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Hope for a broken heart

I thought I was just overweight and out of shape.

And while I was both overweight and out of shape, it really had nothing to do with the fact I couldn't finish climbing up the thousand or so feet of Arthur's Seat, a small mountain which overlooked the city of Edinburgh, Scotland.

My husband and I were visiting some friends who were starting a community outreach and we wanted to climb to the top to pray over the city. A few hundred yards in, I couldn't breathe, and my chest started hurting.

While I sat down on a nearby rock to rest, James, our friend, and my husband continued climbing (I assured them I was fine). Another friend stayed back with me, as I apologized profusely for being so incapable of such an easy climb. As a man clearly in his seventies jogged by us, I decided I needed to make some serious changes in my sedentary life.

A couple of years passed, and I lost the extra forty pounds I was carrying around but the exercise never got any easier. My heart would race as soon as I'd exert myself and if I pushed for more than just a few minutes, I'd almost pass out. It took me an hour to recover every time.

Several cardiologists later, I didn't have a diagnosis. All I knew is that it wouldn't kill me. Which, I suppose is good, but being twenty eight years old and not able to walk six blocks without wanting to pass out wasn't exactly my idea of the active lifestyle I wanted to lead. I wasn't satisfied, so I took matters into my own hands.

I sweet-talked the appointment setter at the doctor's office into seeing one of Tennessee's top electrocardiologists. He reviewed all the tests I had been given over time and looked up at me and said, "It's textbook. You have a condition called supraventricular tachycardia. We can fix it by going into your heart and burning the extra electrical pathways you have. That solves the problem in over 90% of people."

"So, that's it?" I responded. "How do you know?"

He explained how the electrical system of the heart works and the symptoms I had and I believed him. It seemed like a minor procedure: they would insert some catheters in my leg, feed some wires into my heart, trigger the arrhythmias, and ablate (or burn) what shouldn't be there.

"The main risk is that we'd burn too much," he said. "And in that case, you'd need a pacemaker."

I thought about my friend Ricky, who's in his mid-thirties, runs half marathons, and has a pacemaker.

Sounded like a win-win. Anything was better than my current state.

The doctor encouraged me to go home and research it and call to make an appointment if I decided to do it. There was no urgency - he reconfirmed the fact it wasn't a life-threatening issue which was comforting. I followed his advice and chose that the potential cure far outweighed any risks.

Two months later, August 14, would be my surgery. I started planning all the things I'd do with a new and functional heart.

Run a 5k?

Wait...why not run a marathon?

Wait...why not take up cycling?

And ride across the country?

And raise money for a charity while doing it?

It's not like I'm an all-or-nothing girl...

I had the chance to spend some time with the Ride:Well team over the summer. They are a group of cyclists who bike across the country over two months to raise awareness and money for Blood:Water Mission. I remember standing in the lobby at a church in Dallas and talking myself out of it with one of the riders.

"Well, I would totally do this...but I haven't been ON a bike in seventeen years."

"It's okay," he told me. "I didn't start training until a couple weeks before the ride. You can totally do it. You SHOULD totally do it."

His words didn't leave me. In fact, they haunted me.

After getting my husband's support, I decided if the surgery was successful, I'd apply for the 2010 Ride:Well Tour. A week before the surgery, I began to get nervous.

You see, I'm a wimp. I sunburn easily and bruise like a peach. I don't like to be too hot or cold and I don't like the idea of sleeping on the floor of a church. And from what I've heard, riding a bike for any extended amount of time really hurts your tush.

I'm not a fan of pain. I'm a fan of plush. Like the big plush hotel beds with extra plushy pillows. Plush. That's what I like. Not hard bicycle seats and the promise of asphalt under my skin.

Knowing myself and my selfishness all too well, I immediately talked to my friend Spence, who had agreed to help me train on my bike once I got it.

"Spence, we have to go look at bikes today. I'm totally about to bail on this!"

So we went. Not only to look, but to get fitted. I picked out my bike, got a list of all the accessories I'd need and felt renewed.

There was hope on the other side of this surgery.

Now, if only the surgery was a success.

The surgery day arrived. I was poked, prodded, zapped, and put on medicine that made me say embarrassing things to nurses. It was easier than having my wisdom teeth removed.

That was three weeks ago. I went hiking in Washington last week and I started running this past Sunday. My heart rate is perfect. In two weeks I have a follow up test to make sure the rhythm is right, and once I get the all clear, I'll be buying my bike.

The hope of potentially helping others through Ride:Well and Blood:Water Mission helped carry my spirit through a scary time. Sure, it was a "simple" surgery, but honestly? They're putting wires in my heart. That's a little unnerving.

So now that I'm through that trial, I hope that I can pass that hope on. The hope that was given to me through the encouragement of others. Because once someone gets a gift like hope, it's now a responsibility to pass on.

To give it away.

I can promise you this: if you don't need hope right now, there's someone around you that does.

And if you are the one who needs hope today, please take mine.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. There is a God who is faithful to give you exactly what you need.

The grace.

The love.

The rest.

Whatever it is.

He'll provide it for you, when you can't take it anymore.

I believe that so much, I'll bet my heart on it.

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