My broken heart

I have always known my heart was broken. I remember the very moment it happened. It was the moment I stepped outside of the hospital without my daughter. I collapsed, was carried to the truck and then my memory goes blank. I don’t remember days or maybe it was even weeks. I had to pretend I wasn’t broken for such a long time. After all, I was a hero, wasn’t I? It is an all too familiar story for us mothers who were on the losing side of adoption. My barely beating heart broke again a year later, when my daughters adopters closed our open agreement. I think I lived as the undead, like a vampire for most of my post adoption life. Until reunion. It took two years post reunion for the defibrillator to jolt my heart to beat again. The pain of being brought back from the dead was excruciating. So when yesterday my doctor told me that I was at high risk for a heart attack I almost laughed. I could have told him the day, the hour and the very moment that my heart had begun to fail.


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