Overcoming Obstacles

Writing Until My Heart’s Content…

Life. It’s crazy, isn’t it?

Maybe not.

But for me, it is.

When I look back at the last decade of my life, it’s hard to imagine that all of it has been real. Mostly, it’s been crazy.

Crazy to think that those big, massive storms we got caught up in didn’t swallow us whole. Crazy to think that we didn’t drown in those rough waters of these insane challenges we’ve faced as a family. Crazy to think that we could successfully dry ourselves off and face the struggles again and again and now again.

Sometimes I just sit and stare.

Rob asks me what I’m thinking. I tell him that I’m not thinking anything. He doesn’t believe me because he knows that, over the years, my mind never stops thinking about something. But, this last hurricane has left me just to sit and stare.

For someone who has always wished that the thoughts and ideas constantly swirling around her creative mind would just stop….just for a minute…or a night, I’m suddenly plagued by the fact that, after such a life-altering experience, I can’t cough up even a single thought.

So, I sit and think about the fact that I can’t think.

I think about the fact that no ideas or questions or thoughts are swirling around my mind, mostly because I assumed that they would be more vivid than ever…I thought I would experience hard to ignore thoughts.

But, no.

Many times, I just have nothing.

Nothing but silence.

Recently, I stopped worrying about this and chalked it up to burn out.

Clearly, I had been exhausted.

Most days, I’m not sure how I keep moving because my body starts to fail me and my mind sure seems fried, but I keep going because he needs me. I keep going because they need me.

But maybe all the prescriptions, the rules, the doctor appointments, the nurse visits, the therapies, maybe all the medical stuff had soaked up any room I had left in my brain to fit my thoughts.

Here comes that crazy again.

As I sat in silence…the kind of silence that would have once seemed so painful to me, I realized something.

I thought I had nothing. Nothing but silence. Until I realized how big of a something silence can be.

It was in the silence that I put things into perspective.

When Anthony was diagnosed with his brain tumor, we spent 14 days sitting in the PICU, at his bedside, waiting, watching, praying, hoping. Of course, during that time, Rob and I were both exhausted. But it was a physical kind of tired, not this emotional kind.

My soul wasn’t tired then.

What was different?

For starters, Rob and I were both physically sitting next to Anthony.

One at each side of the bed.

There was no silence.

There was beeping machines and codes and footsteps of doctors entering the room every 2 hours to do neuro checks and whispers from nurses checking to see if we needed anything. There were loud noises.

In many ways, they were a comfort.

The beeping of machines gave me peace of mind that my son was alive.

The footsteps reminded me that doctors were close by.

The whispers from nurses reminded us that we were surrounded, supported, and safe.

When Rob had his surgery, things were different.

I was not allowed to sit at his bedside.

I couldn’t feel the warmth of his hand as I slid mine into his, hoping for him to grab my fingers.

With Rob, the waiting, watching, praying, and hoping was done from afar.

There was uncertainty.

There was sickening silence.

There was wondering if prayers worked and what exactly hope was anyway.

Minutes were turning into hours staring at a phone waiting for a call. And when I finally did hear the beeping of those machines, the machines that once brought me comfort when I sat next to Anthony, those beeps suddenly made me feel sick.

I couldn’t hear or see or touch my husband.

And I had NO clue if he was actually ok.

When Rob had his surgery, there was silence.

Lots of silence.

Silence in the kitchen where he once joked with me as he cooked our meals.

Silence in the family room where turning on the TV to watch our shows seemed inconsiderate.

Silence in the bedroom where I sat in darkness, wondering what he was doing, how he was doing, if he was doing at all.

Sitting in that silence changed me. It changed me quite a bit. But not all silence is the same.

When Anthony was sick, I wrote. I documented his journey. I journaled our experiences. I put pen to paper and typed until my heart was content because it gave me release.

It dulled the loud sounds that bothered me.

It complemented the musical sounds that gave me a sense of safety.

It didn’t just update our family, but it helped me get those swirling thoughts out of my mind and leave them somewhere that I could revisit another day.

When Rob got sick, I froze.

I went through the motions.

I took the drive to the hospital.

I walked him down the hall to surgery.

I kissed him goodbye.

And then I drove home in silence to sit in more waves of silence that would seemingly last forever.

Now, he’s home.

He’s here.

He’s alive, and he’s doing well.

