I think I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding picking up too much psychological baggage from my heart attack last year. Of course, I look at life a bit differently. I pause when I see an ambulance go by and reflect on the tenuousness of life and hope that whoever is in trouble right then makes it through. The timing of my heart attack, however, in the morning right after landing from an overseas flight certainly did leave a bit of a mark.
I’ve been on several short two-hour flights since then without thinking much about it. Getting on a plane going across the Atlantic yesterday leaving from the same airport where I had my heart attack, however, gave me a bit of a pause. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t stuck with fear. I didn’t panic. I wasn’t anxious. But I was pensive and more than a bit reflective.
It was an easy flight. Lovely in fact. Smooth. Easy.
There was only one thing out of the ordinary: I had a hard time sleeping. That’s something that I can usually do quite comfortably on a plane. I couldn’t quite relax, however. I couldn’t let myself go. I’d drift and then bounce back to wakefulness. So I gave up on it and just worked on planning my week.
I have to say: it felt good to get back in the saddle. Really good.