The Stoic Heart: A Tale of Unseen Battles, Survival and One Brief Smile

An icy fear washed over me the first time I stepped into my doctor's office in years. A few months after suffering major blood loss, I hoped to understand why my teeth, hair, and nails were deteriorating. An answer came swiftly.

"Your blood..." he gasped, staring at my file with wide, disbelieving eyes. "I don't understand how you're even alive."

He explained that my hemoglobin levels were dangerously low – low enough that death was the most likely outcome. At those levels, my heart should have raced past 220 BPM to compensate for the blood loss. The urgent care had made no mention of how perilously low my hemoglobin and platelet levels had been. They only told me I had internal bleeding from an ulcer. I'd received emergency infusions and antibiotics. Aside from extreme fatigue and shortness of breath, I seemed fine. My doctor said the urgent care should have dialed 911, and he kept repeating his amazement that I survived.

Death hadn't counted on my furnace of a body, fueled by countless miles and relentless CrossFit sessions. I ran 20-30 miles weekly and completed CrossFit workouts five times a week – each sprint, every grueling lift, every double-under sculpting an oxygen-sipping machine. My resting heart thrummed with an ancient, stoic power. During the peak of my training, my resting heart rate clocked in at an astonishing 35 BPM – a result so uncommon, the doctor ordered a recheck. All that training, combined with my 6’4” thick frame, forced my body to adapt, making it utilize oxygen with incredible efficiency.

The intense training saved my life. Yet, there were signs of surrender. My once-thick hair rebelled, follicles shutting down. Gray lines striped my nails – grim warnings of a body pushed to its limits. My smile bore the worst of it... teeth crumbling like decaying monuments, denied the vital blood flow they needed during my crisis.

The sterile hum of the clinic became a battleground. My doctor, baffled by my case, was determined to discover where else my body might have made silent sacrifices to keep me alive. Yet, despite everything, my brain remained sharp, with memories clear after three decades.

He asked me to name my teachers starting with kindergarten. Without hesitation, I rattled them off: "Mrs. Sorensen, Mrs. Smith, Miss. Christenson..." I listed them easily, using the exact title they preferred, all the way through ninth grade. 

"That's enough," the doctor quipped. "Most people take some time to remember. It's not easy. But you: The speed, the finesse – I've never seen anything like it. You're quick as a whip!"

While I'd been recalling my teachers, another part of my brain was reeling from how close I'd come to death. The night I lost all that blood, my daughter's frightened face is the last thing I remember. "Dad, are you okay? You don't look well." I told her I'd be fine, collapsed on my bed, and blacked out. 

Something happened then – a fading, a tunnel maybe. Then, a light shone behind me, but unease crept in. I dared not take a full glance at the light; I could only see it in my peripheral vision. “So this is how it ends,” I rhetorically asked myself. But part of me protested. I fought, dug deeper than ever, and pushed with all my might away from the light. I wasn't done yet.

When I woke up, I thought it was a dream. But now, hearing the doctor, a chill runs down my spine. Maybe the tunnel, the light I saw in my periphery... weren't a dream after all.

If it was real, I'm surprised at how hard I fought. It's not an easy existence. I'd never go as far as suicide, but some days I wish I'd never been born. 

I carry the burden of an empath's heart, always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need, no questions asked. Yet, in a world that often takes more than it gives, my acts of kindness seem to go abused. What began as a sense of duty slowly transformed into a facade I must maintain, especially after my wife of 16 years left me for her ex-boyfriend.

Our story began when she was a single mother, and I offered my support during her time of struggle. Over time, our bond deepened, leading to marriage and the blessing of two children. However, amidst this seemingly perfect picture, a hidden truth emerged—a conversation inadvertently recorded on our answering machine, revealing their illicit affair. Hours upon hours spent talking, while he remained unemployed.

Consumed by hurt and betrayal, I confronted him, only to realize he was at home with his own family. Attempting to salvage our relationship, we sought counseling, but her connection with him persisted. She skillfully manipulated my emotions, convincing me that I needed to be home more. That just made her more upset, it seemed, as she had less time to connect with her ex. So we divorced.

I just wanted it to end and move on. She got the house and half my salary for eight years. I take solace in knowing my children's needs will be met when they are with her.

A metaphorical blow to the head, I found myself blindsided, losing my sense of stability. Despite the turmoil, I set aside my anger and sorrow for the sake of our children. In moments of compromise, I remind myself of the happy times we once shared. We refer to each other as partners, but deep down, I question the authenticity of this charade. It has been six years since, and my life revolves around work, tending to my children, and ensuring their academic success.

On the surface, this act seems to be working, as my kids thrive in school and extracurricular activities. Yet, within me, happiness remains an elusive illusion, masquerading as hope.

I acknowledge the darkness that sometimes lingers in my thoughts, even though it may be terrible and unfathomable. There are moments I wish I had walked towards the light, knowing that my children would inherit a substantial insurance policy and be financially secure. I'm not talking about suicide. When I was in the tunnel, it seemed like the natural next step was to enter the light. It felt like an act of defiance to walk away from the light.

It's one of many thoughts that men rarely discuss when it comes to divorce. Perhaps it's because there are no clear lines to guide us through this whirlwind of change and emotions. Numerous concerns and worries plague my mind, leaving me feeling unprepared and utterly lost. I know I'm deeply wounded and still affected by powerful emotions. But they are behind a stoic countenance and an intricate ballet of knowing when to smile and when to be strong for everyone depending on me. I'm weary and lost as to who I am.

That is why I found myself surprised by the resilience I displayed as I fought for a life worth living in the dark tunnel where I felt my life fading.

Whatever spurred me on, I defied death, refused to go to the light that led to the afterlife with a strength I didn't know I possessed.

Why? An inexplicable resilience? Or a purpose beyond mere survival? Could it be driven by a love I can't fully grasp, following a path still unseen? All I know is sacrifice lies ahead. Maybe, deep down, I sensed I could still give to others, to my two marvelous kids who spawn unconditional love, and to God. As I puzzle over those moments, that's my best guess as of now. I do know, however, that my story isn't over – it's a defiant, deliberate march, with courage and a spirit no one can quench, into an uncertain but purposeful future. A future where I'm authentic to myself: To be the man that helps others, no questions asked. To boldly defend what is good in the world. To uplift.

And maybe, this close call I had with death is why I'm going to find the courage to pursue not being alone this Valentine's Day. To finally admit again life may be better needing someone.

A close friend set me up on a blind date for tonight. I checked myself out in the mirror briefly, after a haircut and some new tailored clothes. A fleeting thought briefly and faintly enters my mind: "You look like one good catch, if I do say so myself."

I smile and for the first time in years feel a faint warmth stirring in my heart.