To change ideas about oneself, there is nothing quite like a personal encounter with the danger of death. That was my experience recently when I rushed off to the hospital in the middle of the night.

I had awakened with constriction in my chest that suggested a possible heart attack. This sudden crisis climaxed months of walks and other daily activities made uncomfortable by similar physical pressure felt within my upper body. This time, however, it had happened when I was at rest and the discomfort was much worse.

At the hospital, the cardiologist diagnosed a heart problem and, two days later, he did an angiogram. This procedure quickly revealed a blockage in one artery, which the surgeon remedied by inserting a stent that would assure normal blood flow. I was released the next day and allowed to resume daily activities after another week.

This unemotional account of what has become a standard medical procedure, undergone by many other people, leaves out one moment of intense feeling. During the placement of the stent, the surgeon momentarily cut off the blood flow from that artery, thus subjecting me to the most agonizing pressure in chest and throat than I had ever experienced. For what seemed endless minutes, I felt desperate.

The whole experience has left me with a vivid sense of my own vulnerability. Feeling vulnerable is not new to me; it has always been present not far removed from my psyche. Having a disability from birth has no doubt heightened that perception and made it part of my inner life.

Before having the catheterization, I had signed the standard paper that allowed the surgeon to perform the procedure. Those documents I always find frightening because they list the terrible things that can go wrong. Signing it can feel like sentencing yourself to great grief for an indefinite future.

But facing the unknown, coping with threats to one’s life, and living with vulnerability are familiar parts of spirituality. These challenges call for responses from the deepest part of us. They put us to the test often bring out the best in us.

Another part of it is daring to trust. I did not know the surgeon personally. Though I did ask him some questions about his track record in doing the procedure, ultimately I had to trust that he would do his best and that his best would be good enough. This counts ultimately as trust in God because I envision God as present in the healing work of human beings.

For me, trust in God has long been a key part of spirituality. Starting in the third grade of public school, I used to recite the 23rd Psalm from the Hebrew Bible, with its focal lines: “Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.” These words have continued to console me through the years as they did in my recent health crisis.

As other have discovered, hospitals are not places that are conducive to prayer. Through long hours of sleepless nights, I tried to meditate but usually found it impossible. I was physically uncomfortable and often assailed by noise from the busy nurses’ station.

Despite this failing effort at spiritual exercises, however, I did put myself in the hands of God and intermittently tried to discover the spirit within me. I also practiced the spirituality of counting on kindness. For me this means expecting the people who serve me as nurses, doctors, food-bringers, bed pushers, blood drawers and others to act in my best interests.

In fact, they were kind to me and amply justified my trust. Living a few days in the hospital remained difficult but the devotion of all these people made it much better than it otherwise would have been.

Though back at work and other accustomed activities, I see myself differently. On the one side, it is easier to envision my life ending, perhaps suddenly. On the other, life has become more precious to me. Even more than in the past, I value each day and its gifts.

I have been blessed by bodily repair and I look forward to further life enhanced by renewal.

Richard Griffin