“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to my wife. She blinked and cocked her head questioningly. “It’s definitely new,” I explained. “It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night. At least, I don’t remember it being there, and I really think I’d have noticed. And even if I didn’t, I’m sure you would have said something. “But this morning, when I went to brush my teeth, I looked in the mirror, and… there it was. A hole in my chest, right through the middle, about where my heart ought to be.” I gestured vaguely at my shirt-covered chest. “It’s a round hole, a bit wider than my fist, and it goes all the way through me.” She bit her lip. “So, are you telling me your heart is, is gone? Or hurting? Is that what this is about?” “No. Well, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m still moving around and… and stuff.” I put a finger to my neck. “Still got a pulse. But there’s definitely a hole in my chest, so I’m not sure how I can still have a heart.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’m not really following your metaphor.” Now it was my turn to blink and cock [i]my[/i] head. “What? No. No, I’m not being metaphorical. I mean there’s literally a hole in my chest, and you can literally stick your hand right through me, and I don’t know why.” She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know why, either. What’s even the context for this?” “The context is that I woke up with a hole in my chest.” “See, that doesn’t help me. [i]Why[/i] is there a whole in your chest?” “That’s what I want to know.” The apologetic smile was starting to fade, frustration slowly but surely replacing it. “Honey, is this a Kafka thing, where the point is that there [i]is[/i] no reason for it?” “I’m sure I have no idea. I was really hoping for some advice. Should I see a doctor? I feel fine, but having a hole in your chest seems like the kind of thing you ought to tell someone.” “Well, [i]I[/i] don’t know. If it was me, I’d probably freak out, but it’s all kind of… academic, isn’t it? I mean, that’s something that can’t [i]actually[/i] happen.” “Okay, I really don’t think I’m making myself clear.” I took off my shirt, exposing the hole in my chest. “If you look at my chest, right now, my [i]actual[/i] chest, you will discover an [i]actual[/i] hole going right through the middle of it. I am completely out of my depth, here, and I could really, [i]really[/i] use some advice.” She frowned at my chest, and the hole in the middle of it. I held my breath, waiting to see what she’d say. “...Is there some sort of religious allusion that I’m missing?” With a great effort, I managed to stop myself from slapping my forehead. “I. Don’t. Know.” She glared at me, tolerance exhausted. “Well, [i]I[/i] don’t know too, and if you’re going to be this obtuse, then nobody else is going to be able to understand, either.” She snorted. “Just saying ‘look at me, I’ve got a hole in my chest, figure it out yourself, isn’t it deep?’ isn’t clever. It’s pretentious, is what it is.” “It [i]is[/i] deep. It goes all the way through.” I knew that was the wrong thing to say, but by now I was feeling pretty petulant myself. “Look, I’m done talking about this. Why don’t you and your ‘hole’”—her air-quotes were the most emphatically sarcastic I’d ever seen—”take a walk. And don’t come back until you’re ready to stop acting like you’re… like you’re a character in somebody’s college art film.” I pulled my shirt back on, and walked out the door. [hr] “There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the doctor. He rolled his eyes and stood up, heading for the door out of the cramped exam room. “Right. Look, I’ve got [i]actual[/i] patients to see. Come back when you—” He paused in mid-lecture as I took off my shirt. “It wasn’t there before this morning. At least, I don’t think it was,” I supplied. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.” He frowned at it, then grabbed the bell of his stethoscope. He brought it up to where my heart ought to be, and stuck it a few inches inside the hole. After a moment he pulled it out, satisfied. “Looks like a psychosomatic issue,” he pronounced. “No, it looks like a hole in my chest,” I replied. He chuckled. “Well, yes, I suppose so. But let’s be [i]serious[/i] for a moment. If there were actually a hole in your chest going through your heart, you’d be dead!” “I’m not dead,” I said, “but there is definitely a hole in my chest.” He smiled in a way which made me irrationally angry. “Well, surely you can see that both of those things can’t be true, yes? Now look here.” He grabbed a small mirror, and held it in front of my face. “Breath out gently onto the glass, please.” I did. He pulled the mirror back and showed me the misted pane. “[i]If[/i] there was a hole in your chest right where you say there is, it would be cutting through the bottom of your trachea. If you can imagine a way you could exhale, let alone fog up a mirror, when your lungs aren’t even connected to your mouth, then I’d love to hear it. Moreover, it would be cutting your sternum neatly in half—” he paused to prod the top and bottom of the hole “—in fact, you’d have barely any sternum [i]left[/i], with a hole that size. Without that support, your rib cage would collapse almost immediately.” He stood up, satisfied. So, not only would you already be dead if you did, in fact, have this hole in your chest, but your body would be totally incapable of doing several other