But I was still stuck, stuck in the silence that had numbed my soul during this storm.

Today, after dropping him off, watching the hospital doors close behind him as he headed off for another biopsy, I found myself zoned out. 

I began my drive home in silence.

Don’t get me wrong; silence is great.

Silence is great when it’s meaningful or productive or recharging.

But this silence?

It was numbing.

This silence was meaningless and blank and void of anything good, and I was tired of it.

I turned my music up as loud as it could go and screamed as loud as my lungs would allow (big apologies if I scared anyone on the BLVD in New Haven).

I’m done with this silence.

I’m over it.

Why is this journey so different for me when journeys before, equally as tricky, seemed like a walk in the park….considering. 

I realized that the journey was different because I was silent. 

Writing from the Heart

Writing has always been my passion. I’m lucky that it’s become my life’s work. But, when you write for a living, writing for a hobby doesn’t come as easily.

When Anthony was in the PICU fighting for his life, I wrote.

I wrote about everything I felt, I saw, I experienced.

I wrote and wrote and wrote.

Family and friends loved getting the updates and waited for the next blog to drop, so I wrote some more.

When the kids picked up Rob to drive him to the hospital, I focused all my energy on not falling apart. As I watched them drive away, I held it all in because beside me was a little boy who was watching my every move as he tried to make sense of all that was going on with his Dad.

So, when Rob ended up in the hospital, I held it all in.

I froze.

I was silent.

I smiled at my son. I hugged him extra tight. I showed up for him in ways I never thought I could.

I got him through all the ups and downs and made sure my husband knew we were all here to support him in every way possible.

I knew what everyone else needed, but when it came to me?

I didn’t know what I needed.

All of the stresses of this storm had no quick fix, and if they had any fix at all, I sure as hell didn’t know what it was.

So, I stayed quiet.

I put one foot in front of the other.

I woke up. I tried to work. I answered the calls. I talked to the doctors. It seemed like I did everything from afar that I did for Anthony next to his bedside. Yet when I sat down to unwind at the end of the night, I felt nothing.

Not sad.

Not angry.

Not relieved.

Not happy.

Not hopeful.

I felt absolutely nothing.

Sure, the circumstances were completely different.

My son vs. my husband… another type of love.

Bedside vs. by the phone…a different kind of control.

Writing vs…..

It hit me.

The silence. The lack of feelings. Blank emotions.

It was time to put pen to paper.

So, for myself, I picked up that pen and furiously began writing all the things.

Now, it’s time to hit the keys.

To process these thoughts…

to give the updates…

maybe to inspire…

Perhaps to raise awareness, as we’ve done through Anthony’s journey.

Maybe to help another…

even just one person…

to relate to another human being…

to let someone else know that they’re not in this alone.

To remind me that I’m not in this alone. 

I’ll do my best to hold myself accountable…to write when and if I can.

But you can hold me responsible, too.

I genuinely want to document this experience for Rob in the same way I did for Anthony.

I want to write for Rob, I want to write to Rob.

I want to write Rob’s heart content.

And I genuinely want to keep on writing until my heart’s content.


Are You a Good Neighbor?

Storytime! Last week, my son was outside watering the flowers and the lawn at our condo when our neighbor went by. About 3 units down lives a nice family, with a boy and a girl that are somewhere between middle school and high school-aged.

We don’t know the family well, but they are always so friendly, going out of their way to wave or ask how our day is. They never fail to address Anthony by name, ever since they saw his name displayed in big letters on a Superman yard sign for his birthday back in April.

The parents are always doing something outside with the kids- the father even wears a silly chef’s hat when he’s cooking on the grill. The kids are always smiling, respectful. They go out of their way to acknowledge us when passing by. In today’s society, their character displays several qualities that I’m so impressed by in young kids.

As Anthony was watering the lawn, I saw the parents coming out of the house to go on one of their daily family walks. I immediately told my son to shut off the hose. He can be mischievous and I didn’t want him to spray at them, thinking he was funny. The father started laughing, then said, “Anthony! When José comes out of the house, spray him with the hose. You have my permission.”

The son and daughter came out of the house a few minutes later, smiling, as usual, dressed nicely, put together. I noticed that José had on nice sneakers, pressed khaki pants, his hair done as if he was doing something more important than going for a casual stroll with his family. I probably wouldn’t have noticed the details if I wasn’t waiting for Anthony to spray this poor kid with the hose.

