I suppose that one reason I have always detested religion is its
sly tendency to insinuate the idea that the universe is designed with 'you' in
mind or, even worse, that there is a divine plan into which one fits whether
one knows it or not. This kind of modesty is too arrogant for me. ― Christopher Hitchens
**Discussing my exercise regimen with X, I was appalled
at his insistence that maintaining his own health through careful monitoring of his
meds, blood sugar (diabetes) and physical strength was a low priority because
he knows that even if he should die from such neglect he’d continue living in
the afterlife. He means he’ll be in "heaven," which would, he believes, assure his eternality
and happiness. The priorities for such an outcome are to be generous and friendly, and to follow the rules and
rituals for being the best kind of church member.
But this unselfishness is bent to
the purpose of assuring his own eventual happiness in “the afterlife.” Which
seems like a twisted form of egotism – going through the motions of
unselfishness for the tightly focused selfishness of being happy forever. (See
quote from St. Christopher above)
So taking care of your health in
“this life” gets designated as selfishness because it’s all about your own
well-being here, instead of delaying that satisfaction for a life after death.
In the meantime, his family
already grieves for the damage he and his wife are doing to themselves by
purposeful neglect, some even calling them religious fanatics and nuts. But this
only seems to reinforce their pride in taking little care of themselves, gorging on biblical passages, theology and church activities, while growing obese and
weak and needing more and more support systems.
This carelessness about health
issues and a self-satisfied embrace of total inactivity leaves him happy, he claims, but as the best evidence shows, it's making him more vulnerable to an early demise.
What this kind of selfishness
ignores is the pain inflicted on his family. To hell with you people, he seems
to say, I’m bound for glory and that’s all that matters to me. I’m the hero in
this drama and you are the chumps in the unvoiced script behind my sanctimonious disavowal of normal health care.
When I moved from California to
Georgia, I had spent the previous year and a half recovering from a couple of
cardiac procedures. In addition, the previous six months were stressful because of
the great effort, physical and emotional, of this major move. When we settled
into our present home about a year ago I was in terrible physical shape. My energy
was low, I tired easily, I couldn’t walk two blocks without resting, and of course
I was fatter than when I went into the hospital in 2013. After trying,
and failing, several workout strategies on my own I concluded that I was just
getting old and might as well get comfortable with my slide into old age and
death. Just like X, but without the anesthetic delusion of an afterlife.
Yet I longed for the days when I
worked out with a trainer. The careful supervision and guidance enabled me to
become strong and flexible enough to get around easily, even working 15 hours a week on my feet in a retail store. One day, Joan alerted me to a fitness studio just a mile or so from our house. I joined
in late March and have been working out three times a week with good trainers.
My recovery is going very slowly, and I sometimes wonder if the high dollar cost is worth
it. But I do find that I negotiate stairs much more easily, can walk faster and
for longer distances without stopping to rest, and have been getting generally
stronger. This still elicits laughs and sarcasm from X because exercise is
against his religion.
Yes, religion. His particular brand,
in the extreme and fundamentalist form he practices, encourages patience with pain and decrepitude
in “this life” in exchange for a totally selfish longevity and happiness in the afterlife. I don’t mind the ridicule, considering the source, but I realize that I’m not doing all of
this just to be able to climb stairs and hoist suitcases into overhead bins on planes, etc.
At my age, I often contemplate the inevitable descent into death. The only pain I feel is, empathetically, the
pain of my family, whose love for and interaction with me is a large part of
their lives, and theirs with mine. Their lives are the only “after” that I care
about. My efforts to remain healthy, though meager and too slow to show results, are my
investment in their present lives, our mutual companionship and happiness. Not
my own in an “afterlife,” that surely doesn’t exist, but even if it did, has no
relationship to the only life I can do anything about: this one.
