My heart is missing. I went to the doctor today he said it’s not a rare case; he gets this disease diagnosed quite frequently. He said I shouldn’t panic because it would heal over time, although there is no specific rate at which it could become whole again; Some patients recover within a year, others months, and others he couldn’t say because they don’t come back to the office again. Learning that I would recover didn’t make it hurt any less. He couldn’t give me any medications because that would only make for a longer recovery; the only cure was time. It was nice to know I wasn’t dying, even though it felt like it. It was terrifying that I wouldn’t know when I would feel ok. He told me to stick through it and come back in a couple of months to check on my improvement. I hoped there would be some improvement. Now the only thing to do is wait. I hate waiting. Maybe that’s why my heart is missing. I have no patience, always wanting to fix the issue, fix the problem, hating the feeling of being smaller. My mother always said I give too much and gain too little, but that was when I was younger. I’m older now; I have enough. I thought I would have enough. I try to comfort myself by saying at least their heart is beating. At least their heart isn’t missing. But then I feel that aching pain, a constant stabbing like they were the ones who took it out even though I gave it away, and I don’t feel ok. I wish they’d give it back.