Anthony looked at me and I shook my head no. So, he looked over at José’s father for a second opinion. “Do it, Anthony,” he said, “your Mom can yell at me.”

Without hesitation, Anthony sprayed José with the hose as he walked by. I knew that this poor boy had no idea that was coming. I expected him to be upset, annoyed, maybe force a fake smile to be nice, while all us adults would know he was really agitated. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised by his reaction.

José had a big smile on his face ( I mean huge), clearly surprised by what Anthony did, but beaming as he watched Anthony let out a big, lingering belly laugh. As the family walked down the sidewalk, Anthony still laughing, José kept looking back with a smile. It’s a vision I’ll always remember.

A couple of days later, Anthony came in from playing outside with an insane amount of excitement. I had no idea what was going on. His sister was here so I assumed she said or did something that made him happy.

He handed me this bag of water balloons. I assumed that my husband had gotten them the last time he went to the store and forgot them in the car.

I was wrong.

They were from José.

“No way!” I said. “Yes, way!” Anthony responded with a huge smile. “He just handed me these water balloons and told me to have fun.”

I think Anthony was as blown away as I was by this simple, but powerful, display of kindness. “Can you believe how nice it was of my neighbor to get these for me?” I was thinking the same thing when Anthony asked. “Maybe one day when this sickness is over, José and I can play together and have a water balloon fight.”

Now, I’m not sure that José will want to have a water balloon fight with Anthony, but I do admire his response to Anthony spraying him with the hose. While he could have been annoyed, or even just laughed it off to be kind, José went out of his way to further his connection with Anthony. He sees his young neighbor playing in his blow-up pool, running through the sprinkler, washing the cars, playing with water balloons, and he knows that it makes him happy. I’m sure the whole neighborhood can hear Anthony laughing when he’s doing anything with water.

So, as an act of kindness, José went out of his way to bring yet another smile to Anthony’s face, his much younger neighbor who he barely knows.

As I watch the world around us continue to be crowded by chaos, hate, and anger, I think about our sweet neighbor boy. Walking the neighborhood at an age when life is already tough and many kids are glued to a screen, he’s outside with his family, walking, playing, interacting with his neighbors.

José went out of his way to make the day of the little boy who lives next door. As I’ve watched my son struggle with difficult emotions lately-feeling extremely lonely, missing his friends, confused by the current state of our society- José’s small gesture had such a huge impact on my heart.

In a world filled with madness, sadness, and uncertainty, sometimes what we need most is something simple. With things as difficult as they are today, the smallest gesture can come at the perfect time. It might not take much effort, but the ripples of its effect can last for days or weeks to come.

What can you do to make someone’s day? How will you contribute a little bit of kindness to the world you live in? There are so many ways you can show compassion in your everyday life.

Call a family member you haven’t spoken to in a while. Reach out to a friend “just because.” Be kind. Go the extra mile. Smile at a stranger. Be a good neighbor.

We may feel so disconnected and divided today. But the fact remains, we’re all in this together.

In a difficult world, be a José.


Overcoming Obstacles

Loving This Broken Heart: A Look Back on Day 1 of Our Heart Transplant Journey

February 28th, 2020. It was our first appointment at the Yale-New Haven Heart and Vascular Center with a heart transplant team. Walking through the doors of a medical building on our way to an appointment with a cardiologist or some other heart-related medical team was nothing new to us.

Yet this time, the walk felt so different.

Prior to this appointment, everything seemed so routine. EKGs, blood work, routine checkups, stress tests, the occasional cardiac cath. My husband and I had fallen into a pattern that made these types of appointments seem normal.

While many of our friends and family had never even visited a specialist before, specialists had been all we knew.

My husband’s heart condition is fueled by genetics, making its grand debut when he was fairly young, long before we met. That means no lifestyle change, nutrition plan, exercise routine, or series of yoga classes have ever been able to prevent him from ending up back in the hospital.

And no, it’s not because “that’s what happens when you marry a young chick.” (chuckle, chuckle)

The first serious cardiac appointment I saw him through was about six months after we started dating. He went into the hospital for cardiac catheterization and came out with a brand new, sparkly stent that would send us back to our normal, active, adventurous life together.

The whole process of seeing your loved ones go through serious medical situations has always been somewhat of hypocrisy to me.

