Page 5 of Heart Sick

I haven’t called my parents because I didn’t want to wake them. They’ve been through enough.

The driver pulls up at the hospital, glancing with curiosity over his shoulder and appearing to wonder why I would need to come here in the dead of night. I look like the perfect pillar of health. But it’s what’s on the inside that fails me.

I often wondered if maybe that was why I couldn’t love how others do. Was my heart broken in every sense of the word?

I close the car door, but don’t enter the hospital right away. I lift my chin, close my eyes, and listen to the heavens. The universe speaks at night and the sounds are utterly beautiful.

The soothing rustle of the wind. The occasional hoot of an owl. Music is all around us—we just need to feel it.

“Dutch, the doctors are ready for you.”

Opening my eyes, I bid the stars farewell and hope to see them again soon.

I follow the nurse into the hospital, the sterility hurting my eyes. It’s quiet, eerily so. But I suppose hospitals aren’t usually associated with happiness. My Doc Martens pound on the polished floor and I suddenly feel so undeserving.

I am nothing special.

Why do I get this chance when others don’t?

The nurse ushers me into a room where she runs some tests and asks some questions. I answer on autopilot because this is all surreal. I understand time is of the essence.

“Please remove all jewelry and here is a gown and a hat. Please tuck all your hair under it.” She leaves the room to give me some privacy.

I do as she asks and change into the scratchy hospital gown.

I wear a lot of jewelry, I always have, so I start with my leather cuff and silver bracelets. I then remove my silver rings which feels weird. I never take them off, even when playing. I place everything in the plastic bag on the dresser. I then remove my silver necklaces but leave the one with a black crucifix till last.

I’m not a devout Catholic, but my family are and this necklace was given to me by my grandmother. She said it would protect me and God knows, I need all the protection I can get right now. I feel incomplete without it.

My hair is long enough to tie back, so it takes me a while to tuck it all under the mesh hat.

Once I’m done, I lie in the hospital bed and two orderlies then push me toward the operating room. They try to make conversation, but all I can focus on are the wheels on the bed turning and the fluorescents above buzzing, making their own sound.

In my head, I commence writing a piece of music, my fingers moving on the invisible keys as I use the surrounding sounds as my inspiration. I hear it clearly. I connect with the music as it courses through my body, thrumming in sync with the irregular concerto of my heart.

“Dutch Atwood,” a nurse with a clipboard says, turning over my ID bracelet to ensure I am who I say I am. “We’re all set.”

She continues talking but as I’m wheeled into the operating room, all I hear are the hypnotic pulses of the endless machines. They too inspire the piece I write in my head. Some may say this is a coping mechanism, but this is how my brain is wired.

I don’t know how to exist any other way. I see…hear…feel music everywhere.

I am poked and prodded, and when Dr. Norton’s face comes into view, I know it’s time to rest because when I wake, I have a masterpiece to finish.

But now, now I must silence the sounds and surrender to the quiet.

What a strange place to be.

Thump.

Thump.

…Thump.

That foreign pattern plays over in my head, but my brain is too heavy to formulate any lucid notes. I don’t like it.

My eyes aren’t ready to open, but I force them to take in my surroundings because I’ve been incoherent for long enough. I blink past the blurry veil to see the apprehensive face of my mother.

“Oh, thank God,” she says on a rushed breath. “If you didn’t just have surgery, I would slap you for not telling us.”

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