Steady Beats the Heart

Playing as a goalie for the Tommies men's soccer team. (Submitted by Brady Chapman)

I slowly start to jog now. 

It's early March, and I’m in Fredericton, New Brunswick, where I go to school at St. Thomas University. I play on the varsity soccer team, and I’m finishing up my third year of school, and I’m inside the soccer dome that is on the campus of the University of New Brunswick, where the air is dense and heated, with a subtle odour of rubber pellets and sweat. The white fabric ceiling arcs far above us, capturing the echoes of every cry and ball strike. 

My watch beeps every thirty seconds. 

The practice flow is broken by the beep. It's my signal. Walk. Do not run. Never compete. Slowly jog. Beep after 30 seconds. Start to walk slowly. Inhale. Hold off. Repeat. 

Jog for one minute. Walk for two. Repeat. 

My teammates are running and passing the ball around me, their cleats digging into the ground as they execute drills at full speed. A year ago, I would have been in goal, diving, shouting directions, and laughing at an exercise this light. I used to gauge my level of effort by how tired I could get. Now I measure it with constraints and at scheduled intervals. 

At first, the beeping seems almost embarrassing, like a loud reminder that I'm still not totally recovered. However, as the session progresses, it changes. Structure, not a restriction. Discipline, not weakness. 

The thought of having a watch to inform me when to stop would have made me giggle three years ago. I would have ignored the warning signs, persevered through my shortness of breath, and believed that being young and healthy meant I was unbeatable. Every beep now serves as protection. Every slow step is deliberate. 

I jog my cautious minutes and walk my patient recoveries under the dome lights, the ball thudding against gloves and laughter echoing off the walls. I also don't feel small every time the watch goes off. 

I feel lucky. 

Because my heart is beating steady enough to listen to it. 

This is where I am now. 

But to understand how I got here, I have to go back to a doctor’s office three years ago, when a sinus infection accidentally revealed a hole in my heart. I didn't understand it at the time, but this day would change my life. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was an early morning of September 2023. The air outside had a crisp edge that signalled the end of summer. 

I recall the clinic's walls being an off-white colour that made an undue effort, as if they were meant to feel calming. My father sat next to me, knees crossed, browsing his phone. I felt irritated rather than concerned. I came in with a sinus infection that wouldn't go away. My doctor ordered a chest X-ray to rule out any potential issues. 

When he returned to the room, he did not stand. He sat in front of us. 

"It has nothing to do with your chest," he told me. But I see something else. "Your heart appears enlarged." 

 I looked at my father. I did not need to say anything. My stomach sank. My body became frigid. I had so many questions, I was scared. 

The doctor quickly added, “This is common in athletes. It’s likely nothing serious. But I’d like to refer you to a cardiologist.” 

The words didn't immediately land; they lingered in the air. Quietly, we left the office.

"We'll get more tests," my dad said, placing a hand on my shoulder in the parking lot. One step at a time. 

For the following three years, "one step at a time" would become our motto. 

What we were stepping through, though, took time for me to understand. The cardiologist eventually named it clearly: an atrial septal defect, a small hole between the upper chambers of my heart. It sounded rare when I first heard it, like something that shouldn’t belong to me, but the truth was more complicated. It’s one of the most common congenital heart defects, accounting for roughly 10 per cent of all congenital heart conditions. Studies estimate it occurs in about 1 in every 1,500 live births. Most of those cases close on their own in early childhood. Others, like mine, don’t. 

What surprised me more was how often it goes unnoticed. Because many people don’t show symptoms, atrial septal defects can remain undetected for years, even into adulthood. Some people only discover it in their 20s, 30s, or later, often by accident, the same way I did. And if it stays undetected long enough, it can start to create problems: extra strain on the heart, irregular rhythms, reduced endurance, or, in more serious cases, heart failure or stroke risk later in life. 

I remember sitting with that information, trying to make sense of it. Not just the condition itself, but what it meant for me. 

Because up until that point, I believed in control. I believed that if I did everything right, trained hard, ate well, stayed disciplined, my body would respond the way it was supposed to. That was the foundation of being an athlete. Effort in, results out. A system that made sense. 

