My heart, dear heart, sweet, gentle heart.

I wish you were healthy and I’m grateful that despite your challenges, you’re still here.

My heart, broken so many times yet not bent.

My heart, my dad’s heart, my dad’s heart burst and killed him only eight days after his 48th birthday. I was 12.

My heart has carried this heartbreak and missing him throughout my long life. I’m still surprised as I learn at deepening levels the way loss gets into our bones, our structure, our everything, and impacts our lives.

My heart. I inherited problems—I assume from my dad, although I think the cholesterol may have been gifted by both my parents.

My heart has defects and this past year she’s made her struggles known to me in a new way. Despite COVID, I’ve had to venture outside the safety of my home haven to care for my sweet heart.

One test resulted in two minor strokes which affected my vision. Although improved, I still have trouble reading and see double when I watch TV at night.

New medications will hopefully prevent another stroke or a possible heart attack.

I am not afraid of what my heart may do. I simply do what I can to assure her the best health and longest life possible within the reality of her problems.

She is a strong heart, a good heart, willing and ready to hold the pain of others when they are hurting.

My husband says my defining feature is my kind heart.

I hope my heart hears his words and builds healing strength knowing she is seen, valued, and appreciated.

My heart. I don’t know how long she will beat. Even as I sit here now, she is being recorded, and tonight the recording will be sent to my doctor’s office. So far, they are not concerned about the read-outs.

My Apple watch lets me know when my heart-rate spikes. My body tells me because it always comes with a struggle to catch my breath as though I’d been on a long run.

I recently learned my lungs are also damaged. They lied when they said if you quit smoking, your lungs will repair themselves as though you’d never smoked. I haven’t smoked in 37 years and the damage remains.

I am aware but not afraid. I live in gratitude for my body parts—my heart, my head, my lungs, my eyes, which survive and work to do their best.

My heart beats. My lungs allow me to breathe. My eyes still see. And my brain functions—I could make a joke here about how my husband might argue that point, or laugh about how when I go into a room and wonder why I’m there, perhaps my brain is functioning not so much.

My best friend calls it CRAFT—Can’t Remember A Fucking Thing.

Yet I do remember, despite temporary blips. And I’m working to feed my brain with new information and ideas to keep her alert and well.

Taking care of my heart benefits everything else in my body. What helps hearts also fights cancer, diabetes, and other ailments.

I love my heart and I thank her every day for joining me for another day of this ordinary miracle we call life.

 

 

*The above was written in response to a writing prompt given by Brooke Warner during Craft Memoir Boot Camp For Writers