They say I died. For three whole minutes, not a breath, not a heartbeat, just a silent pause. Long enough for my mother to do what she does best—jump in and punch me right in the chest.

She tells me she brought me back to life, the life she originally gave to me. According to her, those are the two most important acts she has ever committed. And ones that I'm supposed to be eternally grateful for, even more than two decades later.

No matter how badly I'd like to forget what I was barely old enough to remember, I can't. My annual checkup manages to arrive like low tide, dragging up all the gunk that lies beneath the surface.

"September 9, 1999," I say when asked to confirm my birthdate.

"Oh, happy birthday," the nurse says.

She puts the EKG sensors on my skin—my chest, wrists, and legs. Prone on my back, I pretend to offer myself up—up to what, I'm not sure. The greater glory of science?

The pulses tell a black-and-white story that measures the health of my heart purely by electrical impulses.

It can't measure the ache in my sternum, scar tissue from the pounding I've taken from the mild, forgotten child, perpetually the last one picked up—or worse, wandering the streets at night while my mom was busy with her latest guy. And then worse indignities, ones that I won't utter aloud for fear they will rise from the dead and haunt me all the remaining days of my life.

Closing my eyes, I inhale as deeply as my tight rib cage is willing to accommodate. I hold my breath at the top to show my body who is boss and override the natural reflex to breathe at a different pace. I force everything to slow because I can live with discomfort. I've even learned to enjoy it.

The nurse asks if I'm comfortable. Does it matter? Instead, I say yes.

She disappears with the printout that looks more like the polygraph results of a pathological liar, trained to render any bodily response to a flat line. And when she reemerges, it is to tell me the doctor says it's normal.

She unhooks me and lets me dress.

I've come prepared; a tube dress—no bra. I slip it on in under a second, which, of course, leaves me waiting on the exam table. My legs dangle like a small child's. I swing them back and forth as if I'm about to take a giant leap forward. My thighs press down, rustling the paper beneath me. I'm not going anywhere. Who am I kidding?

A quick double rap, the swoosh of the door, and Dr. Martel appears with his shadow, a resident about my age. Bespeckled with white coats and stethoscope necklaces, they stand like a couple at a Halloween party. The trick is on me, though. I forgot how inquisitive these residents can be when trying to impress the attending physician.

He starts with my birth. My audible sigh is not acknowledged.

Normal, full-term, natural delivery.

Check, check, check.

No fetal distress, healthy birth weight, standard hospital stay.

Check, check, check.

Isn't all this in my chart? Just read it.

Instead, I answer a litany of medical history questions like I'm reciting my address. This gets me thinking about all the addresses I've had, and which ones I've liked the least, which is an impossible contest to judge. My mother's uterus is where it all went wrong.

The resident continues with his speed-round inquisition, but all his questions are designed for sterile answers, an assembly-line approach. All the parts are in place, so everything must be functioning. There can't be other concerns, right? The questions I'm not asked are the important ones. When was the last time you ate a vegetable? How much do you sleep? Do you have meaningful relationships? How do you self-soothe? If you were diagnosed with a terminal illness, would you secretly be relieved?

The resident looks over the top of his glasses. I stare back at him. How long have I zoned out for? What question are we up to?

Clearing his throat, he says, "So, what do you remember about the accident?"

"I was young. I'm not sure if what I remember is what I was told or what I recall." Before I blink, I tell myself not to move a muscle. So much for self-control.

"Well, tell me what you think happened."

"I had just eaten my birthday cake." Had I? "I was hopped up on sugar. I ran around the coffee table and tripped. My chest slammed into the corner." His eyebrows rise like he wants me to elaborate. "That's all I got."

Suddenly the stench of beer and cigarettes is upon me, and I suppress the urge to gag. I remember being slammed hard from behind. And when I awoke, it was to shouting. I wanted it to stop, or I wanted to disappear. Some things never change.

It was the one time my mother didn't leave my side, but looking back, what mother doesn't ride in the ambulance with her young child? At the hospital, she spoke for me.

She's frightened. Please, today is her fourth birthday. I just want to take her home as soon as possible. She hasn't even opened her gifts.

Did I even get any gifts? I can't remember.

She's a good girl. She was running too fast and fell. Thank God she's all right.

When the social worker came to speak with me, she ended up patting my mother's hand.

You saved her. It's over now.

Yet, twenty years later, here I am.

The resident hasn't stopped talking, and worse, he lacks self-awareness. Can't he see I'm not paying attention? As he winds down, he cocks his head. "So, what do you think?"

