I hate it.
My heart, that is.
My stupid, broken, can’t-do-the-right-thing-on-its-own heart.
My heart that has a little umbrella sitting in it, closing a hole in the wall.
My heart that only works with medications to make sure it doesn’t beat too fast.
My heart that needs a pacemaker to make sure it beats fast enough.
My heart that needs a defibrillator to make sure it beats at all.
I wear the scars on my chest from all the invasions. Vertical, horizontal, diagonal…they cross my chest like a poorly sewn quilt, making patchwork of my skin. The lumps and bumps are many; the vanity I once had vanished long ago. And always I know that there’s more to come. More cuts, more seams – the external signs of the internal workings of this wounded heart.
It thumps in my chest, reminding me of its inadequacies; the gulp of a missed beat, the quick steps as it plays catch-up. Each time I panic – is this it? Is this the time it’s not going to remember what to do next? Is this the one that’s going to set off that damn defibrillator, sending volts of energy through my body to force a beat? It hurts, and though I can stand the pain, I don’t want to. The kick is violently traumatic; it literally throws me to the ground with its force, so fast I don’t know what’s happening, but not fast enough that I don’t feel it with every fiber of my being.
I have a hard time reconciling my disease with this journey I’m on. Wouldn’t it have been enough to lose a brother? Did I have to have a broken heart too? And did it have to mean I couldn’t bear a child, and that I can’t run, and that I can’t just live life free from worry? Couldn’t there be a cure?
So many questions…so few answers.
I don’t want this. I DON’T WANT IT. But it’s mine. So I’ll deal with it the only way I know how.
With a whole lot of heart.