key things which it’s obviously still doing.” I looked down at my chest; the hole was still there. I looked back to the doctor, who was taking off his gloves. “Okay. Okay, fine, this hole in my chest is impossible. You know what, you’re right, it [i]is[/i] impossible. But since it’s still here, what should I do?” He threw the gloves in the trash, and opened the exam room’s door, gesturing for me to follow him out. “My receptionist will schedule an appointment for you with Dr. Kyrzynski.” [hr] “There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to no one in particular. “There’s a hole in my chest,” I repeated, “and he’s sending me to a shrink.” Dr. Kyrzynski was a clinical psychologist. She also had an opening that afternoon. “A shrink. For a [i]hole[/i] in my [i]chest[/i].” I decided to grab some lunch while I waited. “A gyro and a Diet Coke,” I told the man in the food truck. “$6.41,” he said, as the man behind him started putting together my gyro. “Any sauce?” “No,” I said, handing him a twenty. “Do you think I’ll be able to eat it with a hole in my chest?” He paused in the act of making change and looked at me with a bit more attention. “A what?” “A hole in my chest. There’s a big hole in the middle of my chest. Do you think I can still eat?” He slowly looked me up and down, then counted my change into my hand. “No refunds.” “Okay.” As his companion set my meal on the counter, I asked him the same question. “Oh, yeah,” he answered, in a cheerful voice. “Gyro’s’ great for when you’re feeling down.” “No, I—okay, thanks.” I didn’t have any trouble eating or drinking. But when I peeked under my collar, the hole in my chest was still there. [hr] “There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to Dr. Kyrzynski. “I see. And how long have you been feeling this ‘hole?’” she asked me. I wasn’t lying on a couch, which surprised me. Her office looked more like a lawyer’s than a doctor’s, with shelves full of books on both sides of me. She sat on the far side of large, intimidatingly clean desk. She’d gotten up to shake my hand, then invited me to sit in a nondescript office chair opposite her before taking her seat behind the desk again. “I don’t really feel it,” I told her. “I mean, I can touch it, but it doesn’t hurt or anything.” “Then would it be fair to say that this ‘hole’ isn’t causing you any pain?” “That’s right.” “How would you describe the feeling, then?” I turned that one over in my head for a moment. “There really isn’t a feeling at all. Just normal-feeling, I guess.” She wrote something down. “Do you feel any anxiety when you think about it?” “Yes. I’m not sure what it’s doing, or why it’s there, or how I’m even alive right now. I’m feeling very anxious about those things.” She wrote a few more things down. “Do you want to see the hole?” “I’m more interested in [i]understanding[/i] the hole. How long have you been feeling anxious about it?” “Since I saw it this morning. Look, you do understand that I’m talking about a literal, physical hole, right?” I looked around, finding nothing but the books and a few potted plants. “I’m not sure what my referral said, but I actually do—” “Please, relax,” she said in a soothing voice. “We’re just here to talk right now. If we decide to do anything, it will only be because [i]both[/i] of us agree it’s the best course of action.” “Okay, but the hole—” “Yes, the hole. You said it goes through your heart?” I nodded. “Yeah, thereabouts.” “And you don’t know why you don’t feel anything?” I nodded again. “Well, that’s not uncommon. There are many ways of processing strong emotions, and a sense of emptiness or a lack of feeling are very, very common responses. Tell me, how do you think you [i]should[/i] be feeling?” “In pain?” I ventured. The foggy mirror came back to my mind. “Suffocating?” She smiled. “Suffocating, okay. That’s an excellent descriptor.” She flipped a page in her notebook. “Why do you think you should feel that way?” “Well, apparently my lungs aren’t connected to my—” “I’m sorry,” she cut in, smiling, “I guess I should have been clearer. Not physically, but emotionally: why do you think you should feel, let’s say, smothered?” I gritted my teeth. “Emotionally, I think I’d feel less smothered if someone would tell me what to do about the damn hole in my chest.” Dr. Kyrzynski’s smile became a little more strained, and she made another note on her pad. I glanced at a clock behind me. My appointment was for thirty minutes. I still had twenty-four left. [hr] “There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the sheet of paper I’d been given. Then I looked down the street to the Walgreens on the corner. I’d left Dr. Kyrzynski’s office with a prescription for one month’s worth of Maprotiline, which was supposed to help with my “anxiety-based depression” and “resultant irritative tendencies.” I took another look at it. I stuffed the prescription in my back pocket. I walked straight past the Walgreens and across the street. From there, I headed into the first bar I saw. I still didn’t know what to do about the hole in my chest, but at the very least, I figured that I’d earned a drink by now. [hr] “There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the dregs of Captain and Coke in my glass. “Sorry, did you say something?” asked the bartender. It was still afternoon, and this wasn’t the kind of bar that catered to midday clientele. Other than a pair of older men nursing beers while playing chess at a booth