"About what?"

He releases an exaggerated exhale. "Would you be willing to participate in the study? It could be beneficial to future patients."

Study? Hard pass. "I'd like fewer exams, not more."

His face is tinged red; his eyes are magnified by his glasses—nerdy, cartoonish come to mind. "You only come once a year. There is no less."

Isn't there?

"I read that the heart is like an engine. It has a life span—a certain number of beats before the motor gives out. Didn't I conserve some of those beats when I died?"

"It's more complicated than that," he stutters.

Dr. Martel rests his hand on the resident's shoulder. "It's okay, Brad. She's not interested."

I could leave it at that, but I don't. "Besides, my chest hit the point of the end table at an oddly precise angle. I'm the victim of a freak accident," much like my life, being born into the family I have. Now that's something worth examining. "Study someone with a congenital issue."

"It was a miracle, actually."

I do a poor job of suppressing a snort.

A miracle for who? My mother, who defended me against death and little else?

The resident sighs and his arms go limp at his sides. "Okay, then. Can I have a listen at least?"

I nod, prepared for the passive-aggressive treatment that will surely follow. I know how the world reacts to a woman who doesn't cooperate, who has a mind of her own. Deviate from expectations and be prepared to accept the consequences.

He sidles up to me; irritation marks his cheeks a blotchy red. I look away. His scowl is like sandpaper on my skin, trying to wear me down.

He blows on the stethoscope and rubs its face in circles against his sleeve. Before he presses it to my flesh, he rests his finger on it, as if he is taking its temperature.

That's all it takes.

I look at the ceiling, I blink over and over, but it's no use. Tears pool in my eyes and spill over, running down my face, dripping into my lap.

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" He recoils and Dr. Martel looks up. "What is it? What did I do?"

I shake my head side to side. "Nothing," I say. "You're kind."

"Kind of what?"

This makes me laugh. "Kind of nice."

He moves the stethoscope across my back, instructing me on how deep a breath to take. I comply through quaking breaths, even when I must repeat this for Dr. Martel.

I stare at the light switch to ignore the resident's eyes on me. When Dr. Martel finishes, the resident hands me a tissue, nodding as if to confirm I'm all right. Dr. Martel says, "Okay then, you're good to go, unless you have any questions."

"Nope." I hop off the examining table. "I really am sorry about the study, but I want this all behind me."

The resident wags his head. "Without a defibrillator, it really was a miracle you lived. It would have been such a shame to lose you."

My mother hasn't ever said these words to me. My throat swells and all I can do is nod my head and leave. Run right out of there, right past reception.

"Aren't we scheduling a follow-up?" someone calls from behind the desk. But I keep going; my arms, my legs, my heart all propel me forward until I'm practically running to my car. My hands shake as I open the door and slide in.

I remember clinging to my mother's arm as we sat in the hospital, wishing all the questions would stop.

"Close your eyes and they'll go away," she whispered into my hair. "Don't say anything."

Playing dead; I've spent a lifetime cultivating that talent.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth to calm the throbbing pulse in my neck, and that is when I spot him. The resident rushes into the parking lot and whips his head like he is in desperate search of something. When our eyes meet, he jogs over. Did I forget something in the exam room?

"I'm sorry if I upset you," he says as I roll down my window. "Are you all right?"

Stunned, I stare at him. "I'm fine. Thanks for your concern."

"My bedside manner could use improving. My intensity can come off as aggressive. Your heart is in great shape. I don't want you to worry."

"Yeah, it's hard not to wonder if there is long-term damage in my future." Which, of course, I already know there is. There is the muscle itself and then there is the spirit of my heart. Two different things, but both can be broken.

"Sometimes the body can repair itself in the most amazing ways. Every day, I'm in awe of its power. Never doubt how strong your heart is."

"I never looked at it like that. Thank you for that perspective."

He waves as he walks backward, away from me. "Happy birthday times two! Not everyone gets a redo."

"True," I say and watch as he runs back to the clinic.

His words remain with me. Never doubt how strong your heart is.

All these years, I've thought of my heart as damage to manage. Resilience isn't a word that ever came to mind.

I slide my hand over my chest and wonder how these faint blips can power my entire being. And yet, disrupting this perfect rhythm is what both killed and saved me. I remain, transfixed by its gentle strength, calmed by its steadfast pace. And in the lull between pulses, I hear it, begging me to seize the chance.

To live. To live.