My beloved grandmother (aka Mom Mom) died of a heart attack when I was seven years old. I adored her. Loved her with all my heart. She was an incredible woman. One full of strength, love and unwavering support. But for all her tremendous attributes there’s only one that creates disappoint within me; she was a smoker.

It was the mid-80s, so smoking was still accepted most places, but when she died I lashed onto something to blame. And smoking became my nemesis. Even during a health presentation in elementary school I railed against it. Even if smoking didn’t cause her heart attack, it most certainly didn’t help the situation. And so, I vowed never to take up such a deadly habit.

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I remember the first time I sat in an adult cardiology waiting room. It was refreshing to have adult-themed magazines to look at and I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the elevator music. I still stood out from the crowd, but this time instead of being the oldest patient in the room I was now the youngest. I wasn’t quite sure of what to expect when I transitioned into adult cardiology care, but I never anticipated how much I would ultimately need to advocate for myself in a world where the title “heart disease” is synonymous with coronary artery disease, or acquired heart disease.

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The joke in my family is that I never met a bureau I did not want to move. Although none of us have an athletic bone in our bodies, of my five sisters I am by far the most physically active. I am lucky enough to have had a pediatric cardiologist who, even back in the 1960s, believed in self-regulation. Told to do whatever I wanted “until my body said stop,” I took this instruction quite literally. When playing tag, my signal to stop was my heart pounding so loud I could not hear, combined with the distinct urge to both faint and vomit.

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If you had told me that one day I’d write a young adult fantasy novel I would’ve said, “Wonderful! But I’d much rather be on Broadway.” Clearly, I’ve had a long-standing love affair with musical theatre—one which plagued me with hopes, dreams and doubts of my musical ability. So even though my writings were praised by loved ones and strangers alike, I didn’t value their importance in my life. I was going to sing on stage, not write! I didn’t fathom how the two would intersect so many years later.

In a previous post I mentioned my connection to the creative arts and how they helped me heal after my open heart surgery. Music may have been the initial form of spiritual healing but somewhere along the way writing became an even more powerful and instrumental tool.

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