The Heart Is The Strongest Muscle, Mostly

June 7, 2012

I don’t write much about Tanner these days. Partly because writing about Tanner is always hard, and I have limited bandwidth for hard, and I know that this is selfish, to avoid the hard topics – I also avoid writing about the struggles of the household, and the worries of the family, and these are minor topics in comparison – but my heart, you know: it sometimes feels as though it can only withstand so much. And then there’s this: Tanner is becoming more and more the owner of his own story, and more and more concerned to keep it his own, for as long as he has it. Even as his body fails, his mind and spirit move forward – now, into adolescence, with all of its exquisite sensitivities and anxieties – and you know how you didn’t want anyone to even look at you when you were twelve? That.

He just wants to be normal. But that’s complicated. And talking about those complications – and all the things that go with those complications, whether they be related to the conditions of his disability, his prognosis, the social issues that he faces (don’t get me started on the bullying thing again) – is important, because he’s not the only boy whose life has been made complicated by DMD. He’s not the only child whose life has been made complicated by disability and terminal illness. His is not the only family to struggle. So I push his story forward, again. And again and again and again. Exercising my own heart as a muscle – all of hearts, as muscles – requires it.

This is from last year. But it expresses perfectly everything that is terrible and heartbreaking about this. I’ll find new words of hope. Soon.

Every visit to the doctor, now, brings bad news. In the early days, there were reassurances and messages of hope – some boys make it out of their teens, there are ways to slow the deterioration of his muscles, he might stay mobile for a long time, he might still get to enjoy some of his boyhood in the ways that other boys take for granted – but now, there are only somber descriptions of what will happen next, of what needs to be done to make things easier, of what use can be made of his diminishing time.

They want to put rods in his spine, she tells me. So that he can stay upright for a bit longer.


Rods in his spine. He won’t be able to bend, I think, before remembering, he cannot bend now. Not in the real, active sense of bending, anyway: he slumps, he droops, he slides forward in his chair, unable to hold his own weight even while sitting, a Pinocchio without strings. His spine is collapsing under the weight of his body, his muscles having deteriorated beyond the point where they can provide any support. He’s like a doll now, a puppet. But he has no strings by which he might be pulled up. He has no Blue Fairy to wave a wand and make such strings unnecessary. He has only surgeons, and rods.


Rods in his spine. I imagine steel, or rebar, those skinny ridged bars that are laid in concrete, because even concrete isn’t all that strong, even concrete needs extra support, and what are muscles compared to concrete? Even concrete sags, to say nothing of wood and fiber and the things of which dolls and puppets are made, to say nothing of people, made of flesh, made of muscle. This is not reassuring. This does not make me feel better. Muscles, concrete, steel, wood, puppets… this is a grim fairy tale.


I focus on the rods, of course, because they are so visual, so visceral, so evocative of things that are monstrous (Dr Frankenstein and his wires and bits) and things that technological (“we can rebuild him“) and things that are magical (Pinocchio’s stiff, wood-rod arms and legs, made flesh, made malleable, with one wave of a fairy’s wand). I focus on the rods, because they unnerve me, and because they are, in a twisted way, a symbol of some elusive hope. They will hold him up. They will support him. They will be his backbone, now that his God-given backbone has collapsed. They will defy God. They will hold him up, now that God is letting go.


His heart is going, too. They have him on medication, the kind of medication that they give to grown-up men, to men who have had heart attacks, to men who fall like thick trees, clutching their chests, lives flashing before their eyes. He is just a boy, and yet his heart is weakening, slowing, limping under the weight of years that he will never see.

I am trying to not think about that, because there are no rods for the heart.


The thing about the rods is, they represent, right now, everything that we worry we don’t have, everything that we worry we can’t give. Tanner’s body is failing and growing all at once; he becomes heavier and weaker, weaker and heavier, every day, and my sister struggles, alone, to care for him. To lift him is to lift limp bulk. Dead weight. Dead weight. She can’t do it alone. (What if he can’t die at home? — That can’t happen — But what if? — It can’t — What if?) She tries and she tries, but she is no Blue Fairy, she has no magic wand, only her arms and her back and her determination, and she fights with these, she fights through these, to lift her growing dying boy, and she is getting tired.

My heart breaks for her. My heart breaks for her, across and through and up and down and sometimes I worry that the pieces will shatter such that I won’t be able to put them back together and then where will I be, where will she be? There are no rods for the heart, but sisters can be rods, and I am trying to be hers.

It’s hard. I am not made of steel. And who wants to be, really? We want to be flesh and bone and blood and muscle. Our weakness makes us human. It is because of that weakness that we feel, that we ache, that we thrill. Pinocchio wanted that. Pinocchio did not want the wood, the strings. Pinocchio wanted to be real. Pinocchio yearned to be real.

We are real. Tanner is real. No amount of rods or heart medications or mobility devices can change that, but that means, too, that none of those things will save him.

Being real is precious, but it is sometimes hard to bear.


I say there are no fairies, but that is not quite true, because so many are coming forward to help, to wave magic wands, wands that can’t give Tanner back his muscles, but wands that might give him, give us, strings. Please support these efforts, if you can – they’re outlined on my Tanner page, here, below his life list. We need this magic. We really do.

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    Hannah June 7, 2012 at 9:15 am

    If words and heart were enough I would say more.

    neal June 7, 2012 at 12:05 pm

    This is a beautiful post. Thank you.

    Eliana Tardio June 7, 2012 at 5:50 pm

    it is hard to be real, but at this hard time, we can only look forward and keep feeding our faith with God’s promise, that there’s is a better world for them

    BusyMomof Twins June 7, 2012 at 11:11 pm

    A beautiful post. Being real is so very precious. Thank you for reminding us of just how precious it is.

    Guillaume June 8, 2012 at 2:34 am

    Thanks for this beautiful post. Not easy to write a comment after such a post. I can just conclude that sometimes I should shut my mouth up rather than always complaining…

    Yolanda June 8, 2012 at 7:45 pm

    A good friend of mine has a son with Duchenne’s, so this really touched me and saddened me. I pray for your nephew and all families with sons with this disease. Being real IS precious, and hard- but all we can do is love while we can and hold on to that forever.

    Suzanne McKay June 9, 2012 at 6:42 pm

    I pray for you and your family. Your post was beautifully written.

    Toni June 22, 2012 at 8:09 pm

    This is so very sad, and not that you need more sadness surrounding Tanner or his condition but my heart truly breaks for your sister, for you, for your entire family. My prayers are with you all and I wish Tanners days to be filled with joy, laughter, and all the things that are good with the world. May his shortened life be filled with beauty and happiness.

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