The Heart and the Recognition of Release
I am a little late with this posting. Life, as it often does, shifted plans.
Right now, our family is focused on my husband’s heart. With his permission, I am sharing part of our story in the hope that it might encourage someone else to ask a question, schedule an appointment, or simply pay attention to our bodies.
Next week, my husband will undergo open-heart surgery to replace his aorta and repair one of his valves. Even writing those words feels strange. The heart is such a remarkable structure—muscle, tissue, chambers, and valves working together in careful rhythm. It is both strong and delicate, resilient and vulnerable. Perhaps that is why the heart has become such a powerful symbol for our emotions, our relationships, and our capacity to endure.
Ironically, we discovered the enlarged aorta during preparations for his second heart ablation. After moving from New York to Tennessee, his new physician wanted a clearer picture before proceeding with surgery. A CT scan revealed something neither of us expected. Without that scan, we likely would not have known. The outcome very different.
The last measurement of the aorta was 5.2 centimeters. We were told that surgery is recommended once the aorta reaches 5.0 centimeters. Not too long ago, doctors often waited until 5.5 centimeters, but experience showed that too many patients suffered aortic dissections while waiting.
Since then, there have been more tests: a heart catheterization, a TEE (transesophageal echocardiogram), and an ultrasound of his carotid arteries. Other than the enlarged aorta and well-controlled blood pressure, he is in remarkably good health. That reality has introduced one of the many paradoxes of this experience: someone can look healthy, feel healthy, and still carry something significant inside them.
I have found that feelings rarely arrive one at a time. Gratitude exists alongside fear. Hope sits next to exhaustion. Confidence in the surgeon coexists with the uncomfortable truth that some things remain outside our control. There is no neat way to separate these emotions.
Perhaps that is one of the hardest lessons in all of this: understanding the difference between control and the recognition of release. We worry deeply about the people we love, yet there is so much that remains beyond our reach. No amount of worry can change the measurements on a scan or guarantee an outcome. Family life constantly asks us for a certain tolerance of tension—to acknowledge our fears while recognizing the boundaries of what we can actually influence.
Boundaries are not walls that keep fear out; they are reminders of where our responsibility begins and ends.
What can we control? We can decide how fast we drive our vehicles. We can choose the words we use with one another, especially on difficult days. We can decide what to make for dinner, answer the phone when family calls, and show up for appointments, recovery, and ordinary moments alike. These choices may seem small compared to open-heart surgery, but they are the threads that hold us together when larger questions remain unanswered.
And perhaps that is what it means to truly be in it—not to solve every problem immediately or to pretend certainty where none exists, but to sit within the uncertainty. To answer messages from family. To discuss medications and hospital stays while also deciding who will water the plants, feed the dog, or fold the laundry. Life does not pause for difficult moments. Instead, difficult moments weave themselves into ordinary life.
Over the next week, my husband will spend a night or two in the ICU before beginning the work of recovery: standing, walking, healing, and slowly returning to the routines that make up a life. Our family will do what families often do during uncertain times—we will show up for one another, lean on each other’s strengths, carry what we can until someone else needs a turn, and, when necessary, recognize what must be released and simply breathe.
If sharing this story encourages even one person to follow up on a symptom, ask another question, or schedule a test they have been postponing, then it will have been worth writing.
The heart is intricate. Families are intricate. Feelings are layered. And sometimes courage is not found in having all the answers, but in continuing forward while living inside the questions.
Have you ever experienced a moment when an unexpected diagnosis changed the way you think about control, family, or the ordinary rhythms of life?
Leah