Matters of the Heart
But when she talks about hers, you won't hear much about lost love or ruined romance or anything like that.
Instead, you'll hear about things like mitral valves and ventricles, EKGs and echocardiograms.
You see, Jenn's heart really was broken not so long ago …
It was a typical Florida summer afternoon. Upper 90s. Cloudless sky. No breeze. Stifling heat.
Jenn, who was 17 at the time, was standing in the outfield. She was playing in a softball tournament, and it was her team's sixth game of the day.
Suddenly, Jenn got dizzy. Then everything went black.
"I was still conscious," says Jenn, now 21, "but I couldn't see anything but blackness. I called a time-out and yelled, 'Coach! I can't see! Somebody come and get me!'"
They helped Jenn off the field and into the shade of the dugout. As she cooled off, her sight returned to normal. She rested a few innings and went back in the game.
"I didn't think much of it," she says. "I figured it was just the heat."
It wasn't the heat. It was her heart. Or, more accurately, the hole in her heart.
Jenn had known for years she had a heart defect. When she was 5, she was diagnosed with mitral valve prolapse, a hereditary condition she had picked up from her mom.
A normal mitral valve allows blood to flow from the heart's left atrium to the left ventricle. But Jenn's defective mitral valve allowed some blood to flow back into the atrium. As a result, Jenn's heart had to work a little harder to keep her blood moving.
Additionally, doctors said she might have a small hole in her septum, a part of the muscular wall that divides the heart in half. They said the hole would most likely heal as she grew older.
Despite these findings, the docs said Jenn could go ahead and live a normal life … as long as she came back for annual check-ups.
So Jenn got on with life—Little League baseball, climbing trees, running around the neighborhood, always on the move.
"A typical tomboy," she says.
Jenn eventually became a softball fanatic, playing year-round—school teams, church leagues, summer tournaments. She starred at Manatee High School in Bradenton, Florida, winning all kinds of awards and playing in the All-State All-Star Game.
For the most part, Jenn's softball adventures were trouble-free … at least till the summer after her junior year, when she had that dizzy spell and brush with blindness.
But she never experienced anything like that again, and by the time she graduated in June of '95, everything seemed just perfect. She had a pocketful of athletic and academic honors, and she was headed to Auburn University to play college softball.
Life was lookin' really good. And then …
It was just another routine checkup, her last visit to the cardiologist before college.
Everything seemed to be going just fine, including the echocardiogram, which "looks" at the heart with sound waves.
"I was on the table, talking to the technician during the echocardiogram, just jabbering away," Jenn says. "After about 20 minutes, the technician suddenly got real quiet. I said, 'What's the matter?' He said, 'Hold on a minute.' Then he went into the hall, shut the door, and called my doctor.
"I looked at my mom, and I'm like, 'This is weird. What's going on?'"
They sent Jenn home, and told her to wait for a call from her doctor. Two days later, the phone rang. Jenn was home alone.
"I answered it," says Jenn. "The doctor wanted to speak to my mom, but she wasn't home. I said, 'Look, I'm the patient. I'm 18. You can tell me.'
"He finally said, 'We found what we think is a hole in your heart.' I just about dropped the phone."
Further tests confirmed the doctor's suspicions. The hole in Jenn's septum—the one they'd found when she was 5—apparently never closed up. And now there it was, no doubt about it, a 13-millimeter hole—bigger than a dime, but smaller than a nickel.
The doctor recommended surgery. That's not what Jenn wanted to hear.
"I'm like, 'Hold on. I'm going to college in a few weeks.' And my parents are like, 'Will it hurt anything if we wait till next summer to have the surgery?' And the doctor says, 'Well, no. We can wait till then. But I wouldn't put it off any longer than that.'"
So they scheduled the surgery for the next summer—after Jenn's first year at Auburn.
On June 24, 1996, Jenn went into the hospital. The next morning, she would have open-heart surgery. But first, she had to sign some legal papers.
"My doctor said, 'It's a waiver against all of these different things that could happen during the operation—punctured lung, punctured esophagus, internal bleeding, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and death. Here, sign right here.' And I'm like, 'Oh, OK, no problem!'"
Jenn says she wasn't nervous at all.
"I wasn't worried," she says. "I didn't have any reservations. I knew this had to be done if I was going to keep playing softball. There wasn't any question about it. And I knew I was in good hands."
By "good hands," Jenn meant not just her surgeon, but God. She had grown up in a Christian home, and her faith was strong.
"I've always believed God will never give me anything I can't handle," she says.
