPen with me, while some medical mysteries remain to be solved.

Now, several weeks since my medical episode, I feel better, yet still scared. Mostly, I am scared about how scared I was. Why hadn’t I responded with more peace or faith? Where was all that “Keep death daily before your eyes”?

I don’t know. What I do know is that this experience feels like a life reset. I have had a chance to reflect with my husband and dear friends and through creative spiritual practices like SoulCollage and journaling. Some of what I journaled:

Nothing matters but the present moment. Choose it wisely. Do not spread moments too thin, like rationing butter on a diet. Deep dive into it. Slather that moment on like hot butter on freshly baked cinnamon rolls, of which I was craving after I was released from the hospital. I wanted bread. Simple bread with sweetness. Joe accommodated my craving by baking. And I slathered each cinnamon roll I ate with butter until I had eaten my unfair share—morning, noon, and midnight. 

Simple things are what make up each present moment. My time has been spread too thin. I thought I would have more time in retirement, but I still need to choose what I do. And then really do it. Revel in it. Don’t worry about what isn’t happening. Enjoy what is. 

I know this about myself: I need to dive deep into moments. I need time to unpack feelings, emotions, and experiences. Grabbing fragments here and there makes me feel like I have accomplished nothing. In my zest to say yes to all the things, I have limited my deepening. 

My reflection will continue. This I know: I am grateful to be alive. I am comforted that my go-to thought, prayer, and expression of fear was to say Hail Marys. This experience has given Joe and me an opportunity for insightful conversations about what we both were feeling and how we can support each other. I know now that Joe felt all of this, but what I wanted to hear:

I know you are afraid. I am afraid too. I am with you. I won’t leave you. I will be with you in your fear. 

Ah, yes, this sounds familiar. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” (Psalm 23:4).

To be accompanied, this is what my soul longs for. Now, I must only remember. I am accompanied in so many ways.

I am so grateful for the grove of soul sisters who attended a retreat I led, just one week later. They helped me process the fear and intense emotions I felt during and after the medical emergency. Naming my emotions, sharing with others, and being truly listened to have helped me understand and give meaning to my experience. On retreat, I created a SoulCollage card that expresses my soul’s longing to be accompanied. My friend, Jana, wrote the following message:

I am also grateful for the doctors and nurses who helped so meticulously to manage the symptoms and try to determine a cause with urgency, compassion, and thoughtfulness. I had never experienced an emergency myself, only accompanied someone else. This is a different lens from which to learn that in my fear, there are many who hold my hand.

© Jodi Blazek Gehr, Being Benedictine Blogger