The first time I witnessed my child’s heartbeat—a delicate flicker on a monochrome screen—I thought to myself, “It’s alive.” That’s the essence of life; if your heart beats, you exist. Simple as that.
As the years went by, my husband and I often felt as though we were merely going through the motions—shuttling kids to activities, squabbling over homework, and juggling meals and laundry. Yet, in contrast, our children truly lived. They stood up to unfairness, laughed until they were breathless, and wrestled each other, leaving imprints of the playroom carpet on their scraped knees. They shared secrets and made revelations, constantly surprising and being surprised.
Our younger son, in particular, was a whirlwind of energy. My father would often joke, “Where’s the off switch?” as he playfully tickled him, peeking under his striped shirt. “Is it here? It must be somewhere! Is this the off switch?”
That lively little boy has transformed into a strong 14-year-old, the kind you can’t help but admire while wondering, “Who does he think he is, strutting around with those dimples and muscles?” He’s fit and robust, but to ensure his well-being and avoid any legal troubles, we found ourselves at the cardiologist’s office. Once again, he was having his blood pressure checked, “just to see.” He underwent an EKG and then a sonogram, “just to see.”
In the dimly lit room, the screen illuminated with vibrant colors, revealing his heart beating. The blood surged in and out, and the valves opened and closed like tiny flags fluttering in the wind. Looking at my son, it’s hard to believe that such complexity resides within.
Just days prior, we visited my grandmother at her nursing home. This year, she recognized me, though she waved away my husband, signaling her disinterest. After catching up on family news—some of which was true—we wheeled her to her semi-private room. Her roommate lay in bed, a shadow of a woman, slack-jawed in her hospital gown. We offered my grandmother some ice water, gently brushing off her casual suggestions for lunch or a trip downstairs, unable to find the off switch for her enthusiasm.
After the sonogram, the doctor informed us that my son’s heart was in perfect condition. I nodded, feeling a swell of agreement in my heart. He is the best hugger in our family—an expert at noticing when someone needs a squeeze. He approaches everything with fierce competition but maintains a gentle spirit, embodying the qualities we hope to see in the best men.
I understand the doctor is referring to the organ itself, functioning properly. Yet I can’t help but think about the tiny flapping tissue inside my son, or my grandmother’s roommate, or even myself. Surely, that can’t be all there is to life. It just can’t be.
For more insights on parenthood, check out this post about home insemination kits. Additionally, for those navigating the journey of parenthood as a same-sex couple, this article provides valuable perspectives. Moreover, if you’re interested in understanding fertility better, this resource is a great place to start.
In summary, the heartbeat symbolizes life, yet it also prompts us to ponder the deeper meanings behind our existence, especially as we navigate the complexities of family and love.