The surgery was supposed to take two hours. But when the doctors got inside, they found that Jenn didn't have one big hole in her septum, but many tiny holes. Her doctor said it looked "shredded, like Swiss cheese."
They removed the defective tissue and repaired it with a piece of Jenn's pericardium—the membrane surrounding the heart.
The surgery was a success, and three days later, Jenn went home. Two months later, Jenn went to a batting cage and started hitting some balls. It hurt, but it was a start.
Three weeks after that, Jenn was back at Auburn. She ended up starting in center field, batting around .300 and hitting Auburn's first-ever inside-the-park home run. She also made the Southeastern Conference Academic Honor Roll with a 3.46 GPA.
Now, as Jenn begins her senior year, she's living life to the max. Softball. A sorority. A double major in journalism and political science, with an eye toward law school.
Not bad for somebody who might not even be here.
"The doctor said we were lucky to discover the hole in my heart," says Jenn. "My heart was having to work twice as hard, and my blood wasn't flowing throughout my body the way it should. That's why I got dizzy that day in the tournament.
"And my heart was getting bigger all the time, because the harder a muscle works, the bigger it gets. The doctor said if we hadn't found the problem, my heart would have exploded within two or three years."
Yes, Jenn had been headed straight for a heart attack.
"I think about that a lot," she says. "I often wonder, Would this have been the day? Would I have died of a heart attack today?"
She takes that thought a step further.
"But even if I hadn't had any heart problems, I'd still wonder, Could today be the day? People die every day from unexpected events, like car accidents. None of us knows when we're going to die."
Here, Jenn wants to clarify something: These aren't just morbid thoughts that paralyze her with paranoia. Instead, these thoughts energize her.
"The point is, you don't know when your time is going to come," she says. "That realization has made me more aware that God has a plan for me—not just for my future, but for now, for every single day."
Jenn says that perspective helps her deal with stress.
"Sometimes stuff happens that gets me down," she says. "Maybe it's something on the softball team. Maybe it's a bad grade. But then I step back and ask, 'How blessed am I to have all this stuff that causes my stress? How many people have this opportunity to go to college, to play softball?'
"I am so blessed. I thank God every day that I have another day to live. I'm always asking him, 'What do you want me to do for you today?'
"Every day is a gift from God. I thank him for every breath."
From the bottom of her heart.
But when she talks about hers, you won't hear much about lost love or ruined romance or anything like that.
Instead, you'll hear about things like mitral valves and ventricles, EKGs and echocardiograms.
You see, Jenn's heart really was broken not so long ago …
It was a typical Florida summer afternoon. Upper 90s. Cloudless sky. No breeze. Stifling heat.
Jenn, who was 17 at the time, was standing in the outfield. She was playing in a softball tournament, and it was her team's sixth game of the day.
Suddenly, Jenn got dizzy. Then everything went black.
"I was still conscious," says Jenn, now 21, "but I couldn't see anything but blackness. I called a time-out and yelled, 'Coach! I can't see! Somebody come and get me!'"
They helped Jenn off the field and into the shade of the dugout. As she cooled off, her sight returned to normal. She rested a few innings and went back in the game.
"I didn't think much of it," she says. "I figured it was just the heat."
It wasn't the heat. It was her heart. Or, more accurately, the hole in her heart.
Jenn had known for years she had a heart defect. When she was 5, she was diagnosed with mitral valve prolapse, a hereditary condition she had picked up from her mom.
A normal mitral valve allows blood to flow from the heart's left atrium to the left ventricle. But Jenn's defective mitral valve allowed some blood to flow back into the atrium. As a result, Jenn's heart had to work a little harder to keep her blood moving.
Additionally, doctors said she might have a small hole in her septum, a part of the muscular wall that divides the heart in half. They said the hole would most likely heal as she grew older.
Despite these findings, the docs said Jenn could go ahead and live a normal life … as long as she came back for annual check-ups.
So Jenn got on with life—Little League baseball, climbing trees, running around the neighborhood, always on the move.
"A typical tomboy," she says.
Jenn eventually became a softball fanatic, playing year-round—school teams, church leagues, summer tournaments. She starred at Manatee High School in Bradenton, Florida, winning all kinds of awards and playing in the All-State All-Star Game.
For the most part, Jenn's softball adventures were trouble-free … at least till the summer after her junior year, when she had that dizzy spell and brush with blindness.
But she never experienced anything like that again, and by the time she graduated in June of '95, everything seemed just perfect. She had a pocketful of athletic and academic honors, and she was headed to Auburn University to play college softball.
