heart

The sharp jolt of pain to the right of my breastbone lasted a few seconds, long enough to get my attention. Any ache or pain in my chest gives me pause. Heart problems run in my family. So does denial. 

Three times those jabs froze me that hot July evening as I scraped and washed the dinner dishes and the messy pots — the remains of the jambalaya for a special family meal. Both of my stepsons and their girlfriends had joined us that night.

I didn’t want to ignore a warning sign and drop dead at 49 — just as I might be getting the hang of this life — nor did I want to race off to the ER, ruining precious family time over nothing.

Sitting at the table with the kids was nice, of course. Always. Yet, that had not offered much physical relief. 

Mid-summer’s heat and humidity were oppressive, and the kitchen was steamy. I’d stood for hours chopping vegetables, peeling shrimp, stirring tomatoes and peppers into our biggest, heaviest cast iron skillet. The whole house had cooked all day in the scorching sun.

I told my husband. We watched for any other symptoms. I could breathe comfortably, so we finished cleaning up. The pains were short and stopped before bedtime.

Paternal Legacy

I thought of my dad and the men in his family who had ignored their pain, which made it even more deadly and dangerous.

I’ve been diving deep into the stories of my family-of-origin, obsessed with one surprisingly magical family dinner nearly 10 years ago. This work calls for rooting around in the lives of dead people, trying to unravel some mysteries and understand some painful parts of their lives. 

Why was my dad so broken? His father, from what I can tell from his letters, seems to have cherished family. So how could my dad’s older, only brother — who I barely knew as I was growing up — have given up his son?

Before he died, my uncle and I had a long, recorded conversation about his life and that decision to move away from his beautiful little boy, then agree to his adoption. My uncle was surprisingly open as I asked him difficult questions. He struggled with his own pain and regrets, and was searching for some peace.

Aren’t we all?

Dangerous Denials

This summer, I diligently transcribed that audio recording. Over many hours and a few days, I replayed parts over and over until I’d captured every word.

By the time we had that long talk in May, 2014, my uncle was dealing with intense physical and emotional pain. A year of suffering with a broken leg that wouldn’t heal. Suffering with liver disease, suffering regret over the child he left behind, and searching for a way to make peace.

My uncle and I had even talked about how his father and my father had denied their pain. My grandfather walked uphill toward home as he suffered a heart attack, laid down then waited two days to call the doctor, as the family story goes.

What if he’d gone sooner?

My dad endured the severe abdominal pain of an appendicitis, mistakenly thinking it was the flu, until it burst and threatened his life.

The scariest moments that November nearly 10 years ago came Thursday evening, after three days of my dad lying unconscious, deeply sleeping in a medical coma so his body could fight infection. His hospital room was dark except for a small pool of fluorescent light above the counter where the nurses wrote their notes.

None of the numbers on the monitors showed any signs of improvement or healing — just that dad was holding on. I felt like he was walking the razor’s edge between worlds, and terrified he would slip away at any time.  

A new intensive care nurse began her shift and I told her the story of this vibrant, strong man now silent and small. She shook her head at how he had not immediately sought medical care for his severe pain and said: Pain is how the body tells you something is wrong. 

That night, I cried in quiet despair as I drove 30 minutes north back to my mom and stepfather’s house.

I’d not forgotten that lesson. What if my dad had not been so tough, and had seen a doctor a few days earlier? We’ll never know.

Our Responsibility: Face it and Heal

I have to believe — I pray — there is some purpose to pain, though I may never fully grasp it. Without that faith, reading the news of pain all over the world is crushing to me. Too much.

I find comfort in seeking whatever good can grow out of pain, some wisdom, lesson or purpose. My dad’s illness and recovery brought people in our family closer, in a way that had never before seemed possible. So at least something good came from an awful time. My uncle’s decision left a hole in our family and had to have brought my grandparents tremendous sorrow. Yet, his son may very well have had a better life.

My grandfather’s heart attack remains a mystery.

I want to heal the inherited pain from my family-of-origin as best I can. My responsibility is to avoid passing it along to our kids. Better to find some way to give them some wisdom instead.

Isn’t that why we tell stories?

Fuzzy Rules

The day after the jambalaya dinner — feeling lucky for health insurance and determined to avoid my paternal family’s legacy of ignoring pain — I made a doctor’s appointment. Were those jabs a sign of heart trouble? I was confused, and wanted a way to tell the difference between chest pains that demand urgent action and the ones discouraging spicy jambalaya on a hot day. 

I explained to the physician’s assistant how my dad, uncle and grandfather had all ignored their pain, so here I was. I’m here. I’m listening. The PA took her time and asked me lots of questions.

For women, making sense of chest pain is not so clear-cut. There is no hard and fast rule, I learned. She asked if I had been dizzy? No. Nauseous? No. How long did it last? Heart attack sounded less and less likely. Good. Heartburn or tight muscles were the top suspects. An EKG confirmed: No heart attack. (More on common symptoms of heart attack in women.)

I was relieved. But what the heck were those jabs? I listened for a deeper message. 

Decoding Pain’s Message

Diligently, I made the rounds to my family doctor and for other preventive screenings and care. I even saw a cardiologist, who was perplexed — initially perhaps even annoyed, understandably so — at how my healthy heart had ended up in his exam room, then asked me lifestyle questions.

He suggested a plant-based diet. My carnivore family is seeing more beans, quinoa and greens on their dinner plates. People are getting a little nervous around here.

My pains, I realized, were simply a reminder to take better care of myself. Move more. Eat less junk. Grow and cook more plants. Breathe and stretch on the mat.

Exhaling Away the Bad Stuff

As I’d listened to my uncle’s voice from the past and typed his words, my body had slouched and twisted. My joints and muscles contorted and stiffened.

I took my uncle’s pain into my body, where it got stuck for days, tightening my left hip and shoulder. My left side had ached and throbbed as I unrolled my yoga mat at the beginning of class. After almost an hour, those muscles finally released with a wave of tears and emotion.  

Proceed with caution, I noted. So I set the work aside for awhile, and focused on other projects. However, this delving into my family stories — or the pain of life for that matter — is impossible to avoid. 

I must dig in, go there and work through it.

Then, be kinder to myself and take a break. Step back, breathe deeply and pray, stretch, walk the dogs, putter in the garden, eat the healthiest food I can — and that my family will tolerate.

Breathe in the beautiful and healthy, breathe out the junk — and relish whatever goodness and wisdom lies beyond pain.