When we find that our loved one is ill, when we’re presented with the idea that some serious medical complications can take them from us, all hands are on deck.

Family comes out of the woodwork.

Friends who have been absent suddenly reappear.

Grudges that have lasted for years, sometimes even decades, seem to vanish as if no time has passed between these once viciously feuding individuals.

Everyone shows up and swears that they’ll do things differently, they’ll cherish their relationship, they’ll make a little extra effort to be in touch, and they’ll always keep those moments as a reminder that life is short.

If you’re lucky, sick people get better.

Things go back to normal.

The concepts of death and the possibility that your time is up are an afterthought. New feuds start to make their way back into your life and the people who stood at what they perceived to be your death bed have quickly forgotten all the promises they made when your life was flashing before their eyes.

Things go back to the way they were before. The good and the bad.

Until it happens again.

We went through this so many times since I’ve been with my husband. From 4-5 procedures for stents to a triple bypass a month after our wedding, I was always amazed by the family who came back into our lives when things got “rocky” and the ones who disrupted our peace when things we back to “normal.”

One thing I’ve learned from coming nose-to-nose with the death of a loved one so many times is that your tolerance level for the “bad” people have to offer becomes very small.

Dealing with toxic people when your life is spent juggling doctor’s appointments, hospital stays, medical bills, prescription meds, and life, in general, makes everything a blur. I’m fully convinced that it burns some important brain cells, leaving you completely fried at the exact moment your family needs you to be on your A-Game!

One of the biggest regrets I’ve had throughout both my husband’s and son’s medical journeys is that I forced myself into auto-pilot. So many moments were a blur.

It was like I was climbing the mountains, sliding in and out of the valleys, without keeping my eyes on the path in front of me. I’m lucky I got out of that trip alive.

Have you ever gotten to your destination and wondered how you got there safe because you didn’t remember the drive?

That was me.

One thing I always remembered was the people.

The tears, the words, the drama, how so many of the people in our lives made what my husband was going through about them. Looking back, I couldn’t remember the days, the details, what I saw, where we were exactly, but I always remembered how the people around us acted.

And little-by-little, I learned that what we really needed, what would continue to get us through the challenges life threw our way, was peace. We both needed a clear head to worry about who and what was important- my husband.

The patient.

To me, that saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” was always so cliché. Yet I couldn’t think of a better way to describe our journey so far.

Physically, mentally, emotionally, we’ve become so much stronger, smarter, resourceful.

As we walked into the medical building at 800 Howard Avenue on February 28th, 2020, that was part of the reason things felt so different. Who and what I was worried about…the only thing I was worried about…was the man whose hand was interlocked with mine as we passed through those doors.

Now, he wasn’t just a patient. He was a heart transplant patient, and nothing else matters more to me than seeing him through this heart transplant journey.

The last decade has taught me that it’s ok to only worry about myself and my little family, and I didn’t need to feel bad about that. This time was different.

This time, as I pulled into the parking garage to meet my husband for his first heart transplant appointment, I heard all the sounds, I felt all the feels, my eyes were on the path in front of me and I was focused on each step we took.

The thump of the metal slates in the parking garage seemed to beat with the pounding of my heart. The vision of small red hearts on the Heart and Vascular Center signs, once images that reminded me of love and Valentine’s Day, took on new meaning. The jokes my husband cracked at the receptionist desk, corny jokes that always made me roll my eyes at him, were suddenly the comfort I needed to ease my anxiety.

The beat of my heart seemed to pound directly from my chest into my ears as we waited patiently for the doctor.

The sound of my husband’s heavy breathing left me wondering if he was dealing with chest pains or just feeling as anxious as I was.

The fierce shaking of his leg, a sign that he was on the fast track to totally lose his patience, helped me start a conversation about how he was feeling.

I wondered if there was a loud amplifier projecting the sound of the second-hand into the room as it circled around the clock until finally the door opened and things started moving.

It was officially Day 1 of this heart transplant journey. When the over 4-hour intake appointment was finished, the sound of his pen scratching across the “consent to treat” form hit my ears like fingernails on a chalkboard.

consent to treat

We were doing this.

We had no choice, yet somehow we were choosing to take the road less traveled.

We walked out of the appointment the same way we came in, hand-in-hand, but this time we were silent.

