I’d always been the one to care for others. A nurse for 32 years, I’ve spent most of my life calming fears and monitoring heartbeats. One spring morning, I fainted while watering my tomatoes. I brushed it off—just heat exhaustion, I thought. But the spells kept coming, subtle but persistent.

Reluctantly, I went in for tests. The echocardiogram revealed a congenital issue I’d never known I had. Suddenly I became the patient—admitted, monitored, wired to machines I’d used on others. It was humbling.

Surgery was successful, but recovery challenged me in unexpected ways. I wrestled with feeling fragile, with letting others care for me. My daughter, now a nurse herself, held my hand through it all—what a reversal.

I’m back in my garden these days, slower but still present. I volunteer now, especially with new nurses. I tell them: listen deeply, hold gently, and never forget the heartbeat isn’t just a rhythm—it’s a story.