But this didn’t fit into that system. 

I hadn’t done anything wrong. I couldn’t outwork it. I couldn’t fix it by being more disciplined. It had been there my entire life, quietly existing in the background while I built an identity around strength, reliability, and pushing limits. 

And that’s where the shift started. 

I began to realize that what I was losing wasn’t my ability or my performance, it was the certainty that came with them. The belief that I was fully in control of my body, that if something went wrong, it would be because I had made a mistake or could fix it with more effort. 

This was different. This was something I had to wait on. Something I had to monitor. Something that existed whether I acknowledged it or not. 

I didn’t have the language for it yet, but I could feel it, this quiet tension between who I thought I was and what I was learning to accept. It wasn’t just about my heart. It was about understanding that discipline doesn’t guarantee control, and that doing everything right doesn’t always mean things will go the way you expect. 

I didn’t know exactly what that would mean for me yet. 

But I knew I wasn’t looking at myself the same way anymore. 

There's a picture from the first year following our findings. It's not a big deal. After a game, I'm alone in my goalie uniform with my gloves dangling from one hand, grass stains on my shorts, and sweat dripping on my forehead. I'm grinning as if nothing could touch me. You would never believe that a week before that photo was taken, I was in my cardiologist's office with wires attached to my chest and the nurse instructing me to "breathe normally" as a machine displayed my heart's rhythm on a screen. 

That was the strangest part of the first two years: how routine things appeared from the outside. 

I was playing on the St. Thomas men's varsity soccer team in Fredericton, New Brunswick, during the academic year that I would be in my second year. My days were jam-packed with film sessions, classes, early morning lifts, and late practice sessions. From the outside, I appeared to be just another college athlete juggling workout plans and homework. 

However, the testing resumed whenever I returned home for the summer or Christmas holidays. I could only do it at that time. Blood tests, ECGs, ultrasounds, and cardiology follow-ups were all squeezed into a few weeks of appointments. In waiting rooms, my father and I would scroll through our phones. The identical grey chairs. The same quiet buzz of hospital air. I'd lie motionless, watching my own heart flutter on a screen as an ultrasound wand was inserted into my chest and frigid gel poured across my skin, and being hooked up to a monitor that would be connected to me for a full 24 hours and couldn't be active. 

Then the break would end, and I would fly back east. 

Twice a day, I worked out. Twice a week, I went on the team's trip to play in the games. I was playing university soccer unrestricted. I never had trouble breathing. I've never had a sharp pain. On most days, I didn't realize anything was "wrong." 

I was bothered by the inconsistencies. How could I have a hole in my heart when I could run the entire length of the field and jump all the way to the corner? The term hole was hazardous and enduring. However, I did not feel as if my body was broken. 

The process that made it more impossible to ignore ensued. Upper endoscopy (also known as Esophagogastroduodenoscopy or EGD) is a procedure used to examine the esophagus or airways and determine the extent of a rip, damage, or hole (perforation). 

That clarified the extent of the defect and whether it required closure. That required a more thorough examination and more accurate imaging. Every time I moved, the paper sheet crinkled as I lay on the small hospital bed once more. To make me feel numb, a nurse adjusted the IV in my arm and sprayed the numbing lotion in my throat. like I was about to choke on my own saliva and couldn't let it. With one hand on the railing, my father stood next to me. 

“You’re going to do great, kid,” he said. “You’re strong. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” I said back, trying to keep my voice steady. 

Both of my parents were present when I awoke. As if this were usual, the cardiologist drew a chair and spoke to my parents in a controlled tone. 

"You have a small atrial septal defect," he said. A tiny gap exists between the rooms. Everybody has one from birth. By the age of two, it normally closes. You didn't. 

He paused. 

“It’s small. Very common, especially in athletes. You don’t need surgery right away.” 

Right away. 

I found those two words to be sufficient. My body was filled with relief so fast that I nearly passed out. Tomorrow was not a surgery. Next week wasn't it either. Somewhere along the road, it was something abstract. 

