I've hesitated whether to post this. Some things are best left among family. But, my church's General Conference this past weekend was packed full of inspirational and motivational talks. I can say the experience has left me feeling a bit braver. So, without panicking anyone, whether you're a friend or loved one who didn't get a call from my mom or the" Italian calling tree," let me just say, I'm fine. And, for anyone who may be critical and think this is about attention, well, you need to get a heart. Which just happens to be what this post is about.
I spent Saturday evening in the ER. At 5:30 p.m., I was sitting at my desk at home, listening on the Internet to a talk I'd missed earlier in the day. Without warning, chest pains toppled me forward. "I'm too young to have a heart attack." I thought. But never having had one, when the back of my left arm went numb, all the way down to my left pinky, going to the hospital was inevitable.
Five and half hours with doctors and nurses, and four blood draws and enzyme tests later, thankfully I was in the clear. It turns out panic attacks can mimic heart attacks, and genetically, it turns out my adorable, feisty Italian mother, who loves more deeply than any person I know on the planet, has blessed me her panic genes. I get my almond shaped, brown eyes from her, which is a plus. But I've also learned I get a few of those other genes. The ones that keep a person humble and reliant on God. Okay, so I'll live. And like she did, in her 40's, I'll get to learn to manage some of these challenges so they don't impeded my daily life.
Well, this story ISN'T about my mimic-ed heart attacks or panic attacks. It's about what happened yesterday. Sunday after watching the first session of conference, I watched a beautiful documentary called Mitchell's Journey. It's about a father who blogged about his son's terminal illness and honestly and openly shared how it was playing out in the lives of his family. Obviously, I watched with a heart that still beat. While Mitchell's did not. He had passed away in 2013.
Sitting on my brown, oatmeal textured sectional, I could feel my heart. I could hear it. Thump. Thump. I cried as the stories of faith, influence, and hope shared messages from complete strangers who had been touched by Mitchell's story. The connections Mitchell and his family had created through words in cyberspace were uncanny! People from all over the country had written letters to Mitchell. They had sent emails. Made phone calls and visits. The video showed how Mitchell's Journey saved a marriage, made family more of a priority, and engaged one self-proclaimed introvert to get out and live his life. Because of this little boy's kind, selfless, happy, and contented heart, and a loving father with the gift of words willing to write about it, tens of thousands had been inspired to be live better.
After watching the story, I questioned if I was living half-heartedly? Like those people had been.
My "little" scare with my heart, and I say "little" because honestly I felt so humbled at 10:30 p.m. when a man doubled over in a wheelchair was rushed past my room. He was having a "real" heart attack. Not that mine was fake, and doctors said anytime you feel heart pain you should never dismiss it. They told me of a mother recently who was only 39 who ignored her chest pain and she went to sleep and never woke up. The care team at Riverton Hospital made me feel right about my decision to be checked out. And they helped me understand a clear picture that chemically my body went into panic and made my heart sick. I didn't feel panicked. Really I didn't. I didn't know the state my heart was in. I was just watching a nice man give a nice talk and eating a few Oreos and milk. (Eight, okay! I'll admit I had eight.)
Which leads me to another lesson I learned.
The REAL state of our heart isn't always apparent to us. The only way we know its true condition is by our ACTIONS. What we DO with our heart. Do we actively SHARE our hearts with EVERYONE? Do we LOVE? Unconditionally? Or half-heartedly? Do we SERVE with our heart by doing good to others? That's they only way we can really measure the state of our heart.
Mitchell's story didn't document the state of his life, it documented the state of his heart, which apparently is still beating in heaven, because all the people who've been touched by his story are still reeling in the glory.
The power of words. That's why I can write this post with good conscience. Our personal stories are our history. And Family History was another message from conference. My experience is what it is. And although it was insignificant in comparison to the arduous, difficult, painful, and heart-wrenching experience of Mitchell and his family, it joined my heart to theirs.
I thank my Heavenly Father, for today. We're pretty sure I have a healthy heart. A stress test in a week or so should confirm that. But, I get do the laundry. Yippee! (not really, but I'm making a point). And I get to do carpool. Yippee! I get to hug my husband, feed my dog and cat, and tell my parents how much I appreciate them helping me while Christian was gone. And do a few other good deeds because . . . my heart continues to beat. It grew a little bigger, yesterday, thanks to a little boy and his father, whose hearts, through their story, reached out and touched mine.
God Bless You, Your Family, and Mitchell -- Jodi Marie Robinson, www.shareloveserve.com Riverton, Utah
