For my mother

Tomorrow marks an important thing for me, my first ever Weight Watchers meeting. So what am I doing up so late you may ask? What else, I'm writing. I had recently received an email about the American Heart Association's Go Red campaign, though it's hardly anything new to me. Heart health has always been on my mind, and I knew about the Red Dress not long after it first began. I still have my pin as a matter of fact.

So tonight, I'm up late writing for my mother. Technically it's for myself, but it's about my mother, and my daughter. And in all honesty, for you and your mother as well. Some of you may know most of this, but I think it's a safe bet that many do not...here's a little insight into my life:

On a beautiful day in October 1985 an equally beautiful child was born, that child was me. A day later my mother was near death for the first time in my life, and unfortunately it wouldn’t be the last. Clearly I have no memory of the first years, however, it’s a time neither of my parents will soon forget.

I was a happy and very talkative child, but they could tell something wasn’t quite right. I would struggle to eat the smallest amount of food, exhausted at the energy it required out of me to even down just two little ounces. The doctors were convinced that I had a hole in my heart, a terrifying perspective. However, thankfully, after many tests and much anguish they found a much less severe culprit: patent ductus arteriosis, or PDA. After having corrective surgery at 18 months old, we thought all the heart problems were over, but we were wrong.

Nearly nine years went by and I continued to do perfectly well, though I had gotten, and still am, overweight. My parents had divorced not long after my PDA scare, and my half brother had gone through the same procedure after a PDA diagnosis of his own. It was around this time when the first signs showed up, though this time my mother had them. She was tired all the time, and the littlest bit of physical activity drained her. I can distinctly remember where she had cut a small section of carpet to pull up; we were trying to refinish the flooring. I remember after she cut it, she tried to pull at it to rip the carpet up, and with all her strength she couldn’t make the tiniest difference. It was then I knew something was really wrong, and I think she did too.

When she finally went to the doctor we found out she had congestive heart failure, among other heart health issues. She was barely past 40 then. They told her she needed open heart surgery to repair/replace her heart valve, at the time they weren’t exactly sure which. And so, the Monday after summer vacation started, just days after I said goodbye to elementary school, my mother said goodbye to me. It was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I wasn’t sure if I would see her again, and neither was she.

It was about two weeks later when she was released from the hospital, and while other 12 year olds hung out at the beach and with friends, I was at home with my mother, helping her recover. My father would come and pick me up every few days to run to the grocery store, and help me get all the items we needed. The first week she needed help with everything, including keeping the dogs from pulling off her oxygen. I think that was probably the biggest challenge. She also needed help getting up to go to the bathroom. I know she hated asking, but she was so strong and it was only a matter of days before she was fine on her own. Even her doctors were impressed by her strength and determination.

As the years passed, she continually relapsed. It seems like an every 2-3 year rule with her, including the defibrillator that she had put in just last month. But she’s still here and that’s all that matters to me. I know that one day this disease will kill her, and I hate that. I hate that something preventable will take the most important person in my life away from me. A woman that I spend so much time with, that she can tell just by the slightest infliction in my voice that something is wrong.

It’s because of this disease that I write. I look at my beautiful daughter and all I can think about is that I don’t want her to experience this pain. I look at her, and all I can think is thank God my mother lived long enough to see her born. Then I wonder how much of her grandchild’s life will my mother miss because of cardiovascular disease? Too many daughters and sons have had to ask that question, and far too many have had to answer with “all”.

My mother and I have collectively decided to make a change in our lives. The first step, for me at least, is weight. Together, as a united front, we will work to get ourselves to a healthier weight. In fact we are attending our first Weight Watchers meeting at 8AM tomorrow. She continues to go to cardiac rehab three times a week, and I will begin my relentless pursuit to run a 5k this year.

For now all we have to show are our scars, though I like to think of hers more like badges of honor. Each one shows a pivotal point in her life where she has fought, and fought hard to survive. The first, from a C-section that nearly took her from me; the second, an open heart surgery that kept her here; and the third, a defibrillator that will one day, hopefully, bring her back.