What I Learned When I Almost Died - Chris Licht [36]
Yes, I was back.
“I’m back,” I said.
That’s not the same as cured.
chapter sixteen
On the Deck
Years ago, my parents bought a vacation house in Charlestown, Rhode Island, about a tenth of a mile from the beach. You can see the Atlantic Ocean from it. In the summer, Mom and Dad like to lend the house to me for a week and to my sister for one, so we can each bring our families in solitude and chill out, though in the past I often did not stay for the entire week because work got in the way.
Now, sitting out on the deck of the house sometime during the first days after returning to 30 Rock, I was watching Andrew play. I had my laptop out and was Web-surfing to no purpose but diversion. My heart filled as I looked at my son. Here was an entirely good thing, my little man playing, with nothing more on his plate than fun, overlooking the ocean on a late spring day. The gulf between the sweet scene and the anger I had been toting was vast.
Families of crime victims often say they have forgiven the creep who killed their husband or teenage daughter, because anger creates nothing good. I had always laughed at the monumental absurdity of that. Anger is not always a useless emotion. In that situation, my anger would have a worthy target: the killer. It would have a point, making sure he feels the sting of justice.
But no criminal suspect caused my event. I had gone down the checklist of possible culprits and my anger at nearly dying had nowhere to go. It could never be directed at anything, no matter how much I wished otherwise or how long I held on to it. I would only be able to sit on the deck and stay mad, and then go home to New York and stay mad, and then go to work and stay mad. I would roam like Ahab, endlessly searching for someone or something to blame for having brushed way too close to the end.
I kept sitting there, thinking in the spring breezes.
Or, on the other hand, I could accept the futility of this. As I more or less had told Phil, a life-threatening illness alters how you look at clocks. Did I wish to use up more of my life’s limited minutes being furious? Or stop that and start enjoying Andrew and the rest of my days? There is only one rational option, isn’t there? And so, as my son played, I exercised a mental muscle I didn’t know I had and told myself something akin to what I had said inside the MRI machine that first night at the hospital.
Enough. Done.
My event had been brutal proof my life could end before today’s sun sets at the beach, because the aneurysm could rupture again and I might not be as fortunate again. I was still young, but that was no guarantee that tomorrow would include me. I would not expend any more time staying angry at something I did not cause, that nobody caused and nobody could have stopped.
Still sitting on the deck, I kept following this thread of thought.
If I could do that, if I could no longer be mad at almost dying, then logically how could I get mad at much lesser things that might happen to me, the things of daily life? If a videotape got messed up during MJ, that would not be the equivalent of having a brain bleed. It would not be worth eviscerating someone with an e-mail after the show. And if others thought I might now be a pushover of a producer, I couldn’t help that. Let them think so and let them test me if they wish. It will be obvious to them soon enough I haven’t lost any moves in Control Room 3A, or any passion for the show. I’ll still push back.
If Joe and Mika got mad because we had a lousy guest or their travel arrangements fell apart, that wouldn’t be as serious as the fairly personal setback of having nearly died. It’s okay if they’re not totally happy about something on the show or not totally happy with me. It’s okay if I take a day off or use all my