Too often my chest fills with juddering beats, as if my heart were jumping up a ladder, rung by rickety rung. Too often it hurls itself against my ribs, over and over, until I lie, wherever I am, and let it do what it can.
During the diagnostic test for P.O.T.S. (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome) you are strapped to a table, which, after a period of supinity, is tilted upright at an angle of 60 degrees, for the longest while. Blood pressure and heart rate are monitored as one’s heart pumps, and one’s brain drums its urgent need, and heart beats faster, and there’s a rush of something in your head, an emptiness, a drop, and heart labours on, and you keep your eyes wide, and heart beats harder, and you smile at everyone you ever liked, beats faster, and hands and feet turn purple, pummels and pounds, and sticks and stones, so hard, names and bones, harder still, and dizziness is frightful, and the heart, and a faint might be a home, and the heart, so long, and the heart, and the heart, and the heart rights itself, slowly rights itself as the table tilts back, downright, end-of-night back, and blood flows all around, in full glorious circles, and if brain could heave a sigh, it would, full fathom fickle, ha! And I am, utterly utterly, I am. Me pots, you pans?