If you're going to have a heart attack, mine was the kind to

In the words of Peter Hammill, we hear a testimony of survival and gratitude: “If you’re going to have a heart attack, mine was the kind to have. I’m thankful that it hasn’t affected my output or my capacity to perform. And it has given me a lot to think and write about.” These words carry with them the gravity of mortality and the light of resilience. They speak to the truth that even in near-disaster, the human spirit may find not only relief but renewal. To be thankful for such a trial is to transform suffering into wisdom, and danger into creativity.

The origin of this reflection lies in the universal confrontation with mortality. Illness, disease, and sudden weakness remind us that our bodies are fragile vessels, and that the flame of life flickers at the mercy of forces beyond our control. Hammill’s heart attack could have ended his story, silencing his voice and his art. Yet instead, he emerged still able to sing, to perform, to write—and in that survival, he found not despair but thanksgiving. His words reveal the artist’s power: to take even calamity and turn it into a source of inspiration.

History gives us many such examples. Consider Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, who wrote in his Meditations while suffering illness and bearing the burdens of empire. He acknowledged pain, but he also saw it as a chance to reflect, to strengthen his philosophy, to prepare his soul for death and his heart for virtue. Like Hammill, Marcus understood that trial is not merely obstacle—it is a teacher. In this way, Hammill’s brush with mortality gave him not only survival, but new subjects for thought and song.

The essence of Hammill’s gratitude lies in two truths: first, that his capacity to create remained intact; second, that his suffering birthed new reflection. Many would lament, saying, “Why me?” But Hammill says, “I am thankful.” This is the mark of a spirit refined by hardship, one that sees beyond the pain to the possibility hidden within it. His thankfulness does not deny the seriousness of the event—it redeems it, turning what could have been pure loss into both continuation and enrichment.

There is also here a profound lesson about the artist’s duty. An artist does not merely entertain but transforms experience into meaning. Hammill takes his own trial and offers it to others through song and word, so that they too may learn, reflect, and find strength. His suffering becomes a gift, not wasted in silence but transfigured into art. In this sense, his heart attack was not only his own crisis—it was also an offering to his audience, who may find in his words courage for their own trials.

The lesson we must take from Hammill’s reflection is simple yet profound: trials are inevitable, but our response determines whether they become prisons or teachers. To meet them with despair is to be broken by them; to meet them with gratitude is to be enlarged by them. Every calamity carries within it the seed of wisdom, if only we choose to see it. Hammill chose not to see his heart attack as ruin, but as reminder, as muse, as opportunity to deepen his craft and his gratitude for life.

Practically, this means that when hardship strikes—be it illness, loss, or disappointment—we must first pause to breathe and then ask: What can this teach me? How can I transform this pain into growth, into art, into service? In doing so, we refuse to let suffering define us. Instead, we define it, shaping it into meaning. Like Hammill, we may find that what threatened to silence us becomes instead the very reason our voice grows stronger.

Thus, the wisdom of Peter Hammill endures: “I’m thankful that it hasn’t affected my output… and it has given me a lot to think and write about.” His words remind us that survival is not merely continuation, but invitation—an invitation to reflect, to create, and to live more deeply. May we too learn to greet our trials not with despair, but with thankfulness, and may we carry them forward as torches to illuminate both our own path and the paths of those who walk beside us.