Page 24 - Demo

Sara Beeman
This piece is written about my experience with POTS from the perspective of my mother.
Treacherous Hearts
I watch from the doorway as she bounces around the small kitchen, her long limbs
easily spanning the entirety of the room in two steps. Sara begins to load the dishwasher, rhythmically grabbing a dish from the sink and bending to place it in the rack – over and over. I watch her do this mundane task with trepidation. I am about to walk away when I see her straighten again, but this time, she does not turn to the sink. Instead, she gets that strange look in her eyes – I know what that look means. She stares at nothing, and I watch her hand grip the counter, putting the weight of her body into it like an anchor. Her other hand drifts to her chest, pressing against it like she can still the racing heart inside. I watch her force her labored breathing to slow. Only a few seconds pass before she blinks and her eyes focus. She goes back to the dishes.
Later that evening we sit in the living room, talking and watching TV. Her legs are folded under her, and I know they are asleep, tingling with pins and needles. She unravels herself from her position on the couch and stands up. She walks towards the kitchen and stops abruptly in the doorway – she only ever makes it to the doorway. She grabs onto the frame, gripping it like a lifeline, and leans against the dark wood. She closes her eyes but they immediately fly back open. Closing them seems to make it worse, like motion sickness. I ask her if she is okay, even though I know the answer. She tells me that she is “fine, just got up too fast”. I watch her walk away, guilt gnawing at my heart.