Echocardiogram or Thinking of Peggy
The tech tells me to lie on the table;
she explains that I won’t be able to see the sonar images
she takes of my heart;
(I will be on my side.)
I’m disappointed.
I say, “I hope you don’t see any babies!”
She doesn’t laugh.
(Tough room.)
I let it go and follow her directions to lie on my left side.
Cold gel smears against my chest, and, with an ease
I find surprising—given her lack of humor,
She rests her right arm on my body.
Almost casually, I think.
Like a child—like one of my children, I think.
She presses the ultrasound pedestal against my skin.
And now I’m aware of my heart beating.
It beats so loudly,
the whole hospital must be thundering along with me
—hearts and drums pounding rhythms in every room.
And here is my heart, beating along with all the rest,
And I’m not even thinking about it!
I don’t say to my heart: “Hey, don’t forget to beat today!”
I don’t put it on my fridge “to do” list:
“Remind heart to keep beating!”
I don’t think about it when I’m sleeping!
I just assume my heart is beating on and on.
(Who’s in charge here!)
Finally, when she puts me on my back—a little triumph!
If I crane my neck, I can see the pulsing images on her screen.
She takes more pictures,
now pressing the sensitive pedestal
against the skin above my stomach.
Then, she tells me she needs
to make sure she has all the images she needs.
I watch her click through image after image of my heart displayed
in dark and light and shadows like an old black-and-white TV,
like fuzzy 1960’s moon shots.
“Here’s one small step…”
She works quickly and efficiently as I know she will,
without humor or speaking.
Fine with me, I think,
and I lie here watching little images popping up across the screen
as she clicks her mouse:
my heart beats and beats
—without stopping.
There’s a little legend of colored symbols on the side of the screen;
it ranges from red to orange to yellow to blue to green, and you can see these colors flashing
on each small heart image as she lines them up in rows.
Twenty little dark hearts beating.
Occasionally one flashes with the legend’s colors:
a little explosion of orange, red, and yellow,
some image of frequency I don’t understand.
They look like little fires to me,
tiny flames pulsing in and out and going dark.
My heart,
my life
beating and pulsing.
I’m not in control.
(Who’s in charge here?)
Yesterday, a man in our town shot his wife three times,
then killed himself.
She had Alzheimer’s they say—as if that explains everything.
I lie here, watching my heart beat across the screen with its little flashes of fire,
Knowing hers will beat no more.
Her heart stopped when he shot her three times.
And then he shot himself to stop his own heart.
After my echocardiogram, I think of the woman – her name was Peggy –
Like me, she may not have been conscious of her heart beating.
Now, conscious or not,
her heart will never beat again.
Sitting in my car with the heater blasting on this thirty-degree day,
I tell myself not to be morbid.
I don’t understand the man’s murky reasons for killing her or for killing himself,
but it happened just a mile away from where I’m sitting,
in their home on Shaker Street, a home filled with photos and knickknacks,
and other things that reminded them of their lives,
When their hearts were still beating.
And now their hearts are stopped and will beat no more.
My own heart beats faster because there are tears on my face.
It begins to snow.