What Beats Inside Me - eBook by Katie Taff

Chapter 1

Dilated cardiomyopathy. A diagnosis. The thing that got me here–in conflict with my own body.

Growing up, I had always been told what a big heart I had. How giving I was. You know, the typical compliments adults give to kids that aren’t little shits.

I never thought it was literal.

I was diagnosed when I was sixteen. “Dilated cardiomyopathy.”

It took an embarrassing amount of time and practice saying that aloud anytime I got a moment alone. If I’m going to have a diagnosis, I should be able to pronounce it, at least.  

The cardiologist said it slowly the first time. Like he was trying not to scare me. My mom cried, and my dad stared emotionlessly at the floor. He looked like he was frantically trying to find a puzzle piece someone had dropped on the floor, with only his eyes. And I sat there trying to sound out the words in my head like they were part of a spelling test in fifth grade.

Di-la-ted.

Car-di-o-my-op-a-thy.

Now say it three times fast.

It was about a year after the worst night of my life. I know it was the worst night because of everything that came after it. The hospital visits. The diagnosis. The transplant. The apparent stress. I just don’t remember the night itself.

The doctor told me that I would need a transplant before I make it to thirty. “If I do,” I added. No one laughed. I always did seem to have a dark sense of humor. But maybe it’s more of a defense mechanism.

“Stress levels too high for too long,” they said. As if stress was the problem. Like it had wandered into my life one day and decided to stay. But I didn’t feel stressed. It was as if my heart and my mind were living two separate lives.

I kept waiting for the doctor to say he had made a mistake. He didn’t. Shit. 

The fluorescent lights above the hospital bed buzzed softly, while the doctor talked like he was explaining the weather. My fingers twisted the edge of my shirt. I didn’t realize how hard I was gripping it until my knuckles turned white. 

I pretended to hear them. Like if I didn’t react, it somehow wouldn’t be real. 

I’m not quite thirty yet. Twenty-three, in fact. Apparently my heart didn’t get the memo. And the transplant couldn’t wait until my dirty-thirty either. It seemed like everything happened so fast.

It happened three years ago, and I’ve just gone back to school this year. Part-time now, I can’t handle a heavy course load anymore. 

I don’t go out much after the transplant. I used to be such a social butterfly. But I’ve felt… off since then. Not sick, exactly. Just different. Like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes and they almost fit, but not quite. It’s… uncomfortable.

I go to school twice a week. I’m taking it slow for a while. I’m still just… worried. Every strange feeling makes me feel like the transplant is failing. Sometimes it’s little things. My heart beating too fast when I’m standing still. A strange pressure in my chest when I’m feeling too much. Or the way people look at me when they find out I had a transplant like I’m some kind of walking miracle. I don’t feel like a miracle. I feel like something that got lucky.

When I’m not in class, I’m working at an overpriced coffee shop where the word “gourmet” proudly adorns the menu. I don’t know what’s so gourmet about some coffee and milk combos, but if people are willing to spend more than their hourly wage on a single drink — that’s not on me. Apparently if you pour milk into coffee slow enough, it becomes “artisan.” My job is basically pouring milk and pretending it’s science.

I don’t understand it. But that’s why I just pour the liquids and charge them for it. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a tip. Most days I’m just happy to get through the shift without anyone noticing my scar.

Most days I spend more time staring at the espresso machine than actually talking to customers. Though I do a lot of people-watching, too. The hiss of steam and the grinding beans are oddly comforting. Mechanical. Predictable. The chalkboard menu behind the counter is covered with names that sound more like desserts than coffee.

Sometimes, when I’m standing there behind the counter, I get this weird feeling like something is about to happen. Like someone is about to say something before they even open their mouth. Like the air has changed, and I’m the only one who’s noticed. Sometimes I know what someone is about to say before they say it.

I always assumed it was anxiety.

I started working here a few months ago. I haven’t told anyone. No one here knows what happened to me. The transplant, I mean. But customers have noticed my scar when my collar accidentally shifts. And they stare. I pretend not to catch them because I don’t want them to ask questions. So I look away and adjust my shirt. I don’t like being reminded that my heart used to belong to someone else. Sometimes it feels like it remembers things that I don’t.

Three years ago, when I was twenty, I was in my third year of my psych major. A full-time college student living at home with Mom, Dad, and my little sister, Tilly. She’s twenty now. Most of my days back then were predictable. Classes, studying, staying up way too late to finish assignments the night before they were due.

I had to take a sudden break from school. From everything. I had a very unexpected call that a donor had become available. The call came early in the morning. The kind of phone call that makes your stomach drop the second you see the hospital number on the screen.

It was time to get the transplant. Someone had died, and I would be their bodily beneficiary. Lovely. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that. Grateful, I suppose. That’s what people expect. I told myself feelings are unimportant in comparison. I’ll live longer. I tried to believe it.

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