A Father's Heart

Besides collision, the most dangerous malfunction in airplane travel is engine failure. There’s nothing you can do. If the engines fail, you’re done. The plane goes down. For all modes of transportation really. No motor, no engine, no pump? It’s all over. Crashed, drowned, shattered, exploded. Maximum casualties. 

Before my first squeeze, this fact was ingrained. That everything rested on me. That others might rest, but I never would. Once you start, you don’t stop. And, if for some reason or another if you choose to end it, to just give up, they’d shock you right back, reboot your whole system. There is no agency in being a heart. Even less if you’re a father’s heart. 

I know. It’s not fair. You wake up one day and realize that you’re pumping thick, thick blood. It hurts. Your muscle aches. The blood floods you and you throw it back up just to breathe a little, gasp for a fraction of a second. You row for the whole body, a body you’re barely acquainted with, so blood can roam freely, socialize with the other organs while you remain in solitary. Rowing, pumping. And no one asks you, would you care to… could you possibly…? It’s all handed to you. The oars to life. 

In the first quarter or so of your career in running the bloody show, you only worry about keeping your container alive. Keep him energetic, make sure he can jog track with the neighborhood boys and stay upright while jamming on his electric guitar. Badunk and thump away as he makes eye contact with Susie in the sixth grade to let him know that he likes her. Speed up on his way to his first punk gig, the one he grew his hair out for. It’s hard at first, but you get used to it. You send him signs, learn to talk through beats. You might even grow to enjoy it. 

Yes, there are scary moments. That first smoke when you feel like you’re running on sand. Not fast enough, no matter how hard you push. You make sure the blood still flows and learn to trust yourself. Even in a nicotinic haze or weighed down by myriad strains of grass. You hate sativa. It’s the worst. Caffeine is even less courteous. It zaps you. Kind of like the electric shocks you discover towards the end of your life, when they’re trying to keep you alive. Note to self, if you hear CLEAR! It means you’re in for it. 

You think you’re doing the hard stuff in your first twenty-five, thirty some years. But boy are you wrong. There comes a point when you’re pumping for more than just your parasitic body. Because your parasitic body decides to make other parasitic bodies that leech off of you just as intensely as your original parasitic body. And you begin to pump something new. Some unique substance that sets your gut ablaze. Worry. It mixes with the blood, makes it denser. Worry is all around you.

But you don’t hold a grudge. These new bodies mean something. Yes, you fret. Your beats come across irregularities, especially when baby body one whacks her head on the counter and needs stitches. You pick up your pace in the car on the way to the ER. You spasm. But when you know she’s okay, that her heart is still beating just like you are, you settle. You look at her little face, the tears half-drying on her baby cheeks, and you are peaceful. You flutter. Love. Worry. Love. The pumping becomes worth it.

You pump on your way to work. Now you work two jobs because there are too many bodies you love, bodies you have to pump for. Your days become longer. You pump hard at five in the morning to make the train to the city. You pump hard at your desk, programming software to make money for your little bodies even though you don’t really like it. You pump hard when the wife calls and says she wrecked the car again. Some of this is anger. Some of this is pure frustration. Generally, you’re exhausted. 

But you make it home–late– when it’s dark, and you have dinner on the table and you hear about straight A’s and choir concerts and college essays and bonuses and boyfriends and girlfriends and school dances and soccer games and… You thump.. thump… thump….. thump…….. thump………….. thump……….. And maybe you’re not so tired. Maybe you have it in you to work another day. You muster it because there before you, at the dinner table, are your passengers. And you are the engine. And you can’t stop. 

So, you keep going. For decades. Even when your passengers become invisible. They go off to college and your wife grows distant. They stop calling. You beat for them, fiercely, intensely. But, they stop calling. They can stop, but you can’t. You can’t stop. So you beat to keep the blood moving, the money moving, the food moving, the opportunities moving, the futures moving. You move everything. 

One day you’re moving and pumping and beating and all of a sudden… you stop. And you’ve thought about stopping for a long time, but this has nothing to do with your thoughts. This happens without your consent. Your body finds itself on the pavement. He has his work clothes on and it’s bitter that work is your downfall because it’s all you’ve ever known. From now on, you need help. You can’t do it alone. 

First, they cut into you. They give you new parts. Metal ones, wires, nets, and stents. Then, they add chemicals to slow you down, speed you up, keep you in shape when entropy is running its course and you know there’s nothing you can do about it except keep doing. The chemicals have funny names. Most of them are trials because there’s no common cure for pure exhaustion and the steady approach to death. 

You know your state is a fragile one but you make sure nobody else knows. Especially your bodies, your passengers. Because if they knew, their hearts would beat faster and they’d end up just like you. So, you spare them. You bear it silently even though it hurts. You still pump at 5 am on the way to the train station. Your body slows down to allow you to rest. He recognizes that you’re tired even though no one else does. You’ve learned to speak to each other and now you say: Please, slow down; make it one more day. 

You make it one more day. Then another and another. Special days become beacons for which you beat. Make it to the wedding. Make it to the promotion. Make it to the day he’s born so I can have another heart to beat for. Please. Keep going. 

You used to hate pumping. You were mad that you had to do it. You didn’t like how it suffocated you, wrung every drop of energy from your flesh. Now, you pray for more. Pray for the exhaustion to continue. So much depends on you. There are so many passengers now. Keep going.. Keep going… swallow the pills and keep going, no matter what the cardiologist says, no matter the prognosis…

You hear CLEAR! 

A shock. 

CLEAR!

A shock.

A long, flat tone. 

The engine is failing. The plane is going down. Passengers, I’m so sorry.