The hidden cost of a chocolate muffin...

Have we got the heart for it?

Image by Hayley Owens on Unsplash

It's Saturday morning. We head to Cabarita for a coffee.

It's a sun-is-shining, sky-is-blue, laid-back Summer weekend after a few steamy, rainy days. Surfers head towards the beach, boards tucked under arms. Families with tired whingey toddlers wander back from their early morning swims. The small, cosy local coffee shop is filling up and spilling onto the verandah.

We stroll in, and our no-name friend waves from the other end of the veranda.

He is part of a group of retired locals who meet there every morning. Never sure what he and his mates talk about every morning, but it’s great to see the camaraderie. We've developed a familiarity, starting about six months ago when I wished one of them Happy Birthday. The group had gathered with a homemade cake to celebrate a big-numbered birthday. No names have ever been needed.

Let me tell you about the one who engages with us every visit. We learnt that he played AFL football for Hawthorn in the early sixties. He is thin but not tall enough to play AFL today. He's stylish in a scruffy sort of way, with spiky hair that won't sit neatly, a wicked smile and sparkly eyes. He chats to everyone, nothing deep and meaningful, mind you. Every time we visit, he tells us he'll be 80 soon.

This morning, I think, 'Good to see him back'. He hadn't been here with his mates for a couple of weeks. Last visit, I asked where he was, and they said they'd called him, but he was too tired.

As Frank orders coffee, I settle in for some relaxed people-watching.

My left ear catches the tinkling of a spoon, stirring a cuppa at the next table. Stirring for a long time probably means a lot of sugar to dissolve. I cast my eyes to the left as if looking into space to bring the couple into my peripheral vision. The man ordered eggs and a cup of coffee, no stirring required. His brekkie buddy, a woman around my age, ordered a large, heavenly rich dark chocolate muffin with lashings of cream and a side of strawberry beside the large coffee being stirred.

I ask myself how I am processing the sight of a woman, whose doctor would have had numerous lifestyle choice conversations, with her coffee and cake brekkie.

I have long passed the time of judgement at 'others' health appearances. Envy of a luscious treat no longer even grabs me in its talons. Because I remember what it feels like to want to make good food choices and be unable to do so. There was a time when I, too, was at the mercy of work and life stresses. My drug of choice was banana bread. We would head to the coffee shop next door to the office every morning, and I could not resist. It calmed my morning anxiety in a heartbeat, or was that for a heartbeat?

We all know what to choose, but forces are against us. Life stresses and ferocious marketing conspire to coerce bad choices.

Today, past merges with present. For a moment in time, I connect with her. Inside my head, I say - I see you; I feel you; I understand you.

My heart goes out to you, and I send you lashings of loveliness for your health journey as you head off into your day and life.

We never really know what is going on in someone's life.

I return to my coffee and the morning. Our unnamed friend wanders over to say Hi. He's not his usual, cheeky self. A few days of growth on his chin and his normally sparkly eyes are sunk back in their sockets.

I jokingly comment on his stubble and ask him where he's been.

He pulls up his shirt. A raw eight-inch scar, where his sternum was cracked open, mustard yellow surgery antiseptic, black stitches holding him together, smacks my senses. What happened? Quadruple bypass!! Six days ago. He gently pulls his leg up to show the top-to-bottom scar where the surgeon drew a good vein. I am in shock. Cheekiness has been knocked out of him.

He tells us he went for a medical to renew his licence, and his doctor ordered an angiogram. It wasn’t even required for the licence test. He was moved directly from the angiogram to the operating room. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. On the contrary, he needed to deposit $10,000 before the surgeon would operate. Medical Insurance? Nope.

After months of chatting with him and his mates at the coffee shop, I need to know his name. Robert, he tells me. At that moment, he becomes real. He also feels a need to introduce us to his wife. We had seen her and her immaculate white poodle but never chatted. It's an unspoken moment of humanity, connection and knowing.

The chances of Robert now making 80 are much better. He'll probably get that OBE he's been banging on about - the Over Bloody Eighty award!

Bodies are not permanent. That connection to life is tenuous and fragile. It can change in a heartbeat.

As we drive home in stunned silence, Frank comments, 'I guess we'll see more of these as we age'.

A lot to process this morning as I reach for my gratitude journal.