There were no corny jokes, my heart had stopped pounding out of my chest, his heavy breathing had softened after he let out a long and powerful sigh when the elevator doors opened to the lobby.

I caught a quick glimpse of my husband, standing confident as he walked out of that medical building. None of these struggles were new to us, they were just different. Not only had I learned the ins and outs of handling these types of challenges as a wife and a mother over the years, but I learned how to handle them for myself.

I have no doubt that there will be rocky terrain ahead. We might even have a few slips and falls as we lose our footing along the way. But this time around, my steady ground will always be the lessons I’ve learned so far- living in the moment, focusing on the path in front of me, taking one step at a time.

I’ll continue doing things differently now, so I won’t need to say all the empty words as I stand next to what I think will be someone’s death bed.

Mostly, I’ll revisit the “life is too short” lesson daily,  a constant reminder to cherish what I do have instead of waiting for what I want to have in the future.

Loving this broken heart has certainly come with challenges, but the gifts of loving someone like him are much more valuable than what any healthy hearted man has to offer.

I’ve never been one to live with regret, and I don’t plan to any time soon.

I’m so incredibly happy that my strong, warrior husband has taught me these crazy lessons in life. I know that as long as we’re together, we’ll never stop learning with and from each other.

The heart transplant journey has just begun, but we’re learning how to be the perfect team to fix this broken heart.

I can’t wait to see our finished masterpiece.

After all, it’s the broken ones that bring the most beauty into our lives if we’re willing to take the time and care to piece them back together.

Aren’t we all a little bit broken anyways?

Overcoming Obstacles

An Open Letter to Our Son’s Educators of 2020

It’s so hard to fathom that another school year has ended. For Anthony, the 2019-2020 school year began with a fresh start in a new school. It started as a year of growth and accomplishments. He adjusted well to the changes and showed up with excitement rather than fear. He embraced each school day with a smile on his face, a readiness to learn, and a level of confidence I’ve admired in him from the time he was two.

Then the world was turned upside down. Everything changed. Like all the other children in this country, he was faced with unexpected challenges. Learning was different. Our home was different. Life was different. It was awkward at first, but he got into the groove of learning from a distance.

His struggles were those you would expect from all kids these days. He missed his teachers. He craved physical interaction with his friends. He was frustrated with his “homeschool” teachers. But he stuck it out. He got up, got dressed, and showed up on time for his teachers and therapists, even when he didn’t want to. He tried his best. In many ways, he continued to grow despite everything that stacked up against him.

It wasn’t the school year we expected, but it also exceeded our expectations. While the instruction now came from a distance, his teachers and therapists were never very far. They remained steadfast in their support of our son. They were ALWAYS a phone call, text, email, or even a quick visit away. His teachers reminded Anthony that whenever he needed them, no distance could keep them apart.

Sometimes the smallest lessons have the most profound impact on our daily lives. I credit one such lesson with giving Anthony the ability to roll with the punches this year. I couldn’t think of a better gift to take away from Kindergarten than the “power of the yet.” It’s a lesson that was taught by his brilliant, remarkable, and incredibly kind teacher (there aren’t enough words to describe all the good she encompasses). It’s one that I genuinely believe has gotten Anthony through the last 3 months with an ease I never expected.

Anthony has struggled from the time he was young, mostly with simple tasks that those around him don’t pick up on quickly. He has always been incredibly hard on himself when he can’t do something. His frustration with his inabilities always takes control of his mind and leads him to quickly give up. Funny thing from the king of never giving up! Physically, he’s a fighter. Mentally, he just wants to be like everyone else his age.

As he tried his best throughout the year, often falling short of what he was trying to accomplish, I saw a shift in his mindset. He rarely got down on himself like he used to, a change that sparked my interest. We always encourage him and reassure him that he’s doing great, but I didn’t feel this sudden change had come from home. I had heard him whispering to himself “the power of the yet” several times before I finally asked what he was saying.

“You know, Mom!” I had no clue. Like Mrs. Langley says, “I can’t do it YET! Yet, yet, yet…the power of the yet!” I was speechless. What a resourceful tool his teacher had come up with for her struggling students. We all learned a lesson that day. We have carried the “power of the yet” through our entire household…a tool that has helped us in so many areas of our life these days.

