Chapter 11: The Heart of the Matter

Chapter 11: The Heart of the Matter

Theme: A Moment When My Faith Gave Me Strength I Didn’t Know I Had

There’s a difference between not wanting to die—and finally realizing you want to live.

That realization hit me during the worst kind of moment: a moment where everything should have been normal. Bella Love, just 9 years old and in 4th grade at Compass, was lying beside me in bed before we all went to sleep. I’d had heart flutters before—quick, strange bursts in my chest that lasted 10, maybe 15 seconds.

This one didn’t stop.

Thirty seconds turned to a minute. A minute to ten. Ten to an hour. I told Bella Love it would go away. It always had.

But it didn’t.

I decided to sleep it off, convinced it would be gone by morning.

It wasn’t.

When I woke up, my Apple Watch had over a hundred alerts—warnings that my heart had been racing all night. I didn’t know what was going on, but I still went to school.

For the next two weeks, my heart rate remained elevated—up in the 130s even when I was sitting still. We traveled to Austin for the wedding of Barbi’s friend Courtney, and even there, my heart pounded while I sat doing nothing. We called Teladoc. They prescribed antibiotics, thinking it might be an infection. No change. A nurse at school thought maybe it was pneumonia. Another week passed.

Then came the STAR testing pep rally.

I remember running with the kids—tic-tac-toe beanbags, hula hoops—and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I saw stars. My chest felt like it was ready to explode. I collapsed on my back on the gym floor, gasping for air, trying to act like everything was fine, but knowing it wasn’t.

That was the last straw.

I made an appointment with my general doctor. She ran tests—bloodwork, echocardiogram—and sent the results to her cardiologist. Minutes later, her phone rang. Her face changed.

“You need to get to the ER. Now.”

I called Barbi. Calmly. “I’m heading to the hospital. They think it’s serious.”

By the time she arrived, I was already in a wheelchair in the waiting room. When she saw me, she broke. She collapsed into tears. I cried too. And for a few minutes, we just sat in the weight of it all.

They ran more tests. Gave me meds. Nothing worked.

Eventually, they said it: “We need to shock your heart. We’ll try to reset the rhythm.”

Before they could do it, I had to swallow a camera—after numbing my throat with the most horrible syrup known to man. They checked for a clot. Because if they shocked my heart with one in there, it could travel straight to my brain.

No clot.

The paddles came.

My heart reset.

I spent days in the hospital. Friends and family visited. Charla came from Carlsbad. Bella Love was there. The room filled with love.

But just before Charla left, Barbi asked her to stay.

“I can’t tell him alone.”

“Tell me what?” I asked.

Barbi looked at me, trembling.

“You have a hole in your heart,” she said. “You’ve been diagnosed with congenital heart disease. You’re going to need open-heart surgery.”

I shook my head. No. No way. I wasn’t going to do it.

The fear was too much.

Faith had to step in.

They told me I couldn’t lift more than ten pounds. I couldn’t carry Bella Love’s bowling bags. I couldn’t go outside in the heat. I couldn’t lead PE like I used to. I couldn’t play Kendama in the parks. My life froze.

Then it got worse.

On our anniversary, another episode. I tried to hide it from Barbi. I said I was fine. Then tried riding my bike and nearly passed out.

Back to the ER. Another shock.

Before that, I’d had an ablation. When that didn’t hold, they scheduled another—this time with cryo, using cold to freeze the misfiring cells. That second ablation came just after Bella Love’s first Junior Gold bowling tournament in Detroit. She finished 16th. I was so proud.

But by fall, I knew it was time.

October. Dallas. Baylor Hospital. Open-heart surgery.

I remember asking the doctor, “What tool are you going to use to open my chest?”

He looked surprised. “Most patients don’t ask questions like that.”

He turned the monitor and showed me a micro-saw—something you’d use to cut wood, only smaller. More precise.

I’ll save the story of the surgery for another chapter. But the moment before?

That’s where faith met fire.

My family came the morning of. My mom—still alive—was there. John Paul. Papa Joe. My brother. Barbi’s parents. My closest friends. Matt, my pastor. His wife.

But in the end, it was just me, Barbi, and Bella Love in the back room.

The doctor administered the medicine. I was about to go under.

“If you need to say something to your wife and daughter,” he said, “say it now. We can’t guarantee you’ll wake up.”

I looked them both in the eyes. Tears in mine. In theirs.

“I love you,” I said. “No matter what happens.”

Then they left.

As the male nurse wheeled me down the hall, he leaned in gently.

“Think of something that makes you happy,” he said. “That’s what you’ll go to sleep with.”

That’s the last thing I remember.

And that…

Was the moment I found a strength that didn’t come from muscles or mindset.

It came from faith.