Arrhythmic

The doctor said something is wrong with my heart.
It beats out of time, pulses irregular,
slower when I exhale, but I can’t control that.
I’ve never been good at controlling my heart.
The doctor said I might have an arrhythmia.

Arrhythmia: any disturbance in the rhythm of the heartbeat—
but an erratic heartbeat is better than a silent one.

The doctor said her brain died.
I didn’t believe him.
When the clot stopped her breathing, her heart stopped too.
By the time the paramedics arrived twelve minutes later,
her brain had swollen too much for her to wake up.
She died a brain death, but it was her heart that killed her.
And then they took her bones, her eyes, her organs
so that someone else could live.
They didn’t take her heart.

The doctor said he needed to know my family’s medical history.
I didn’t trust him enough to talk about her.
I didn’t trust myself not to cry.
I didn’t trust him at all.
Condescending, corrupt, conservative.
He didn’t care about the state of my heart,
just the state of my mother’s bank account.

The doctor said I needed a 24-hour cardiac monitor,
more tests in a month or so.
His needles left a bruise on my hand.
No monitor will every properly diagnose me.
No treatment will ever give me control.

The doctor said something is wrong with my heart.
I’m afraid he might be right,
but whatever it is, he can’t fix it
because maybe I don’t want my bruises to fade.

The doctor said something is wrong with my heart,
and he was right. Whatever else might be wrong,
he can't fix what's broken inside.