Life was lookin' really good. And then …
It was just another routine checkup, her last visit to the cardiologist before college.
Everything seemed to be going just fine, including the echocardiogram, which "looks" at the heart with sound waves.
"I was on the table, talking to the technician during the echocardiogram, just jabbering away," Jenn says. "After about 20 minutes, the technician suddenly got real quiet. I said, 'What's the matter?' He said, 'Hold on a minute.' Then he went into the hall, shut the door, and called my doctor.
"I looked at my mom, and I'm like, 'This is weird. What's going on?'"
They sent Jenn home, and told her to wait for a call from her doctor. Two days later, the phone rang. Jenn was home alone.
"I answered it," says Jenn. "The doctor wanted to speak to my mom, but she wasn't home. I said, 'Look, I'm the patient. I'm 18. You can tell me.'
"He finally said, 'We found what we think is a hole in your heart.' I just about dropped the phone."
Further tests confirmed the doctor's suspicions. The hole in Jenn's septum—the one they'd found when she was 5—apparently never closed up. And now there it was, no doubt about it, a 13-millimeter hole—bigger than a dime, but smaller than a nickel.
The doctor recommended surgery. That's not what Jenn wanted to hear.
"I'm like, 'Hold on. I'm going to college in a few weeks.' And my parents are like, 'Will it hurt anything if we wait till next summer to have the surgery?' And the doctor says, 'Well, no. We can wait till then. But I wouldn't put it off any longer than that.'"
So they scheduled the surgery for the next summer—after Jenn's first year at Auburn.
On June 24, 1996, Jenn went into the hospital. The next morning, she would have open-heart surgery. But first, she had to sign some legal papers.
"My doctor said, 'It's a waiver against all of these different things that could happen during the operation—punctured lung, punctured esophagus, internal bleeding, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and death. Here, sign right here.' And I'm like, 'Oh, OK, no problem!'"
Jenn says she wasn't nervous at all.
"I wasn't worried," she says. "I didn't have any reservations. I knew this had to be done if I was going to keep playing softball. There wasn't any question about it. And I knew I was in good hands."
By "good hands," Jenn meant not just her surgeon, but God. She had grown up in a Christian home, and her faith was strong.
"I've always believed God will never give me anything I can't handle," she says.
The surgery was supposed to take two hours. But when the doctors got inside, they found that Jenn didn't have one big hole in her septum, but many tiny holes. Her doctor said it looked "shredded, like Swiss cheese."
They removed the defective tissue and repaired it with a piece of Jenn's pericardium—the membrane surrounding the heart.
The surgery was a success, and three days later, Jenn went home. Two months later, Jenn went to a batting cage and started hitting some balls. It hurt, but it was a start.
Three weeks after that, Jenn was back at Auburn. She ended up starting in center field, batting around .300 and hitting Auburn's first-ever inside-the-park home run. She also made the Southeastern Conference Academic Honor Roll with a 3.46 GPA.
Now, as Jenn begins her senior year, she's living life to the max. Softball. A sorority. A double major in journalism and political science, with an eye toward law school.
Not bad for somebody who might not even be here.
"The doctor said we were lucky to discover the hole in my heart," says Jenn. "My heart was having to work twice as hard, and my blood wasn't flowing throughout my body the way it should. That's why I got dizzy that day in the tournament.
"And my heart was getting bigger all the time, because the harder a muscle works, the bigger it gets. The doctor said if we hadn't found the problem, my heart would have exploded within two or three years."
Yes, Jenn had been headed straight for a heart attack.
"I think about that a lot," she says. "I often wonder, Would this have been the day? Would I have died of a heart attack today?"
She takes that thought a step further.
"But even if I hadn't had any heart problems, I'd still wonder, Could today be the day? People die every day from unexpected events, like car accidents. None of us knows when we're going to die."
Here, Jenn wants to clarify something: These aren't just morbid thoughts that paralyze her with paranoia. Instead, these thoughts energize her.
"The point is, you don't know when your time is going to come," she says. "That realization has made me more aware that God has a plan for me—not just for my future, but for now, for every single day."
Jenn says that perspective helps her deal with stress.
"Sometimes stuff happens that gets me down," she says. "Maybe it's something on the softball team. Maybe it's a bad grade. But then I step back and ask, 'How blessed am I to have all this stuff that causes my stress? How many people have this opportunity to go to college, to play softball?'
"I am so blessed. I thank God every day that I have another day to live. I'm always asking him, 'What do you want me to do for you today?'
"Every day is a gift from God. I thank him for every breath."
From the bottom of her heart.