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Slowly, all the stimuli around started to fade. The smell of the soiled waste bins right outside of the room, the strained catheter working overtime from across the hall emptying a patient’s bladder, to the pulsing heart rate monitor right beside my head. As my laptop’s screen ahead of started to fade, I noticed that I was not breathing. I attempted to exhale. Nothing. Calmly, I attempted to inhale, and nothing. I raised my wrist to see the time, and it read 02:34 AM. My eyes were glued to the white lacquered seconds hand that gracefully stuttered across the sandblasted ceramic dial at 25,200 beats per hour. The lacquer of the seconds hand and luminous paint were doing their best, for the entire watch had only the light emanating from the hospital beds and my dimly lit laptop screen in the room to aid in its legibility.
Slowly, I counted past a minute, then two minutes, then, finally, a slow creaking of an exhalation exited my throat. I did not need an explanation at that moment to know what was wrong. I had seen it happen to others in this exact scenario, and I had come close to it once before many years ago. As I raised my eyes from my watch, I witnessed the full reconciliation of my consciousness that the loved one I was sitting beside was lost forever.
Regradless of how much time passes, the void left by a cherished loved one will always be felt, and somtimes at moments you least expect it.
Something else was obviously wrong, for this would happen time and again over the next month. Thankfully, these symptoms disappeared over the following weeks through intense training and medical guidance.
A form of survivor’s guilt is always present when one is allowed to live anything close to a full life.
Not nearly a year had passed since that early morning that I felt something similar happen. I was not short of breath, but all my senses blacked out as I rested in a twisted cat’s tail position on my yoga mat. In less than an hour, I was set to return to what would resemble a normal life. It was the first time that I was going to see scuba diving students in a classroom setting, and all I could think about were the people I had loved dearly who were no longer with me. They all loved the fact that I was able to do what they never could. To never fear one’s death while caring for that of others, to strap on a couple of hundred pounds of gear and hike for endless kilometres and to willingly dive deep into the depths of our planet. Mostly, they loved the fact that I saw the world and the people they, due to prolonged and drawn-out illnesses, no longer had the option to see for themselves. On each of the occasions when their final diagnosis was read aloud or when they faded from our shared reality, I was wearing this watch.
To combat these negative notions, decisions were made to find joy in every act that weekend.
With a heavy heart, literally, I decided to wear this watch, even though I had decided to no longer wear it in situations where it could get damaged. I decided to carry my loved ones with me, and to do what they wished for me to do – to live a quality life for them. What transpired was a weekend dedicated to them in silence as I went about my tasks, all the while taking the opportunity to engage in activities that I wished I could share with them.
By allowing joy to silently resonate, unexpected sources of joy appeared – such as these stickers by TheCoffeeMonsterzCo, which featured my favourite pen, the Pilot Vanishing Point.
It was an incredibly heavy weekend filled with gratitude, learning on multiple fronts, and one that has changed the trajectory of my life moving forward. Items and tools such as watches, which are on us at all times, can transport us to profound moments in our lives. Some can be utterly dismal, and some beautiful, such as a wedding or a newborn entering this world. I now carry these souls with me with every beat of this mechanical heart on my wrist, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Whether it was through teaching, work, diving, food, gentle affirmations to those around me, and especially consuming literature, this timepiece was a firm reminder of my duty to live as full a life as possible for those who are no longer with us.