Before anyone sends me to urgent care, let me clarify.
I am not having a heart attack.
Trust me, I am the daughter of a man who died of one at 47, so I basically have an honorary WebMD degree in cardiac panic.
It is not the organ in my chest that is hurting.
It is the other heart. The Valentine’s Day one. The emotional one.
The one Prozac usually keeps bubble wrapped and safely offline.
Last night, I felt feelings.
Full-bodied, emotional, inconvenient feelings.
They kept me awake; even my Magnesium and Klonopin combo did not knock me out.
I tried every vagus nerve breathing trick Google has ever offered the world, and still I was wide awake, staring into the dark like a Victorian widow waiting for a telegram.
Why?
Because yesterday I introduced my 28-year-old son to my 51-year-old brother via Zoom.
A brother I have not seen since 1986, and still have not seen in person, though I am grateful for Zoom.
Yes.
1986.
When bangs were tall, Walk Like an Egyptian was on the radio, and my family was still pretending to function as a family.
Here is the Cliff Notes Family Tree, for those who don’t speak dysfunction:
My dad got my mom pregnant when she was a teenager.
Her parents kicked her out.
She married him because the world was still convinced a wedding ring could fix trauma.
Ten years later, thanks to Christmas magic and failed birth control, I arrived.
Then came two more brothers with a different mom, his second wife.
Fast forward through divorce, custody battles, relocation, addiction, and the entire 1980s starter pack of dysfunction, and you get the family timeline no one wants to claim.
So here we are now.
Tony, the oldest brother, is gone.
Chris, the youngest brother, is gone.
Greg, the middle brother, is the last one standing, and he is alive, well, and apparently walking while working like a Silicon Valley wellness influencer, trying to outrun the diabetes genes our father gifted us with.
He has an under-desk treadmill. He is slim, fit, and eats a lot of vegetables. He’s still diabetic.
My chubby self is only pre diabetic, which I am now treating as a sign from the universe that I have time to turn things around.
So what did I do when we hung up?
I went to Amazon and bought my own under-desk treadmill.
Mine arrives on Wednesday because if I only have one sibling left, I plan to stay alive long enough to actually know him.
And to finally have an uncle for my son.
Sometimes grief does not happen when someone dies.
Sometimes it happens decades later when you realize you are grieving for the childhood you never had.
And honestly, that hurts more than an actual heart attack.
But here is the surprise twist:
I am still here.
He is still here.
We get a do-over.
Maybe healing at 54 looks like cardio, vagus nerve breathing, crying you cannot feel because Prozac said not today, and refusing to let generational chaos have the final word.
Stay tuned. I will be walking and feeling things against my will.
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