FEELING MY OWN MORTALITY—

In Vietnam I was never wounded. But now, all these years later, I have been. Although in my role as a combat photographer in the infantry where I was shot at a few times, maybe because I had this youthful sense of my own immortality, it didn’t seem all that frightening. I think what has happened to me now—thirty years hence—is that I’ve finally received the wound that will change the way I think. When I first returned from Nam I wondered at times why I’d been so protected. Even though it didn’t take me long to jump back into life here at home, I began to question my existence on this planet. What my life was for. This is when my spiritual quest began in earnest. It was when I began to look for answers to the big questions—like "why am I here?" and "what is my purpose on earth?"

But for many years of raising children and supporting a family, right up until this October 16th when I had my first of three heart operations, I haven’t really given much thought to the possibility of my own death. Thinking back, the fears I had in Vietnam seemed fairly unreal compared to what I feel now.

My body, which I always took pretty much for granted—which always did whatever I asked of it without much thought—now feels fairly fragile. My life seems tentative. Having had three heart operations in two months has led me to feeling this way. Following the first two operations, I felt that my heart was fixed and I could resume my normal life. Not so, this time. Now I’m not sure. I’m not willing to accept that everything’s going to be okay. Instead, I feel like I’m walking on a floor made of thin, brittle sticks; that I might break through at anytime and fall to my death. When I feel the slightest pain in my arm or even the slightest tightness in my chest, I am reminded how close I came to death not all that long ago.

In the back of my mind, I feel this sense that I could die at any time. It’s not that I have a death wish—it’s just the opposite. But still, the feeling’s there. I know I can’t wish it away—that’s not going to work. This is something I have to face, own up to, to try to understand.

I’m not ready to die. I have more of my story to tell. I’ve completed a first draft of my second novel and am writing a proposal for book #3. If nothing else, I’d like to see these projects manifest. These and the ones which haven’t revealed themselves to me yet. Also, I am certain that there is much more I have to learn in this lifetime—reason enough to hang around.