I was born with an eccentric heart. In one of the chambers of my heart, where most have three doors, I have two. Two revolving doors, which at Christmas of 2016 were about to come off their hinges. The aorta is your main artery, your salvation, carrying oxygenated blood from your lungs and making it your life. But we have discovered that my aorta has been compressed over time and has developed a bubble. A bubble on the verge of bursting, something that would send me to the other side before I could call emergency services. Before I could say goodbye to this life. Here I am. Mount Sinai Hospital. New York City. Looking down at myself while the arched lights reflect on the stainless steel. I think that the light is harder than the steel counter I lie on. I feel my body separate from me. Soft flesh and hard bones.
It’s neither a dream nor a vision, but it’s as if someone magician has sawed me in two. This eccentric heart has frozen. Some reconstruction must be done beyond all this hot blood swirling and causing chaos, something that blood tends to do when it can’t keep you alive. Blood and air. Blood and entrails. Blood and mind, that’s what’s needed now, at this very moment, if I am to continue singing my life and living it. My blood. The magician’s mind and hands standing above me, capable of turning a truly bad day into a truly good day with the right strategy and execution.
Steel nerves and steel blades. Now this man rises and reaches my chest, wielding his scalpel, combining the powers of scientist and butcher. The powers require breaking into and invading someone’s heart. The magic of science. I know I won’t feel good when I wake up after these eight hours in surgery, but I also know that waking up is better than the alternative. Even if I can’t breathe and feel like I’m suffocating. Even if I desperately suck in air and can’t find any.