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Pieces Of My Heart, And The Power Of Stories

“Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” ― Elizabeth Stone

Personally, I could not wait to get my child OUT OF my body – mostly, because I had no way of knowing that she was ok, until I could hold her in my arms and make sure. I’d wake up in the middle of night, heavily pregnant, and sobbing. “Do you think she’s ok?”, I’d ask my husband again and again. “She’s fine!”, he’d reassure me, nodding, and hugging me. Of course, he had no way of knowing.

Apart from living at the ultrasound office, where I could just lie back, and stick that wand on my belly permanently – watching my baby’s every move… nope, I could not think of a way to ensure she was ok, except for getting her the hell out of there, and seeing she was ok with my own two eyes.

But… I get it.

Once the kids are out, they are out. Eventually, they crawl around, and walk around, and bump their head into coffee tables, and pull the cat’s tail. All you can do is watch in awe and horror, knowing that one day they might bungee jump or sign up for some dumbass race in Nicaragua, and you won’t be able to do shit to stop them.

That heart of yours will get on a plane to Nicaragua, or wherever the hell they decide to go.

This is not specific to children.

I feel this way about a handful of people in my life. Pieces of my heart – just walking around outside my body. Doing whatever they want. Risking their lives, damn it.

Few days ago I drove a piece of my heart to the airport, while listening to the news of a plane crash. Then I spent an hour driving home, listening to more news of the plane crash, and bawling my eyes out.

It’s rarely the numbers (176 people dead) that bring the point home. It’s not even the images (of scattered personal belongings, and body bags).

It’s the stories.

There is a guy on the radio, talking about losing his sister, and her husband, and his one year old niece in that crash. They lived twenty minutes away from us. The guy breaks down sobbing.

Poof! I hear my own brother’s voice. He is the one giving the interview now. His sister, her husband, and his one year old niece.

Nothing touches like a story. Nothing transports like a story. It is my turn to break down and sob.

We are getting on a plane next week. We are pieces of someone else’s heart – just walking around outside their bodies.

And those someones will be worried about us. And round and round it goes.

To be human is to have someone worry about you.

Isn’t that how you know you made a difference in someone’s life? How you know you left a mark? To have someone worry about you. To be a piece of someone’s heart, walking around outside their body.

Hugs, SOLO


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