And we made it. To the last day of school! No, this school year wasn’t what we expected. Yes, we’ve been filled with sadness today. I have no idea when this will end. Like all of us, I pray it to be sooner than later. But until it does, I know that there are brilliant lessons to be learned when we look at life through the eyes of our 6-year-old. And when I look at my sweet son, in all his quarantine glory, I can’t help but think that the best is YET to come.

Congratulations on another year in the books, Anthony. You continue to shine your bright light on all of us. Thank you for sharing the small lessons you take away from others in a way that impacts my life so profoundly. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I do know that you’re exactly where you need to be.

I’ve always said it takes an Army 🙂 Anthony’s Army changes and grows in many ways each year. To the educators and therapists who have made up his 2019-2020 team- Mrs. Langley, Mrs. Lombardi, Mrs. Chandra, Mrs. Betts, Miss Liz, Miss Mollie, Mr. Apicella, Mrs. Rappa, Miss Melissa, Miss Amanda, Miss Vanessa, even Tom the crossing guard- I wish there was a better word than thank you for expressing our appreciation.

You have remained united, devoted, and dedicated, coming together despite the chaos of the world around us to be the team our son needed to crush his goals. You’ve celebrated with him in his successes, encouraged him in his failures, and gave him the support he needed to never doubt himself. Reminding him that there is no can’t without the “power of the yet.”

I won’t try to imagine how difficult this change was for all of you, the emotions, the countless hours of extra work, the new skills you were forced to develop in such a short amount of time, but you crushed it! A whole generation of kids will look back on 2020 someday and wonder how they lived through a time like this. As parents, we promise to remind them it was thanks to educators like you. Congratulations! Enjoy all the rest and relaxation you worked so hard for and undoubtedly deserve.


An Indebted Mom

Overcoming Obstacles

Uncharted Waters: My Husband Needs a Heart Transplant

“That’s impossible,” I said when I first heard the news. “I don’t believe that.” I think my mind and body had gone into some sort of automatic defense mode as I tried to process the words that just came out of my husband’s mouth.

I was used to going to every heart doctor’s appointment with him, but a conflicting schedule and lack of a babysitter left me waiting anxiously at home as he discussed the next option with his doctor. A recent hospital stay had revealed that an artery they had attempted to stent multiple times had closed again just months after they attempted a more aggressive form of treatment.

Now, my husband was standing in front of me, frustrated by my reaction, as he told me his only option left was to get on the heart transplant list.

As someone who is so painfully used to navigating the ship against a storm of medical conditions in our household, it felt like I had just left the bosun to man the bridge when an iceberg suddenly appeared. What in the actual hell? Was Rob deliberately holding the telescope to his blind eye in an attempt to get out from under the difficulty of his current condition.

In my mind, something in that appointment had veered away from the charted path and straight into the eye of the storm. Did he explain everything correctly? Did he ask the doctor to explore other options? Was he just tired of living this way? Had he given up?

It took a good meltdown for us to get to the bottom of it. Or, should I say, it took an unnecessary interrogation for me to accept that this is where we were headed. Maybe I needed to ask all the insulting questions to assure my own mind that whether or not I was at that appointment, the outcome was heading in the same direction.

As I sat on the kitchen floor, completely blown away, scared, sad, frustrated…mad at myself for reacting in such a negative way…disappointed that my initial thoughts weren’t to comfort my husband…worried where this new challenge would lead us…sick to my stomach at the thought of my husband going under the knife for such a drastic surgery…I took a hard look at myself.

Why the hell had I just acted that way? It was so far from who I am as both a wife and a person. But it seems that juggling the pressure of being a caretaker to the people I love the most, for more than 10 years, was finally catching up.

It was like those naggy mothers I always rolled my eyes at, yelling at their kids for being kids. “I can’t even turn my back for a second!” While I sure felt that way when he came home that night, I realized that my emotions were rash.

So, after taking some time to cool off…getting my shit together (for lack of a better word)…I sat down and apologized.

“Can we discuss this again?” I’m sure at that moment, the last thing he wanted to do was rehash the shit show of a conversation we just had. He was as surprised as I was by my reaction. But, two things we’ve always agreed on is that neither of us is perfect and that we can work through anything if we cool off and sit down for a follow-up discussion.

This time I reacted differently. I listened. I let him talk. I asked questions about how he was feeling rather than about the technicalities of the surgery or the discussion that lead to this decision. I reassured him. We had been through so much already, not necessarily worse but equally as bad, and we had always come out stronger.

