Thursday, February 25, 2010
For about a year and a half I was terrified that my heart wouldn’t be well enough to keep two people alive. I thought my chances of safely having a baby were slim.
I was wrong. I did get better and I did get pregnant. Sometimes life turns out better than you expect.
Before I knew everything was going to be okay, I spent a lot of energy trying to figure out what I did to break my heart. Nobody knows when my heart function started to falter.
When I was younger, I smoked and drank too much, as teenagers often do. I kept on smoking for ten years. Worse than either of those things, I held onto my bad feelings and internalized them. If sadness or anger were ever in short supply, I borrowed from my friends.
I lived with a heavy heart for years.
Seeing my heart on the ultrasound screen brought tears to my eyes because I knew I had neglected him and taken him for granted. I felt guilty for being unaware of my heart’s struggle, for adding to it.
In a mad bargain for wellness, I wrote my heart a letter. I asked for forgiveness. I promised to pay proper attention and to eat less salt. I told my heart that I would fend off stress if he would just keep pumping.
I’d like to believe he was listening.