One So-Called Second Heart

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.