I could go back to Fredericton. I could rejoin the St. Thomas men’s varsity soccer team. I could play my season. 

And I did. 

One of the best years of my life was my second year of college. Another picture from that fall shows my teammates and me celebrating our victory in the ACAA championship finals, arms across shoulders, jerseys smeared with sweat stains, and faces flushed with cold. You would only see youth and health if you didn't know any different. 

But in the background of that season was the quiet understanding that surgery would come “at some point.” 

I had a great summer at home with no concerns or appointments for my heart because there was nothing significantly wrong with me that required me to see anyone other than my cardiologist for a check-in. My body reminded me at the end of August, as I was in training camp getting ready for my third year at St. Thomas and a huge season to try to repeat as champs. 

It was the second of a two-day session. Over the field, the heat was suffocating. I drove back to my apartment after practice, exhausted but satisfied with my efforts. The globe tipped as soon as I stepped out of the car. 

Light flooded my eyesight. My ears ringing. My knees felt soft. 

My roommate saw me grab the door for balance. “You good?” he asked, already moving toward me. 

“I’m fine,” I lied, as the ground seemed to move. 

He dragged me into a chilly tub with water splashing over the sides. I felt better after ten minutes. However, a change had occurred. For the first time, I perceived vulnerability as a bodily sense rather than an abstract concept, dizziness, weakness, and the abrupt realization that my body had limitations that I was unable to overcome. 

I relived the episode while I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. My identity was built on my strength, resilience, and dependability. What did it signify if my heart was unsure? 

I was having a calm evening in November after our season ended in the conference semifinals. I just finished supper and was working on some schoolwork when the hospital called to let me know that I would need surgery on December 17. 

I said yes immediately. 

It felt like control. Like momentum. I called my dad. “They can get me in at 7 a.m. on December 17th,” I told him. 

"That's fantastic," he remarked. We both let out a breath. At last, my body began to feel some relief. However, this would only last for a few more weeks. 

Then, on November 27 at 7 p.m., I was working on my schoolwork at my desk when my phone rang from the hospital once more. I didn't understand why they would call me again, but I answered it. 

“We’re going to have to cancel your surgery,” the receptionist said. “Dr. Lim won’t be available.” 

My chest tightened. “Do you have another date?” 

“January 28.” 

A whole month later. 

I hung up and gazed at the empty wall in my room. I was outraged at first, but then I felt powerless. As a student-athlete, I meticulously planned every aspect of my life. procedures. classes. Games. Lifts. Suddenly, I had no control over the most important event of my year. When I informed my father what had happened over the phone, he was much more enraged than I was. The surgery was arranged for when I was at home, so I would only miss the first week and a half of the second semester. When I was upset, my father would respond, "Here, let's come up with a plan." 

That evening, I emailed my teachers and explained the situation. I tried to remain cool as I wrote attentively. In an email, medical uncertainty does not appear to be dramatic. It looks to be polite sentences with supporting documentation. 

They all gave positive responses. I still have their tiny messages in my inbox, reassuring me in ways they probably did not realize. It was now time for me to prepare, return home for Christmas break, and say goodbye to all my friends in the East, as this would be my last opportunity to see them before my surgery. 

January 28. 

5:15 a.m. 

In the dark, my alarm went off. It was a calm journey to the hospital. Beyond the window, the city lights were hazy. Even though I wasn’t fully awake, I knew how important the day was. 

At check-in, they sent me to bed eight. I changed into a hospital gown. My father hugged me before heading out. 

“You’re going to do great; I love you,” he said again. 

This time, I noticed the tightness in his voice. 

In preparation for inserting the catheter, the nurse shaved my groin. IV needle with blood pressure cuff. cozy blanket. "I'll be assisting Dr. Lim," each nurse said as they introduced themselves. I was steadied by their cool professionalism. 

At 8 a.m., they wheeled me into the procedure room. 

“Would you like something to help you relax?” someone asked. 

“Yes,” I said. 

