The first time I witnessed my child’s heartbeat—a flicker on a monochrome display—I thought, “It’s alive.” This is the essence of life; a beating heart signifies existence.
In the ensuing years, my spouse and I sometimes felt merely functional, racing to transport our children, arguing over assignments, and ensuring their basic needs were met. Yet our kids thrived. They protested injustices, laughed until they wept, and engaged in playful wrestling that left marks on their knees imprinted with the playroom carpet’s design. They harbored secrets, made confessions, and reveled in moments of wonder.
Our younger son, in particular, was a whirlwind of energy. His grandfather would often joke, “Where’s the off switch?” As tickling ensued, we would search for that elusive button beneath his tiny striped shirt. “Is it here? It has to be here somewhere!”
Fast forward, that exuberant boy has transformed into a 14-year-old who elicits glances of admiration with his charming dimples and athletic physique. He’s fit and active, but our health insurance is robust, and medical professionals prefer to avoid litigation, so we find ourselves at the cardiologist’s office. He’s having his blood pressure checked again, “just to see.” He’s undergoing an EKG, “just to see.” He’s getting a sonogram, “just to see.”
In a dimly lit room, I gaze at the screen, and there, in vibrant color, is his heart pulsating. Blood flows rhythmically in and out. The valves open and close like tiny flags fluttering in the wind. Observing this vibrant young man, it’s astonishing to think that life can be reduced to this singular physiological process.
Just days prior, we visited my grandmother in a nursing facility. This year, she recognized me but waved dismissively at my husband, indicating she didn’t have the energy to acknowledge him. After sharing family updates in the communal area (some of which were indeed true), we wheeled her back to her semi-private room. Her roommate lay in bed, unresponsive and frail, a shadow of a woman. We offered my grandmother some ice water and said our farewells, gently declining her too-casual invitations to lunch or a stroll—never truly finding that off switch.
After the sonogram, the doctor reassures us that my son’s heart is flawless. I nod in silent agreement. He’s the best hugger in our family, always the first to recognize when someone needs comfort. He competes fiercely but never seeks to overpower his rivals. He embodies a balance of tenderness and strength, much like the ideal young men we hope will emerge in society.
While I understand the doctor’s assessment refers to the organ functioning as it should, I resist the notion that life is merely about the beating of a heart—whether it belongs to my son, my grandmother’s roommate, or myself. Surely, there must be more to existence than this.
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For more engaging discussions, check out this post from one of our other blogs.
In summary, the juxtaposition of life and the mechanical functions of the heart raises profound questions about existence and the essence of living. Life encompasses not just the biological processes but the rich tapestry of experiences that truly define us.