My dear heart,

Persist. I know you are tired, enlarged, and weak. But I need you.

You rebounded when my 5th-grade crush married me at recess and broke you a little by marrying another girl the next day. You healed after friends’ moving trucks pulled away from the curb, enthusiastic tryouts yielded no results, and backstabbing friends spilled our secrets. Over the years, I fell in and out of love, and there you were, strengthening your broken parts after every heartache like beautiful Kintsugi pottery.

And I pushed you to the limits. Running, dancing, singing, and aerobics for hours on end. Sleep deprivation, processed food and Diet Coke, and reckless college and grad school days. You scoffed at me, but you never left–not once.

You sustained not one but two humans during three different pregnancies. Your steady, vigorous rhythms beat in complex syncopation with tiny, speedy ones. Smushed and forced to increase your output for nearly ten months each time, you happily complied.

And running after said tiny ones was no joke. While I was flying around the park chasing three shrieking girls as the Grumpy Old Troll, you fired on all cylinders. Over and over again, you drank the mother’s cocktail of sleep deprivation and self-neglect, and you never complained–you just powered up and gave me the strength to be a good mom.

Of course, when the girls were still little, lymphoma hit. Noxious chemo infusions, followed by radiation within inches of your beautiful, complex aortic system, did a number on you. You were scarred, drained of excess fluid in painful procedures, and changed forever. A heart can only take so much.

You nearly drowned in floods of cortisol and epinephrine over the years. You lost pieces of yourself during a crippling divorce, the deaths of beloved family members, and the bittersweet joy of children striking out on their own. More stressful jobs, more dubious self-care. But you. Never. Quit.

Despite your best efforts, the doctors declared heart failure. But I know you haven’t failed. You’re just getting tired.

Dearest heart, hang on. These days, I can barely feel you; it’s like you’re beating my tiny red drum with a soft pillow, and I can no longer hear. My numb, purple hands and feet are messengers of your exhaustion, my burning chest and gasping breaths your cries of despair. I know you’re weakening, and I promise to let you rest when I can.

I hope to get the call soon, but I’m waiting my turn behind other parents, sons, and daughters—deserving people who are sicker than I am. When the cardiologist finally opens my chest and sets you free, I pray I’ll retain your kindness, resilience, love, and compassion. You’ve served me well and have loved with abandon. My new heart could never fully replace you.

Until then, stay with me. We’ve been in this together always, you and me. I just need more time, and then I’ll give you the stillness you deserve.

I love you, dear heart.