Brokenhearted

Brokenhearted

The cardiologist came back with the results of Jonathan’s examination and spoke to his parents without euphemism while the toddler waited outside, dangling his legs off a cheaply upholstered hospital chair.

Incurable.

Potentially fatal.

A true medical mystery.

Jonathan’s parents had known something was wrong since Jonathan was an infant. Whenever they doted on him and gave him their full attention, a beatific smile would unfurl on his face before his eyes clouded over with pain and he clutched at his little chest. They tried everything they could. They changed his diet, reduced his stimuli, brought in every conceivable expert, and did their own research online, becoming amateur diagnosticians themselves. But with the diagnosis came a sentence no one, amateur or professional, could commute. There was no conceivable prescription the doctor could offer, no surgery that could sever the unusually intimate connection between his body and soul, a link that had crystallized into a rare and debilitating heart condition – the first recorded case in modern medicine, in fact, though similar instances have been documented in the epic poems of classical history.

Emotive arrythmia.

The hospital staff decided on the name in the breakroom. A heart that expands and contracts in response to flights of positive emotion. Jonathan’s blood pressure and the rhythm of his heartbeat were enslaved to the whimsical cadence of his spirit. When somebody condescended to him or even ignored him, his heart would shrink to normal size and his blood pressure rose to acceptable levels. Joy, however, was a risk. If he encountered kindness, compassion, beauty with any potency, pain pummeled his chest, his breath shortened, and if the stimulus was too intense he was prone to lose consciousness as oxygenated blood struggled to pulse north through his carotid and into his brain.

After his diagnosis, Jonathan plodded through childhood alone as life was forced to take on the predictable and miserable pace of the funeral march. After all, dullness and misery were his safest bet. Jonathan’s parents distanced themselves by necessity, withholding their affection and praise to protect him, and when he turned fourteen years old, they sat him down and had the ‘talk’. From then on, he was forced to skirt around inspiration and eschew all things lifegiving, or risk permanent and irreversible damage to his most important muscle and arguably second most important organ (Jonathan thought little of life, but much of his brain). However, he never attended college since the professors could well be passionate and engaging people and the student body was probably no different. Parties sounded fun too. Girls even better. So, instead, he forced himself to scrub toilets and replace hand soap in the back of a dingey fast food restaurant. He didn’t talk to his coworkers in case one of them turned out to be particularly kind or fascinating, and he usually blasted death metal through a pair of low-quality headphones with his back turned to the rest of the kitchen (he found death metal disturbing, so the choice seemed prudent). The grating sound of scratchy guitars and too-loud drums drowned out any potential for personal connection – the laughter and banter of the workspace and the fraternity that tends to develop in the trenches of the economy. His coworkers failed to understand his struggle through no fault of their own, assuming he was antisocial and awkward or simply operating on a fistful of Adderall, and so they left him to his own devices.

On a Thursday afternoon, Jonathan walked his daily route, passing the drab apartment buildings and strip malls on his way back home. As the crow flies, it was quite inefficient, but he couldn’t risk passing the park. People really let their hair down at the park. Usually he would be buried neck-deep in some podcast on climate change or nuclear risk, but he treated himself, accepting the uncomfortable heartburn and letting the vibrant soundscape massage his ears. He heard a conversation in Spanish around a small food stand (he didn’t speak the language luckily, but the tone seemed lighthearted). A father cautioned his daughter gently before crossing the street, instructing her to look both ways and wait for the signal.

Hey man, do you have a couple bucks?

Jonathan swung his head down to find a disheveled youth who couldn’t have been older than sixteen sitting cross-legged against the perimeter gate of an autobody shop. He was thin as a rail, but to Jonathan his eyes seemed to hold a deep and powerful empathy. An old backpack stuffed to the brim and tearing at the seams sat on the sidewalk to next to him. Without thinking, Jonathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, placing it in the kid’s hand before spinning on one heel, heart pounding, eager to escape danger.

Wait!

Jonathan already had his headphones in his ears, but he hadn’t pressed play yet and the kid’s voice filtered through. Jonathan paused midstride, but didn’t turn around.

Do you… do you want a hug?

Jonathan collapsed on the sidewalk, dying in the arms of a kind stranger, brokenhearted

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