I was 17 and a senior in High School. I was going with my Mom and Grandmother to New Jersey to visit my family. I hadn’t been feeling well for weeks. Doctor after doctor my Mom drug me through. They poked, prodded, asked too many questions and Mom would determine they were full of shit and we would leave.
It was November, cool out and I was arm and arm with my Grandma as we walked up the street towards the board walk in Ocean City. I remember seeing it like it was yesterday. Stretched out till it met the sky, hearing the waves crash and smelling it before I reached it. Where I come from you don’t grow up seeing the ocean. This was a first for me. I remember the first quick intake of breath. That amazement. Then the calm of standing next to something so much bigger than you. We took our shoes off and stuck our toes in the sand and my Grandma informed me that no matter how bad life got all you had to do was stick your feet in the sand and watch the waves. Everything else would adjust.
My Mom answered her phone and walked away. She came back with the verdict from my cardiologist, the same one I keep till this day. I was sick. It was my heart. Tachycardic. There was a murmur as well. They didn’t know how I was still alive and I had to run, not walk and get on medicine. The very medicine that I am now 100% dependent on. The medicine that goes in my carry on at the airport, that sits next to my bed no matter where I am, that no matter how much I drink I have to know where it is at all times. I stuck my feet deeper in the sand and it just didn’t bother me. I needed surgery. My case wasn’t the mild form, I had just learned to compensate on my breathing over the past few months.
I had always hated the place where I grew up and finally it all made sense why, I wasn’t next to the water. I sat mesmerized. I didn’t know that 2 months later I would almost die during surgery, that essentially it wouldn’t work and I would come to know that my heart could give out at any moment. I didn’t realize that every time I would see the ocean I would have that same sharp intake of breath and just be amazed. That no matter what my heart would calm and I would feel better than ever. It is still in those moments that I feel like I’m normal again, even thought my doctor says I’m so far past knowing what that feels like. But I’m not normal, because there is always that conversation where I have to say the words “I can’t, my heart.”
It instantly puts life in perspective for me. It will forever take me back on that first breath where minutes later my fate was changed. And in those nights where I wake up and can’t breathe I go back to that first time. Those nights seem to take forever by myself but when everything else fails that seems to be the place. Where my feet are in the sand and the water meets the sky, everything else will adjust.
whiteeecrow
/ July 25, 2010When my uncle was a little boy he got verdict from cardiologist. Problem was very serious, at that time his legs already were week because heart wasn’t functioning properly. Doctors said that he should spend as much time as possible in bed, should not do any activity, just let his body relax. Instead of listening to them, he sneaked out every morning when everybody was still sleeping for long walks and after some time for runs. He run kilometers in the wood. In some time he got better and everybody was shocked. Now my uncle is around 80. He had heart attack 2 years ago, but after that he started running again and now he is almost recovered (despite the fact that everybody told him that he is insane for doing it). The bottom line, who gave doctors right to be so sure what is curable and what is not? There are too many things in life that nobody can explain. Wish you to surprise them in big-time!
Shannon
/ July 25, 2010It is amazing how they can be so wrong whitecrow! So happy your uncle has come so far!
Mel
/ June 17, 2010I love you!
jolene1079
/ June 16, 2010Wow…I had no idea, Shan. You’re amazing. And this was so well-written.
Aspiring Minimalist
/ June 15, 2010You are strong.
Just like the ocean