Above me, the lights were first brilliant and clinical before gradually fading into darkness, but there was still some light. Like heat spreading across water, I could feel the drug moving through my body. One of the nurses stated, "You're going to be okay, I'll get you a warm blanket to help you," as I was trembling violently due to my anxiety and cold. I wasn't completely submerged. I could feel pressure, hear voices, and react to their questions about how I was doing. 

At 9:30 a.m., Dr. Lim leaned over me. 

“Everything went smoothly,” he said. “The hole was still very small. You did very well.” 

You did very well. As if I had taken a test. 

Recovery was not heroic. It was boring and uncomfortable and humbling. 

For two hours, I had to lie flat. The hospital bed had a concrete feel about it. My lower back ached. I counted the ceiling tiles as I looked at them. I texted my parents; everything is finished, and you can come visit me at 11. 

My parents took pictures as soon as they entered. In one of them, my hair is flattened on one side, my hospital gown is crooked, and I appear pale and bloated.

I saved that picture. It doesn't look good. To be honest, this is atypical in my family. 

The first night at home was harder than I expected. I was unable to sit at a 90-degree angle. I was unable to fall asleep on my back. The area where they inserted my leg via the groin ached. For the first five days, I couldn't sit at 90 degrees and had to eat standing up. In between bites, I paced around the kitchen. 

For three nights, I barely slept. I set a new screen time record: eighteen hours. It is almost funny now. At the time, it felt endless. 

Nevertheless, during those peaceful times, a small alteration occurred. I listened to my heartbeat while I lay awake at two in the morning. It was steady, not rushing or straining. I became aware of how much I had been watching it unconsciously for years for the first time. taking breath measurements. observing flutters. waiting for a mishap. 

Now, there was nothing to wait for. 

The soreness decreased on day five. I saw the tiny cut when I removed the bandage. a narrow line. Like spilled paint, the bruise surrounding it blossomed purple and yellow. proof of an intrusion. Proof of repair. 

It felt ceremonial to take the first shower. I felt warm water on my back. rising steam. I stood there for longer than was necessary, allowing the realization that my heart had been repaired to sink in. Not in a symbolic sense. In actuality. 

A week following the procedure, my family doctor asked how I was doing and how the operation went as I sat on the crinkling paper of his exam table. The bruise had turned yellow rather than deep purple, and the swelling had nearly totally reduced. He pushed softly around the region and nodded. 

He looked up at me and smiled slightly, saying, "It must feel good to have it done." 

"It looks wonderful. It's healing nicely. You don't have to see me again for this," he remarked, rolling his stool back almost casually.

Simply keep going with your recovery. You are all set to return to school by plane. Everything felt official because of the plain and certain way he stated it. It was as if I were being released from both a chapter and an appointment. 

Two weeks later, on February 12, I flew back to Fredericton. 

After surgery, airports are strange places. Everyone is moving quickly, checking clocks and carrying luggage. I walked carefully, aware of my body but no longer afraid of it. As the plane took off, I expressed silent gratitude to doctors, technology, and the fact that a little device was now inside my heart, filling a gap that had been there since I was a child. 

My teammates and girlfriend were thrilled to have me back at school, and my coaches were pleased to see how well I was doing. They all asked, "How are you feeling?" 

“I'm doing better each day,” I said. 

However, what I was trying to say was that I now understand something that I didn't previously. 

Being young does not guarantee immunity. Fitness does not make you invincible. Furthermore, being fearless does not imply strength. 

It takes bravery to admit your fear while sitting in a hospital waiting room. Text your parents first. It requires writing awkward emails to professors and trusting that even if you take a short break, the world will not fall apart. 

The image of me in that first doctor's office, staring at my father while the term "enlarged" hung in the air, comes to mind as I jog slowly beneath the March sky. I want to reassure him that I won't be destroyed by uncertainty. I'll learn patience from the waiting. My identity as an athlete will be strengthened rather than diminished by that vulnerability. 

My watch beeps again. Time to walk. 

I come to stop and place my palm on my chest, not because I am concerned, but because I can. My heart beats steadily under my palm, healed, and finally calm.