Take care of your second life.
I can vividly remember those early days and weeks at home after surviving a heart attack, especially that cold creeping anxiety around how I “should” be feeling. I had just survived what many do not: what doctors still call the “widowmaker” heart attack. (By the way, note the gender semantics there, please: doctors are not calling this the “widower maker”).
I was now resting comfortably, both of my darling kidlets had flown back home to be with their Mum, our home was filled with flowers, get-well cards and casseroles delivered by the daily line-up of concerned friends, family, neighbours and co-workers.
So why was I feeling so bleak inside, and even worse, now feeling guilty for all that bleakness?
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