HEART OF GOLD

The calendar waves its pages, and announces it’s time for our annual tradition of tapping trees and sugaring. Oh wait: not you! No more plates full of sticky, sweet, heart-shaped pancakes drenched in homemade maple syrup, surrounded by sausage patties with a heap of cheesy potatoes.

It’s against the new rules. My strong, healthy, hard-working, and big-hearted husband has Congestive Heart Failure.

HEART THROB

Frank Sinatra sang, “Each day is Valentine’s Day around here.” Ironically, it seems Ol’ Blue Eyes was singing our theme song. Our house is full of heartfelt reminders. We are broken-hearted. You won’t find any half-eaten boxes of gooey chocolates, nor bowls of not quite edible conversation heart candies. Instead, bottles of pills threaten to spill off the kitchen counter. The judgemental scale in the corner dares my husband not to have a sudden weight gain. Each morning, the blood pressure cuff grabs his too skinny arm, and reminds us that his heart is unhealthy. My blood pressure shoots up high when his readings drop too low.

HOME SICK

The dictionary defines congestive as “a medical adjective involving or produced by congestion of a part of the body.” I think of the bottlenecked highways we left behind long ago when we were young and full of heart. The pastel conversation hearts’ cute sayings don’t include any that say FAILURE. His heart is failing. I’m failing him. We’re failing one another.

HEART U

We’ve entered a changed landscape and an altered reality which demands numerous trips to multiple hospitals, countless tests, and learning a whole new language. All my husband’s drugs have at least two names apiece, most of which we can’t even pronounce. We pore over handouts trying to make sense of things like Ejection Fraction, A Fibrillation, Cardioversion, and Electrophysiology.  His homework is medicine, monitoring, charting and napping. Without any discussion, I take over the brunt of the chores and elect myself Chief of the Sodium Police.

TWO HEARTS

The stubble on his chest and legs itches as it slowly grows back in after the hospital shaves him. My hair turns shaggy and gray. I cancel my appointment at the salon, and don’t reschedule. I am afraid to leave him alone. Our life shrinks.The television helps fill the time with sports, politics, and armchair adventures. Days turn into weeks, then months as we wait for one phone call after another, wait for appointments, and wait for him to feel better.

LEAN ON ME

Who is this exhausted guy with the stretched out heart, broken pump, and leaky valve? Where is my husband and what did you do with him? Not long ago, he was taking care of me. And just like that, without any warning, it is my endless turn. I put on the water for heart healthy oatmeal, and promptly forget about it until it boils away. I try again. This time, the pot spills its gooey mess all over the stove. I give up and fling boxes of shredded wheat and puffed rice on the table. What kind of caregiver does this make me?

MAD ABOUT YOU

In the movies, adversity brings you closer together. In reality, we take out our frustrations on each other. We are out of patience. He’s a terrible patient. He needs Nurse Nancy but is stuck with Nurse Ratchet. We rage and scream. The ancient cat joins in our chorus of yowling. I want to make a huge bonfire and burn up his stained lazy boy chair that he practically lives in. He wants his life back. We’re mad at one another, mad at the medical system, mad at old age, mad at the universe.

GOT LOVE

In the very next moment, we’re laughing together at the ridiculousness of it all. How did we get to be them? We have become those old people who can’t keep track of their ever-changing prescriptions, who have so many doctors they don’t know which one does what, who discuss the next meal while still eating this one.

LUV ME TENDR

The two of us go for a short walk in the sun and hold hands singing “ If I Only Had A Heart.” We don’t care that we’re off key and out of tune. If we can’t remember the words we make them up. When we run out of lyrics we try to outdo one another with the heartiest pun. We cuddle up together to watch Jeopardy. We decide we have a chance at winning if only we could go on as partners. Mornings, he still makes me coffee with only an occasional grumble. I bring him tea while he rests in the gorgeous bed he built me. We avoid talking about our long awaited and then hastily canceled trip. Every time I open the fridge, the travel vouchers tacked on the bulletin board flap at me.

FIT FOR LOVE

Cardiac Rehab is a rotating group of old men who exercise with heart monitors attached to their chests, supervised by vivacious young women. I irreverently refer to it as Preschool because you make friends, play, share and learn. Instead of coloring pages, they bring home diagrams showing the anatomy of a human heart. Rehab gives me a short, much needed break. I live it up running errands and hanging out in the coffee shop. I am there so often the barista starts asking if I want my usual.

CALL HOME

Today, he feels good enough to drive himself to Rehab. This marks the first time he has driven without me. Nestled in his wallet, right next to his driver’s license, is a card stating ”I have arranged to donate my body to the Body Donor Program at the time of my death.” I kiss him goodbye feeling less like a wife and more like a mother letting her teenager drive to school alone. “Is your cell phone charged? Promise to call me if you have any trouble. Don’t forget to call me when you leave.” My chest floods with anxiety as I wonder when the next shoe will drop. I keep myself busy with chores while wishing I could swaddle him in bubble wrap. When the phone rings my heart drops as I race to answer it. He’s fine, although once again, he forgot to stop at the lab for yet another blood draw.

BE MINE

Usually, we don’t make a fuss about Valentine’s Day. Some years, I make a heart-shaped pizza in celebration. One time, I came home from a brief trip away, to find the perfect gifts awaiting me. Laid out on our bed were sexy underwear and a brand new hammer just the right weight for me to swing. His new Rehab pals urge him to woo his aggravated wife. He romances me with presents from the gas station: One perfect rose, a bottle of wine, and a bag of chocolate kisses. I give him a long smooch, then suggest he lie down and rest again.

SWEET TALK

After the snow melts, we climb onto the four wheeler and go for a drive down Maple Lane. The trees look skinny and bare without their customary adornment of hoses and buckets. I catch myself listening for the absent beat of drip drip drip. It feels odd for us not to be busy collecting and cooking sap. The wind hollers as we go back home. I count what’s left of last year’s syrup and hope it’ll last until next season when we will once again spend our days around the cookfire as we turn sap into sweet syrup.

Lucinda Guard lives with her husband of thirty-five years on a beef farm in Wisconsin. This is her first published piece. Lucinda has worked in film, as a teacher, and most recently, as a radio news writer. For the last three years she has spent much of her time navigating the medical system.