I Don't Mean to Hold My Breath

I don’t mean to hold my breath, but I hold on to this one like it is the last sweet taste of honey on my tongue. I want it to last as long as possible. I know another deep breath will follow my exhale, but I hold on to this one like I can’t count on the certainty of the next one. It’s not panic. It’s muscle memory. 

Five years ago today, I couldn’t breathe. 

My heart fought violently in my chest as it tried to send life throughout my body, hindered by an artery that was almost fully blocked. Thankfully, the attack didn’t permanently damage the muscle, but it left a mark. My body, mind, soul, and spirit remember. I can mask it pretty well, but those closest to me see. Today, behind my squinty smile and quippy humor, I feel flat. 

And I hold my breath as I remember.

I’m fine, I promise. But trauma never really goes away. Sometimes, it hides deep beneath the surface, barely accessible, but it's always there. At least I can anticipate its resurgence as January 17th approaches each year. I always feel off during the days and weeks leading up to this one.

And I hold my breath as I remember.

I’m not afraid. No, it’s not fear. It feels like shame. But I know how irrational that is. What do I have to be ashamed of? Heart attacks happen. No one I love (or who loves me) has ever blamed or shamed me—just the opposite. But today, it feels like shame. I don’t know why. 

And I hold my breath as I remember.

I remember the pain of that day was not just my own. Michelle, the kids, other family members, and friends shared it with me. I’ve never felt as alone AND loved as I did that endless night in the old St. Joe Hospital before they tore it down. Maybe that’s just how love works. My burdens are never just mine.

And I hold my breath as I remember.

But today, I can exhale a little easier than last January 17th. And a LOT more than the one before. 

I exhale with deeper confidence that another breath will come and another one after that. 

Today, it's cold, but the sun is shining bright enough that I have to squint to see past the glare on my monitor as I type. They canceled school, so I had lunch with Michelle. She brought me a new book and a Star Wars toy. I laughed with the staff around the conference table at work as we shared weird-looking but delicious popcorn. A dear friend who knows how hard today is for me sent me a message saying, “I’m sure glad you are here today and that you are my friend.” I smile and look at the note another friend shared with me last year (one that I always keep close) that says, “I’m glad you didn’t die.” Me too. 

I’m still breathing.

I remember.

I remember, and I’m still breathing.

I don’t have to hold my breath because another one is waiting for me.