A Broken Heart, Of A Different Kind

What I'm about to write is something that is difficult for me to really discuss at length, but is definitely worthy of a post. With that in mind, I apologize in advance for my disjointed thoughts...

I have gone on the record of saying multiple times how utterly bizarre/eccentric/weird I think that my Ancient Arts & Cultures professor is. Well, after today, I have to retract those statements, as I feel morally obligated.  Why, you ask? Well, today, she started class by telling us a little story about her son. Little did I know that this story would shake me up quite a bit.

She began by pulling up her personal Facebook page, which contained some content that was kinda awkward for us to see, which left us all feeling extremely weirded out, as usual. She finally fumbled through her page to pull up a picture of a little boy holding up a proclamation from the OK Governor. She went on to tell us that the little boy was her son, and the proclamation was declaring that February 7-14 be designated as CHD Awareness Week. At this point, I wasn't entirely sure what a CHD was, much like the rest of my class. After a small class poll seeing who actually knew what it was, my teacher went on to explain that CHD stood for Congenital Heart Disease...three words that stopped me in my tracks. Her vibrant, seven-year-old son, who is the same age as my nephew, Wyatt, was born with a CHD, has already had two open-heart surgeries, and is on a waiting list for another one. His, like many was diagnosed soon after birth, only by performing an O2 Saturation test. His first surgery happened when he was about two months old; the second, when he was about two. His life is more fragile than most, and my teacher told us about the fear of having to possibly plan her son's funeral, which is sadly a real possibility with his condition. She went on to say that she is a member of a group dedicated to the parents of child heart patients, and she is merely trying to raise awareness for CHDs, because they are one of the leading causes of death in children. She explained that, although she may come off as weird in class, that she always tries to be upbeat, but, really she is always plagued with the fears of what may happen to her son, etc. She explained that when she teaches, she gets really excited about it, because it takes her mind off her struggles at home. She went on to tell us about her 18-month-old daughter, who is perfectly healthy. She told us about her struggles during her second pregnancy, how she lived in constant fear of repeating everything that happened with her son, but was relieved to know that her daughter had no health issues, and had a fully functioning, virtually perfect heart.

So, what is the significance of this long story? Why did it "stop me in my tracks"? Why is it difficult for me to talk about this, like I said earlier?

As you know, I have two older sisters, Gina and Emily. What you might not know is that I have another older sister, Michelle, who falls right between Emily and me, age-wise. Michelle was born with a CHD. She wasn't diagnosed right away, because she seemed fairly normal. Eventually, my parents noticed some things that didn't seem right, and soon thereafter, she was diagnosed with a deformed right ventricle. She went through at least two surgeries, although, the last one was her final one. As in, she died during surgery. The doctors were going in to clean up some scar tissue from a previous surgery, which entailed putting a patch on her heart. In the process of all of this, a blood clot formed near the patch, and was what caused her untimely death. She had just turned two a mere two months prior. Quite the tragic end to a short life. What followed was a total upheaval in my family's life, as you could only imagine. Imagine my parents' (Mostly my mom) surprise, when two years later, they found out that they were expecting me. As I have been told numerous times, my mom lived in fear during the entire pregnancy, which wasn't helped by her constant sickness she faced. When I was born, she was very insistent that everything possible be done to test that I had a fully-functioning heart. Much to everyone's delight, I was a healthy little girl.

As great as the fact that I'm alive and well is, it doesn't, and never will change the fact that Michelle is no longer with us. What I know about Michelle is dependent upon what everyone else has told me, and from pictures I have seen of her. That is all I have of my sister. Honestly, I'm not even entirely sure that the story I just told you about her is completely true, only because I wasn't there to experience it, and the story gets turned around in my head after so long. Besides, I'm sure one of my sisters or my mom would correct me if I'm wrong.

I never got to meet Michelle, so it really isn't accurate for me to say that I miss her, because that would imply that she was a part of my life that I came to know and love, and was eventually taken away from me. I guess it is more accurate for me to say that I have an emptiness, of sorts, because I never got to experience her for myself. I am grateful that I have people to tell me about her, to help me know more of what she was like, beyond the pictures of her that hang on our walls at home. I often wonder what it would be like if she was still here, if I would've gotten to meet her, what kind of relationship we would have, how different everything might be if she was still alive. What I think about most is that there is a reasonable chance that if she were still alive, I might have never come to be. Which leaves me in a strange frame of mind, and is where things begin to get difficult for me. Obviously, there is a reason that Michelle was brought into and taken from this world, just as there is with each and every one of us. When my own state of being becomes somewhat connected with the loss of my own sister, I wonder about my own purpose in this world. Not like, I question my existence and think suicidal thoughts, no, no, no. More like, it makes me realize how fragile life is, and that it is far too ephemeral to spend it without purpose.

This is difficult for me to write about, because it is something I try not to think about that often. Like I said earlier, that's why my thoughts are somewhat scattered. I will end by leaving you with the same challenge my teacher left for us: During CHD awareness week, wear red, at least once, and tell someone why you're wearing red. The official CHD day is on Valentine's day, which is when I plan on sporting red for my big sister, for my friend's son, Zane, for my teacher's son, and for all of the kiddos who face this fight every day of their lives. It isn't much to ask, but it is a start in raising awareness for this tragic condition. Thank you all!