Oh my heart, don’t desert me now.
You have, on occasion, reminded me you’re there, inside me, keeping me existing, preventing me from dying. You have done it when I play basketball, and you pound like you’re trying to explode from my chest and run off the court. Or when I feel particularly anxious flying in a plane, you frantically knock on my door to warn me that something bad may be hovering around the fuselage. Lately, you have been doing it just because. I sit in my favorite lounge chair reading a book, and suddenly, you are knocking harder and faster than usual. Why?
What are you trying to tell me?
Tonight, I wake up to you screaming at me. “Wait a second,” I say. “This hurts.” What are you trying to tell me? Are you, my dear heart, the one yelling at me, or perhaps my stomach was having some fun, sending up some gas to fake me out? Writhing and moaning, you respond by sending shock waves into my neck, my back, and my left arm. Ah, I think something has gone really wrong with this heart of mine, and I can’t just lie here waiting to see what happens next. I need to get you some help.
I wake my partner up and tell him we need to get to the ER, stat.
The nearest ER is fifteen minutes away—at least it is when driving there at 2:00 a.m. I tell you to hang on for fifteen minutes, and then we’ll have doctors who can help you. You are now shrieking at me, telling me you’re under attack and may not be able to hold back the assault for long.
I convey that message to my partner and ask, could he perhaps drive faster?
I feel your convulsions, and they rock me in my seat. I try to soothe you, but you refuse to be soothed. You are hurting me, and I am scared. Would you kill me? I worry that you will indeed do that, and I tell my partner to stop and call 911 if I pass out—if you stop doing what you have always done for me. But you don’t quit, and I don’t pass out.
You just keep screaming, and I keep screaming until we all arrive at the ER doors.
The tests show that one of your normally strong arms has been slashed, its skin dissected, and that this has prevented the essential nectar from feeding you, my poor, starved heart. The doctor shows me a video of your damaged form, and I feel sadness for your injury, but also awe for your simple mechanics. The consistent pumping, the liquid moving through your arms and into your body and out again to your arms, to feed the rest of the pieces of me.
Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum.
I see your dissected arm and understand why you screamed in pain. Why you couldn’t do your job the way you always had. You are lame. You are humiliated. You are apologetic. I watch the miracle of this engine, and I forgive you. More than that, I feel privileged to finally see your work, the genius of your composition, the stalwart that has always been there for me.
The good news is that you can be fixed.
So, I rest so you can rest. I give you your medicines and take you to rehab. You are a star patient, nearly as good as new. Now, we climb hills together again.
You are healed, and I am astonished by your strength and resilience. This engine of my very life. You beat. I listen more closely to you now. What are you trying to tell me? I am ALIVE, and that should forever bring me joy.
I am alive because of you.