It’s said that those who don’t know their history are doomed to repeat it. I always like to remind people that this includes looking at your own bloodline. Lately, examining my family history feels exactly like gazing into the future.

“Are you still awake?” asked my husband. I often wonder if he can hear my thoughts. “Yes,” I whispered quietly. “I haven’t slept well lately.” “I’ve noticed,” he said while gently pulling me close to his body. I began to feel the frigid bitterness of my anxiety receding, retreating to the distance enough to be considered past tense. I lay here, now, in the present, and embrace the love set before me, served like a warm cup of coffee on a gloomy morning. “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you too,” he replied.

“Will you fall asleep now?” he asked, and I could feel the concern in his voice. In the dim room, I could still see his face in my mind’s eye—his eyes slightly squinted, head tilted ever so slightly. Though a simple question is asked, I can’t dare provide a simple answer.

Answering ‘yes’ would allow my dearest love to nod into dreamland. ‘Yes’ becomes a promise of solace, but it would be dishonest. Dishonesty provides comfort, but the truth strengthens the bonds of our connection and the foundation upon which we’ve built this family and this home.

I sigh deeply and say, “I could sleep, but…” “But?” he replies. “You won’t? Why not?” Is he truly intrigued, or judging me, I wonder. With an even deeper breath, I try again. This time he pulls me in even closer, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. I lay my head on his warm chest as it rises and falls. The rhythm brings calmness to my body and coincidentally, my mind.

“Are you worried about your sister?” he asked. “Of course, I’m actually worried about all of us. You know,” I proceed, “my grandmother Lillian had similar problems, and so did Linda.” Then I begin to discuss my maternal family’s history, naming all those bested by heart failure. “And this is why you can’t sleep?” he asked. “Exactly,” I responded as if a bashful child being called upon in class to discuss a topic with which I had very little familiarity. Although I have no such diagnosis, I’m deeply concerned. Ailments seem bestowed upon those with the Lewis blood running through their veins. With a prevalence of beauty, creativity, intelligence, and a rebellious nature, disease is also a birthright.

Why is he so calm? He’s the one in the medical field, and surely he must know something that I don’t. I sense an imminent doom lingering. He’d better not blame this on my anxiety. There’s clearly a pattern here, and who am I to break the curse bestowed upon me via genetics? I don’t know much about these things, and I can tell he isn’t worried, but I don’t know why. Doesn’t he get it? This is how I’m destined to die, and I don’t want to die this way.

“It seems we all die young,” I said. “My brother didn’t live to be 41 years of age, and there’s so much I want to do. What about our plans—the kids and their future?” He releases me as if physical acknowledgment that the effects of his grasp had worn off. He sits up slightly, turns to me, and says, “You’re worried about your heart, aren’t you?” “Well, yes!” I exclaimed. “Baby, your heart is fine.” I went silent. And so did everything else.

“How do you know?” I whimpered, and as I began to cry, he caught my tears and kissed me on the cheek. The words to follow were more comforting than the initial embrace. Spoken words, like oil on canvas, were sure to linger with time and become an heirloom to replace any perceived genetic curse. He said, in the sweetest, kindest voice, “I know because I listen to your heart every night.”

With those words, I fell into the most peaceful sleep, no longer pressed skin to skin. I was touched. I lay down and felt loved.