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“Darling? What’s wrong?”

—Mr. T, over breakfast this morning

I first learned about “broken heart syndrome” from my friend Lynne Cox, who was diagnosed with the condition a few years ago. At the time, she was grieving the losses, in quick succession, of her mother, her father, her dog Cody, and the home where she had lived for most of her life. She was 55.

Lynne is a long-distance swimmer who specializes in cold water. At age 15 she swam the English Channel in record time, faster than any human being had ever done. She has swum in skanky water to protest pollution, shared the waves with sharks and jellyfish and ice floes. She once reunited a baby whale with its mother, with the help of the U.S. Coast Guard, who spotted her as she stayed with the lost baby. She later wrote about that encounter, beautifully, in her book “Grayson.” I met her in California, soon after she swam the Bering Strait.

Lynne is one of the bravest, most optimistic people I know. And she was absolutely felled by grief.

From the Mayo Clinic website: “Broken heart syndrome is a heart condition that's often brought on by stressful situations and extreme emotions. The condition also can be triggered by a serious physical illness or surgery. Broken heart syndrome is usually temporary. But some people may continue to feel unwell after the heart is healed.”

I don’t have broken heart syndrome, not really. I had a nosebleed last week, that’s all. But I swear, it is my body, as much as my mind, that is grieving right now. And my body is saying, “Wait a minute. What the fuck is going on? Help!”

This morning I woke up (yay!). I got dressed, sort of. I went to the kitchen, made coffee, made toast, set the table. Said good morning to my husband, my sweet husband, whom I love so much. “How did you sleep?” he asked.

I had to think. How did I sleep? I could remember nothing, good or bad, about the hours that had passed since I went to bed. It was as if, after a day of heartache, I had escaped into a coma. “Fine,” I said. “And you?”

Mr. T has restless-leg syndrome. Nights are sometimes a horror. “Not too bad,” he said.

The toaster popped out toast. I sat down, opposite Mr. T. That’s when my body said, “Are you really going to eat that toast? I’m not hungry. I’m . . . sad.”

Really, really, really sad. Sad with a capital S. Sad to the core.

 “Darling?” said Mr. T, studying my face. “What’s wrong?”

At this point, my face was partially covered by my hands. I didn't plan to cover my face with my hands, my hands just went there. As if to say, "Poor face, we know how you feel. We, too, are sad." Every cell in my body, every nucleus of every cell, was sad.

Exactly three months ago, I spent the night watching election returns and thinking, “This can’t be happening.” Mr. T. was in the hospital, and I woke up alone on Wednesday, November 6. It was too early to call my husband’s mobile, so I made coffee and waited for the sun to rise.

It did.

I said to myself, “So what are you gonna do now, Madame Texier—now that your country has just gone fascist?”

I answered, instinctively, almost without pause, “I’m gonna write my way through it.”

And that’s what I am trying to do. To write my way through it—the hideous spectacle of the inauguration, the systematic dismantling of the government, the intimidation of the press, the stunned reaction of Congress, all of it. To write my way through a coup, in fact.

Some days it’s easy—the writing, I mean. The keyboard is my friend. Some days it’s hard. But “through it” implies there is an end. Another shore. A resolution. A brighter future.

Let us hope so.

#Turning70

Photo: "Morning walk," chateau de Fontainebleau, February 4, 2024