Heart Worm

biostories.com

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A faint rustle, and my heart begins to pound. People talk about the heart as the place where love resides. I’m not so sure. Fear takes up residence in the heart like a writhing thing. The mother of all worms, she grows plump and comfortable, spreading until there is no room for love.

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I’ve learned to confine her to my left ventricle. When she’s sleeping, I get a taste of another life. My heart can beat to the rain on the roof, to a lover’s pulse, to the insistent tapping of my toddler’s hand.  Yet, I’m always aware of this. The worm will awaken.
I can never be certain if it will be in the middle of the night, or in the middle of the grocery isle. I can only be certain—she will awaken.

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Every spring I take my dog to be tested for heart-worms. He’s always clean. When you see him bound across the fields and leap at the flutter of a butterfly, you know his heart has no room for worms. Still, I give him the preventative medication that keeps his joy intact. There is no heart worm test for me, the preventative is too long overdue. That dose of love and security must be administered in childhood. My worm and I are now lifelong companions.

 

A rustle startles me. I begin her favorite lullaby. “Shhhh, it’s not real.” I croon. “Go back to sleep.” My fear quiets, the writhing subsides, and my heart worm goes dormant once again.