in the back, it was just the two of us. “No.” I said. “Yes. Yes, I said something. I said I have a hole in my chest.” “Can I see it?” I shrugged, and pulled up my shirt. He whistled appreciatively. “Yup, that sure looks like a hole in your chest, alright.” “[i]Thank[/i] you.” I groaned in relief. “You wouldn’t—wait, you’re just humoring me, aren’t you?” “No, that definitely looks like there’s a big chunk of you missing that shouldn’t be.” I looked at him suspiciously, pulling my shirt back down. “You don’t think it’s a metaphor, or all in my head, or a manifestation of my subconscious guilt?” “I don’t know?” The bartender quirked an eyebrow. “Is it one of those things?” “I don’t think so,” I replied. “I think I just woke up this morning and there was a hole in my chest. Which, believe me, I [i]know[/i] that that’s not a satisfying answer, but if I [i]had[/i] the answer, I’d…” I trailed off, strained for a way to complete the sentence, and eventually gave up and finished my drink. “Okay, I guess I don’t know what I’d do. Depends on the why, I guess. But I’d do [i]something[/i].” “I hear you,” he said, taking my empty glass and tilting it questioningly. I nodded, and he started making another. “I went through that a few years ago.” “You had a hole in your chest?” I didn’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice. “Oh, no. No, nothing like that, thank god!” He laughed, and passed me my drink. “No, one day I woke up and my eyes were replaced with writhing pools of maggots.” “Bullshit.” “Yeah,” he leaned against the counter. “Yeah, I know. But, I mean… [i]look[/i] at them, right? Really [i]look[/i] into my eyes.” “Is this some sort of pickup line? Because even if I was gay [i]and[/i] single, maggots aren’t—” “Come on, buddy, humor me.” “Alright.” I took a good look at his eyes. “...Huh. Okay,” I said after a moment. “I guess I can see why you’d think you had writhing pools of maggots instead of eyes, if you didn’t know any better.” He dipped his head slightly. “‘If you didn’t know any better,’ huh?” “Well, come on. I mean, yes, that’s [i]sorta[/i] what they look like, but you clearly aren’t blind.” I snorted. “How could you see if you didn’t have any eyes?” “Yeah…” he sighed, and it sounded wistful to my ears. “Yeah, that’s how I figured it, too. But you’ve gotta admit, the resemblance to a couple of writhing pools of maggots is uncanny. Can’t blame a guy for running around trying to figure out what happened to his eyes, can you?” “I suppose not,” I agreed. “You ever get that checked out? Maybe it’s glaucoma or something. Might be a treatment for that.” He stared at me expectantly. I stared back for, in retrospect, an embarrassingly long time. In my defense, I’d been drinking. “Ooh…” I finally managed. “Yeah.” “So…” “Hey, it sure looks like a hole in your chest, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you did.” He smiled, and his maggoty eyes pulsated luridly. “But deep down, you know that that’s just silly.” I shook my head. “When you put it like that… heh, I guess I’ve been acting pretty foolish, haven’t I?” One of the chess players came up to the bar. “Hey, can I get a couple more?” “Sure, sure,” the bartender answered. Then he put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know why there’s a hole in your chest. But if there’s one thing I [i]do[/i] know, it’s that you don’t have a hole in your chest. You get me?” I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. While he pulled the other man’s drinks, I fished out a few bills and left them on the counter. Then, I headed home. [hr] “There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to my wife. “We’re not going to play this game again, are we?” she asked, warily. “No,” I said. I sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to me. She joined me, and leaned her head against my shoulder. “Good,” she said. “Sorry if I was a little bitchy this morning, but I’ve been really stressed at work lately. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” “It’s alright,” I told her. “I did end up seeing someone about it. I’m not sure exactly why I think there’s a hole in my chest, but it might be an expression of repressed bereavement.” “For your dad?” “Mmm.” “I suppose that makes sense,” she said, placing her hand on my chest, her fingers depressing the shirt a couple of inches into the hole. “But it’s been almost three years since he died. Why would you start feeling like your heart was gone now?” “I don’t know,” I replied, “But Dr. Kyrzynski says that sometimes these feelings don’t manifest right away, and there can be additional triggers.” “Dr. Kyrzynski?” “She’s a shrink. I hadn’t made up my mind if I was going to go back to her, but I think I’ll call her office and set up an appointment for next week.” “Good. It sounds like you made some progress just from your first session.” “I think I did,” I said, taking her hand in mine and idly running her fingertips around the edge of the hole. “Honestly, I’m not so sure that’s even what it is, but going back can’t hurt. Oh, and there’s someone else who helped, too, and I really ought to pop over and thank him tomorrow.” “You do that.” She snuggled a little closer to me. “I like you better when you’re not being obtuse.” We both laughed. [hr] “There’s not a hole in my chest,” I said to the man with writhing pools of maggots for eyes. “There aren’t writhing pools of maggots in place of my eyes,” he answered with a grin. And there weren’t.