Today presented some unexpected surprises that led to a lot of reflection for me and, to be honest, I’m still processing.
This morning I woke up to another frigidly cold morning and I pouted as I lifted myself out of my nice warm bed to get ready for work. But then, a welcome surprise - I stepped on the scale and it read 119.6. Finally!
I tried not to be too excited and reminded myself that this is only ½ pound lower then what I was bitching about just a week ago. It’s nothing to get all excited about. But despite my best efforts to not let the scale determine my self-worth and my mood, I was admittedly happy to see myself fall below my self-imposed “red line”. Back to goal weight for the first time in what feels like forever.
So I get to work and it turns out to be a busy morning. About halfway into the morning I escorted a client of mine to the bathroom so she could give me a urine sample so I could drug test her. And I see all kinds of commotion near the bathrooms. Suddenly I realize that the hallway is packed with ambulance personnel and that there is medical stuff spread all around.
I look down and see that they are performing CPR on someone. I can’t make out who it is, but they are doing intense chest compressions. I ask a co-worker and he tells me that it’s one of the attorneys that was here for court. He’s not one of the attorneys I know real well, but he is one that I have worked with and one who is liked and respected by just about everyone.
I stand there - frozen, paralyzed - watching them perform CPR and when they pause to see if there's a heart beat I see them looking at one another. And my stomach lurches. I recognize that look. It was the look that the EMT's gave each other that horrible morning in December 1990 when they were performing CPR on my father. That look of experience - knowing they weren't going to save this person.
Finally they take him away. I test my client in robot like automatic motions and send her on her way. On shaky legs I make my way back to my desk.
He didn't make it.
And as I sat here, I reflected. It's fucking cold and miserable out, but I am ALIVE. If I were to die tomorrow, who would it matter to whether I weighed 120.5 or 117.5? No one.
I just HAVE to keep this mind as I'm traveling through my life. I HAVE TO. I lost all this weight to be healthy and happy and to extend my life and my quality of life. NOT so that I could have my abs show, fit into a size 2 skirt and be a veritiable slave to a number on the scale.
I'm not sure what the scale will read tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I won't care. Tonight I will cuddle my dogs, I will tell Marc that I love him. I will be grateful for what I have. I will feel blessed that Marc's father is alive and well at age 95 and that both of my grandmothers are healthy enough to not only be alive, but to live independently and to have their full faculties!
If you are reading this, please think about this. Call someone you love and tell them you do. Take care of yourself - eat healthy and exercise. And be glad for life today!