"There's nothing I can do," he says and it's not like I don't already know that. It's not like I haven't spent hours reading the same words on the same sites over and over again, repeatedly coming to the same conclusion.
"I can't help you," he says. "The science hasn't advanced." Again, I know. It's only been a few months. I'm not expecting a miracle. Miracles don't exist. And I suppose, all things considered, I prefer the honesty.
The others are different. "As soon as you get your heart situation under control, it'll be better," they say. It's not true. There is no "under control."
Better is complicated.
Better isn't a miracle treatment that will reduce my heart rate, make my dizziness go away, rid me of my fatigue. It's knowing that this is my life and it's going to be uncomfortable. Better isn't constantly looking for a cure, a remedy, expecting relief. It's seeing things for what they are, providing space for the unpredictability. Better is finding a home in this broken body, finding compassion for its failures.
Better is acceptance.