Today, March 5, a day that marks one day after my late father’s 100th birthday, I lie on a table for my echocardiogram. I’m on the 2nd floor of 55 East 55th Street at NYU Langone. Electrodes are connected at three points on my body and the technician slathers the sonogram transducer with gel and moves it firmly around on my chest. I can hear sounds of the computer detecting the sonar waves. Occasional beeps punctuate the recording of the images of my heart. Suddenly, to my astonishment, I hear the swooshing of my heart pumping blood through my heart. The swooshing lasts for several heart beats before she moves the device to another part of my chest . The device is sending sonar signals into my body, different frequencies detecting different layers of the tissues of my heart. I don’t fully understand the technology and how it can image my heart in three dimensions, detecting multiple layers of muscle tissue.
The room is dimly lit. I’m lying on my side and my eyes are closed. The procedure lasts approximately 30 minutes. The last recording is done while I’m on my back. I’m there motionless contemplating the continued beat of my heart that has already carried me through my 73-year life trajectory. I’m amused by the thought that my consciousness is linked to my heartbeat moving blood cursing through my body to every extremity and back again. And I marvel at this miracle of living organisms like ours. An autonomous body that is connected in so many ways within itself and to the world outside that sustains me.
I have the opposite of an out of body experience: “in a body experience.” The sound of the fluid being pumped through my arteries and veins reminds me of the inner world of my body that I don’t think about often. Perhaps, it’s better not to think about it, less we imagine the pump skipping a beat, missing a rhythm or just stopping.
During this procedure, I’m thinking about a question in my trust; how do I want the remains of my body to be handled? Buried, cremated, interred, dispersed. Rehearsing an answer to this question, I’m saddened and distracted by the thought of not being around for Terren, my daughters and grandson, the latter who most probably, barring a tragedy, will outlive Terren and me. I feel so alive at this time in my life. I want to keep going. Yet, I know that this heart of mine will someday stop pumping.
The technician finishes the procedure. I get dressed and leave the building to walk back to Grand Central. As I walk down Park Avenue with buildings towering overhead, I’m wondering how many heartbeats I have left. I look all around me. Chances are that no one else is thinking what I’m thinking: a city of 8 million hearts pumping simultaneously is unfathomable.