When I’m just sitting at my desk and my heart starts acting wonky like it did the other day, I start thinking about the worst case scenario.
What if my heart is messed up again? What if the fix was only temporary and not effective anymore?
If I knew that I was going to be sick again in a year or two I would live a bit differently.
I would go to Ireland this summer to see where my grandpa’s family came from. Then I would fly over to France, Spain, Italy, Switzerland, and other cool countries in the area.
I would push myself harder on the treadmill, get to a run faster.
I would get a tattoo of a heart somewhere on my body. Maybe I should do that one anyway.
If I thought my sickness would kill me, I would quit my job to spend every day with my daughter, and my husband would hear cheesy love proclamations twice a day. Why can’t I do that now?
Knowing how hard it was to think when my heart was sick, I would get off my ass and re-write my second novel. I shouldn’t need the fear of losing my wits to do that. But I would be less afraid of looking like an idiot, and more afraid of losing my chance.
Here’s the thing: I could get sick again. It might not even be my heart next time. In fact, I will get sick eventually and die. But I’m feeling a little complacent these days. I’ve lost the edge that came with finally being healthy. Health is expected now, just two years after maybe never being healthy again.
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