No. 6 in a series of short things I wrote in J-school
It’s just one of those things people say in situations like this and really the only thing that feels right to say. “He’ll be okay,” from my mother upon my arrival. “He’ll be okay,” from my sister during my meltdown near an ambulance.
Nothing about a massive heart attack seems okay to me. But in 12 hours, I want to hear “He’ll be okay,” from a surgeon.
My inner voice is screaming at me and I struggle to make sense of the noise. GET UP. CALL THE DESK TO EXTEND STAY. WHAT IF… ? DON’T THINK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENS IF HE DIES. That’s not going to happen, because it can’t. There is nothing in my inner voice or my inner being that can deal with that.
WILL HE BE OKAY? WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PEOPLE GOING IN AND OUT OF HIS ROOM? WHY CAN’T WE SEE HIM? WHAT IF… ?
Hearts are not pumps. To view a heart as a simple pump, operating like clockwork, is too detached and unworthy of heartbeats. In truth, massive waves of blood pound DNA beaches made of grains of hope, fate and genetics in a sea of dynamic, immeasurable chaos that is never static, never still.
These waves travel like tsunamis across time and space, joining others, crashing through bloodlines, rippling in a universe residing in the ultimate complexity — life.
He’ll be okay.
A triple bypass, lots of pain and healing… but today he’s okay.