The Shift That Held Me

The Shift That Held Me

Before I even walked into the cardiologist’s office, I was carrying something heavier than my phone:

The memory of my open-heart surgery.

The appointments, the procedures, the recovery, the waiting rooms.

But more than that—I was carrying how it had impacted Barbi and Bella.

They’ve carried me before. And this summer—with Bella’s tournaments, Barbi caring for her mom, and everything already on their plates—I didn’t want to add more.

So I didn’t say any of that. I just carried it.

Quietly.

We got to the office. Barbi came with me. Bella stayed home doing school.

I signed the forms. Dated the page.

We sat in silence.

Then they called my name.

I stood. I went in alone.

The exam room was warm and calm. The practitioner greeted me kindly.

She asked me to remove both my shirts and lie back on the table.

Then she pulled out the sonogram wand and warned me,

“It’s gonna be cold.”

Naturally, I responded like any normal person would:

“Good. I take cold showers. I get up at 2 a.m. I embrace adversity.”

She paused, tilted her head slightly, and gave me that “Did you just say 2 a.m.?” kind of look.

We both laughed.

But beneath the banter, I still felt it—that quiet pressure.

Not pain.

Just the weight of what ifs.

Earlier that afternoon, I stood on the back porch with clippers in hand, trimming my chest hair so the adhesive for the heart monitor would stick.

There were spots I couldn’t reach.

So Bella helped. Then Barbi helped.

And in that small act of care, I felt the full weight of it all land on me.

I didn’t want them going through this again.

Two weeks ago, I had blacked out. It was early in the morning—2:30 a.m.—and Barbi had to call 911. The paramedics ran an EKG right there on our front porch. Now I was back on another table, hoping this was routine—but feeling anything but routine.

Then she asked me to roll onto my left side.

That’s the side I sleep on.

I turned.

And something inside me shifted.

The pressure lifted.

Peace entered.

Not from me—but from beyond me.

Suddenly the gel wasn’t cold anymore.

The room felt quiet and full.

I could hear her clicking the keyboard, capturing images of my heart.

And for the first time in a while, I felt safe.

I started dozing off—four times, in fact.

“Don’t fall asleep,” I told myself.

Snore.

“You just fell asleep.”

My arm would slide. I’d wake up. Then drift again.

It felt like God was tucking me in while I kept trying to stay in control.

When the scan ended, she told me to sit up on the edge of the bed.

She looked at my chest and smiled.

“Oh, you shaved! I’m glad you did. Otherwise, I would’ve had to shave a patch and it would’ve looked funny.”

We both laughed at the image.

Then, still sitting on the edge of the bed, she opened the heart monitor kit and gave me clear instructions on how to apply it.

No cords, no wires—just one device, worn like a patch.

She explained how to journal any symptoms: what time it happened, what I was doing, what I felt.

She was calm, clear, confident.

I told her she was great at what she did—and I meant it.

Then she told me I could put my shirts back on.

I looked down at the monitor on my chest and pulled both shirts over it carefully.

As I walked toward the door, I paused and said,

“I don’t know if I fell asleep or not… but if I did, I’m sorry.”

She smiled gently, lowered her voice, and whispered,

“It’s okay. Lots of people fall asleep. It’s allowed.”

We laughed one last time.

But something was different now.

I wasn’t holding my breath.

I wasn’t bracing for a report.

And the weight I had carried in—it stayed on that pillow.

Now I’ve got this heart monitor taped to my chest for the next 14 days.

But I’m not afraid of what it might show.

I’m not forecasting outcomes or planning for worst cases.

Because the shift already happened.

And it told me everything I needed to know:

Whatever comes next…

I’m not carrying it alone.

Not in my chest.

Not in my house.

Not in my soul.

Because the peace of God doesn’t just calm the storm.

It rewrites the weight of the wind.