As a child, I was
often faced with the unavoidable question that all children must confront at
one point or another: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The answer
sprang instantly from the tip of my vehement tongue in each and every instance.
I wanted, indisputably, to become a nurse. When asked precisely why this
occupation appealed to me, I told my simple truth, “I want to help people.”
When an authority
figure found the audacity to address my seemingly incontrovertible dream with a
cheeky, “Why not be a Doctor? Why not a heart surgeon?” I was quick to explain
that which was so obvious to me, “Doctors cure diseases,” I said, “Nurses cure
everything else.”
Anatomically
incorrect as it may be, my mother always told me that inside of every
individual beat two entirely distinct and separate hearts. The first was an
organ governed only by the canon of biological principles within the human
body. This heart distributes blood to each finger and toe of mine. This heart
is integral to the circulatory system, and is sometimes tragically plagued by
disease. However, it was this
mechanical metronome’s brother, the “second heart,” although fictitious, which
interested me to a far greater degree.
This particular
component of the body, according to my mother, was the heart that might be
found bruised or broken. This is the heart that sometimes hardens, or is said
to grow cold. This is the heart that I can feel so tangibly in my chest when
something seems to leap or ache or swell or sing between my ribs. In this vein,
I came to understand the idea that sickness is not exclusively restricted to
the functionality of the body.
Discovering
precisely how or why people become who they are has always engrossed and
enthralled me. This, I am certain, is the very reason why I have always been so
notably captivated by literature. I have thoroughly enjoyed delving into
fiction with a group of like-minded, talented, and bibliophilic peers, but in
Psychology I have found a peerless passion that I cannot let fall by the
wayside. I plan never to relinquish the fire that burns within my heart of
hearts at the prospect of pursuing writing, but I cannot help but yield to that
which satiates my never-ending curiosity.
I once believed a
nurse’s responsibilities entailed repairing the second heart of which my mother
so often spoke. Therefore, this occupation appealed to me because this “second
heart” appealed to me, and there seemed no occupation more noble or rewarding
than its restoration. Although fainting at the sight of blood may have taken me
out of the hands-on arena of medical professionalism, it never extinguished my
ardent hope that one day my formal education would allow me to remedy, in my
office, all that plagues the human mind; and, in my novels, all that swims
within even one distraught reader’s so-called second heart.
