Page 28 of Broken Secrets
“What do the results look like?”
“Dr. Kasey will review everything and discuss the results with you.” The non-answer every medical professional gives when they don’t want to speculate.
Next comes the echocardiogram, which involves more gel than I expected and a technician pressing an ultrasound wand against my chest while staring at a screen full of moving gray and black shapes that supposedly represent my heart.
“Is that what my heart actually looks like?” I ask, watching the rhythmic pulsing on the monitor.
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” the technician says. “Four chambers working in coordination, beating about a hundred thousand times a day.”
“What if they’re not working in perfect coordination?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
The tests take longer than expected, and by the time I’m back in the examination room waiting for Dr. Kasey, my anxiety has ratcheted up to near-panic levels. I check my phone. Derek’ssent three encouraging texts and Maya’s added a string of heart emojis to our group chat.
Dr. Kasey finally returns, carrying a folder thick with test results.
“Well,” she says, settling back onto her stool. “I have some answers for you.”
My heart pounds as I wait for her to continue.
“Your EKG looks normal, no electrical abnormalities or dangerous rhythms. That’s good news.” She opens the folder and pulls out what looks like ultrasound photos. “The echocardiogram shows your heart structure is normal overall, but there is one finding I want to discuss with you.”
Here it comes. The bad news I’ve been dreading.
“You have mild tricuspid regurgitation. That means one of your heart valves—the tricuspid valve—isn’t closing completely, so a small amount of blood flows backward when your heart beats.”
Tricuspid regurgitation. Exactly what Jeremy has. Exactly what was written in blue ink on Mom’s sticky note.
“Is that serious?”
“In your case, it’s very mild. Many people have some degree of tricuspid regurgitation and live completely normal lives. It’s probably what’s been causing your symptoms—the racing heart, occasional chest discomfort, the dizziness.”
“So I inherited it from my dad.”
“Very likely, yes. The good news is that mild tricuspid regurgitation rarely progresses to something more serious, especially in young, healthy people.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a strange sense of connection to Jeremy. We share the same heart defect, the same mild imperfection that makes our hearts beat a little differently than everyone else’s.
“What does this mean for my life? For soccer?”
“You can continue playing soccer. You can exercise normally. Just pay attention to your body, and if you experience severe chest pain, fainting, or extreme shortness of breath during activity, you should stop and seek medical attention.”
“Will it get worse?”
“Not necessarily. We’ll monitor it with annual echocardiograms, but many people with mild tricuspid regurgitation never progress to anything more serious.” She hands me a packet of information. “This explains the condition in detail, plus some lifestyle recommendations.”
I take the packet, my hands steadier than they’ve been all day. “So I’m not dying.”
Dr. Kasey smiles. “You’re definitely not dying. You have a very manageable condition that we’ll keep an eye on. Try not to worry too much about it.”
“One more question,” I say as she starts to stand. “If I have kids someday, could I pass this on to them?”
“It’s possible. Heart valve abnormalities can have genetic components. When you’re ready to start a family, genetic counseling might be helpful to understand the risks.”
After she leaves, I sit in the exam room for a moment, processing everything. I have tricuspid regurgitation. Mild, manageable, but real. I inherited something concrete from Jeremy’s side of the family, not just his green eyes or stubborn chin, but an actual medical condition that connects us in a way I never expected.
But I’m not dying. I can still play soccer. I can still have a normal life.
