Why am I (still) here?

It is a fine, crisp February morning. I am sitting at my desk, looking out on the garden at Breathing Space. Outside, a large family of long-tailed tits vies with other (blue and great) tits, robins, a chaffinch, and some gold finches for space at the many bird feeders scattered around.

A week ago, I was sitting in the assessment unit at Walsgrave Hospital with nothing like the same inspiring view.

I have now lived through two life-threatening incidents, both of which could have been fatal. Eight and a half years ago, while cycling from Land’s End to John-o-Groats, a mini-stroke caused by a carotid dissection put me in hospital with a loss of speech and paralysis of the right side of my body. Last week, it was unstable angina caused by a near-complete blockage of one of my main coronary arteries. On both occasions I have been up and about and back home within days.

So, with all that in the background, and feeling good to be alive and at home, I walked our labyrinth on Sunday. And as I did so, the question came to mind:

Why am I still here?

The obvious, pragmatic answer is because I just happen to be living in the UK in the early 21^st century. As a result of which, I can enjoy all the benefits of a functioning health system, advances in medical care, and a National Health Service which, for all its struggles, continues to provide excellent health care, freely accessible to all, and delivered by competent, compassionate and caring staff. I am one of the privileged few – something I don’t ever want to take for granted.

Another, equally pragmatic, answer would be that (in spite of some rather dodgy cardiovascular genes) the healthy, active lifestyle I have led has made me resilient to these fairly major knocks to my health. While I haven’t attempted any other long-distance cycle rides, I do keep active and manage a reasonable amount of gentle exercise several times a week; I eat and drink in moderation; and I have never smoked, so perhaps I am still moderately fit. Indeed, in spite of a bit of middle-aged spread around my waist, the ECG technician last week described my torso as ‘a perfect specimen’! Admittedly, that was in the context of wanting a model on which to teach a student how to position the ECG leads, but I’m happy to accept the accolade.

But of course, neither of those answers really get to the heart of the question.

I have pondered it frequently over the past few days, and I’m not convinced there is any really meaningful answer.

It doesn’t make sense to put it in terms of merit: if, somehow, I had done something that meant I deserved to go on living, then it implies that my wife, Helen, who died unexpectedly eight years ago, somehow didn’t deserve it; and that makes no sense.

Another way of looking at it would be to conclude that God (whoever or whatever God may be) somehow ‘hasn’t finished with me yet’ or has some further purpose for me in this life. To me, that seems both theologically and psychologically suspect and doesn’t fit well with my perception of who God is. It seems to me that such a conclusion conveys a very utilitarian view of God, who only values us for what we contribute, rather than loving us for who we are. That puts a lot of pressure on me to go through the rest of my life trying to figure out what that purpose is, and living with the worry that if I don’t get it, God may suddenly decide to take my life away.

So, putting aside those philosophical/theological musings, I rather like Snoopy’s approach to the questions of life and death:

And, with that perspective, perhaps the question is not so much, ‘Why am I still alive?’ But ‘How will I live the rest of my life?’

I think, perhaps, I need another wander round our labyrinth with that…