Travels and Travails

A Tale of Two Hearts

Sometimes intergenerational trauma travels through our genes in more ways than mental and emotional anguish.  Sometimes, our bodies keep the score in measured heartbeats, counting out the length of our lives like the Fates of mythology.

Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy is a hereditary heart condition, passed down through generations as a quiet genetic mutation that often goes undiagnosed until it makes its presence known in a dramatic cardiac event.  For me, that event was passing out in second grade gym class.  For my father, it was during a physical exam when he was well into his sixties.

Today, I’m fifty-six years old.  My father is eighty-one. 

I’ve had to move heaven and earth to reach this age, joined in this endeavor by supportive loved ones and many gifted medical personnel.  And a big damn dose of luck.  In the past twenty years, I’ve survived three cardiac arrests, two strokes, a pulmonary embolism, two heart transplants, and a whole bushel basket of lesser maladies. 

At times, it seemed like sheer determination was the only thing keeping me alive.  That’s probably the same force allowing my fifteen-year-old terrier to bark defiantly at larger dogs as we wheel past them as she rides in her stroller.  My spirit animal is a Jack Russell terrier!

Gidget McFidget, a look of determination on her face.

As I reflect on reaching the age of fifty-six, I consider how that age has been milestone for the women who came before me.  My grandmother, my Nana, was fifty-six when I was born, making her a grandma.  It was one of the most joyful times of her life. 

My mother died at the age of fifty-six.  I saw her at the funeral after ten years of estrangement, reuniting with Nana for the final five years of her life.  I’m over halfway through the year, so I stand a good chance of avoiding the same milestone.

Next week, we will fly down to Nashville for a checkup on my transplanted heart.  I’m hopeful they will give me another gold star on my report card and send me home to celebrate my fifty-seventh birthday in a few months. 

While we’re in Nashville, I hope to visit my father.  He recently had a stent inserted in his heart, but he’s still running with his original equipment, plus a pacemaker. He has certainly gotten maximum mileage out of it.

For myself, I hope to go many more miles with what I have under the hood, over the hills, across the river, and through the woods.  The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have miles to go before I sleep.

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