My heart, my beats, my song

I walk in a dirty hallway. I wonder why I have bottom healthcare services, not the worst, but not the best. I cannot choose who looks at my heart or what keeps me alive. I have to go where my insurance sends me. My heart squeezes, and I check in.

I sit in the waiting room, listening to the music within and hearing the drums calling my name. I close my eyes and smell the perfume of another patient who just walked in. It distracts me, and I cannot hear my song—confusion of the senses.

My name. I hear my name in the background. It is my turn to walk into a small room and expose my body and breasts for an EKG. Stickers, cords, and music notes are printed—my heart’s composition.

I wait not for a cardiologist but for a PA to talk to me. I am nobody, so I don’t get to speak to a cardiologist. It is my heart, the song of life. How long will my music last? Why can’t I choose the musicians in my heart orchestra who will help me create the best performance? It is my heart, after all.

I have no control. So, I wait.

“There is an abnormality with your heart. We will order more tests: an ultrasound and a stress test. Happy Holidays!” the PA said. Since when are heart tests in the same dialogue as “Happy Holidays?” The term is just used as words with no meaning, just as “hello,” “good morning,” and “how are you?” Not many people pay attention to what they say and when.

The P.A. places her stethoscope on my chest, “breathe,” she says. And, again, “breathe.” She adds, “take one deep breath!” She pauses for a moment and walks toward the corner of the room. “I can hear a slight murmur. We just need to know where it comes from.”

I guess my song has a murmur, another music playing in the background.

My lungs have a minor problem being investigated, and my heart has a murmur being investigated. Scleroderma might have started to affect my organs. Or is it something else? My life is changing regardless.

I close my eyes and depict my hands on the drums. Music. Notes. I need music.