Welcome to the suck, the heat pump,red pressure pressing from the right-handpassing lane tunnel exit of lungsto the on-ramp left ventricle, quickpitstop through the aorta, Cupid’s answerto the tricuspid valve in a surge like an arrowshot over the West Hills into the unincorporatedvalley of suburban Portland, May, 1979.My parents make the drive again and againfor consultations with pediatric specialists,cardiologists, maybe a nip of ginafter the appointments to allay their fears.Of the doctors’ meetings, I have no memory, yetof the days before and after the surgery, I can clearly seethe pale green walls of the hospital room, the IV, the beeping.I am nearly three, hand big enough to hold a dime,two hands clasped together roughly the sizeof my dysfunctional heart.