This, too, would make us stronger. When we work as a team against any challenge in life, we have an impeccable record. I was confident that we would remain undefeated. But I wanted to be sure he had the tools he needed to fight.

So, we started an open conversation and left it that way. We began to explain our feelings more to each other than we ever had. We talked about what we would need throughout this process, from each other and from other people. I guess you can say we had the heart-to-heart of all heart-to-hearts. We took a deep dive into ourselves, into our relationship, into our family, into our support system, and we put in all the thought there was to think.

And the outcome was what we needed to suit up and get ready for another battle.

You know, I think a lot of what we’ve experienced so far has been so urgent, emergencies that took us by surprise, that we never had the chance to think before we acted. We never had the chance to question or plan, never mind days, weeks, months, maybe even years to prepare. So, this new challenge has definitely been a learning experience for us both.

In this learning experience, we’ve already become stronger…as individuals, as a couple, as a team. But what I realized about our strength this time is that it doesn’t truly come from within.

I’ve been strong for a long time. We’ve been strong for a long time. But what being strong means to me today is far different than what it meant before we found out my husband needed a heart transplant.

Before all of this, strength meant that I had to do it all on my own. It meant that I didn’t need any help, that I didn’t need to burden anyone with my struggles, that I could carry all the weight on my own two shoulders.

Thankfully, we got through all the challenges in one piece when I thought I was being strong.

Truth is, I wasn’t very strong at all. I was piling up my baggage so high that I was getting weaker and weaker by the day. I was weighing myself down. In doing so, I was falling apart at the exact point when my family needed me to hold it together.

We all carry baggage. Some that’s good for us and some that’s toxic. And no matter how much baggage we have, at some point, we all need to unpack. Some things we need to save for a  rainy day and others we need to drop off at the Goodwill. Some things we need to store in a handy place where we can grab it in an instant and others we need to back on a shelf in the back of the closet.

Sometimes we sneak an old shoebox of toxic baggage somewhere no one will find it. It serves as a reminder of the things we don’t want in life, the lessons we’ve learned, the hurt we’ve grown from. There may be times when we need to pull out that old shoebox and shuffle around what’s inside. Find a new way to rearrange all the broken pieces so that we can cope better with what’s weighing on our minds.

Whatever type of baggage we’re dealing with, one thing remains the same. If you don’t unpack it, it’ll just keep piling up, cluttering your life, creating chaos, serving no purpose other than to remind you that your plate is full, breaking your back, weighing you down, stealing your energy and keeping you from having the strength you need to face another day.

I started unpacking my baggage that night. And as I did, I found a million-dollar picture that was hidden under such a big pile of crap that I had forgotten all about it.

We all have a hero…someone who inspires us to keep going when things get tough. My hero has and always will be my Dad. Not only because he was the kindest, gentlest, most loving, non-judgmental, fun person I know, but because he struggled. He struggled a lot. When I look back, it seems his whole life was a struggle. But he always overcame any obstacle that stood in his way.

He was strong not because he walked around with the weight of the world on his shoulders and did everything on his own, but because he frequently unpacked his baggage. And, more importantly, he asked for help when his hands were full.

So, here we are. Full hands. Heavy baggage. But stronger and smarter than ever. Together we’ve realized that this is a battle we can’t win on our own. And we know it’s one we won’t have to attempt to fight alone.

After a little soul searching and some self-reflection, my husband and I both realized that we had been carrying heavy bags for way too long. If we wanted to get through this next major challenge, we needed to do the one thing we had always hesitated to do.

We needed to ask our friends to help us carry this baggage. We were honest…we told them that letting others help us was not on our list of character strengths. To our surprise, they weren’t surprised at all. I laugh now because I thought we were being vulnerable when we were really telling them something they already knew.

We’re the best at helping but not the best at being helped.

So, we’re working on that too. Letting the people we love get a chance to show their love to us. Letting the ones we’re always there for be there for us too.

It’s taking some getting used to, but it’s nice to lighten the load.

It’s reassuring to know that although we’re headed for a long trip, we’re traveling with a group of people whose hands are free. People who are more than willing to help us carry our bags as we dock at one location and struggle to reach the gangway on time for our next departure.

For that, I feel stronger than I’ve ever been before.

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