by Kiersten Rock-Torcivia

Who is this girl?
What is on her chest?

On her chest, just below her left collarbone, is a black oval outline shadowed with gray. Slashing diagonally through the upper part of the shape sits a vibrant raw pink scar. From the upper part of the monochromatic shape sits a long black line that runs and curves to dive down the middle of her chest, where it abruptly disappears beneath her shirt.

Who is this girl?
What is on her chest?

This girl is me. I consider myself a “what-if” girl, a perhaps. Perhaps what is underneath my skin has the potential to save my life, and perhaps by looking at me, you wouldn’t know that. Perhaps I initially despised my implant and perhaps now I’m deeply thankful for it. Once looking at the scar for too long would bring me to tears, now I proudly show it off.

Gratitude is feeling appreciative of something. But to me, it’s more than appreciation. I’m grateful because I can go on a walk or to the gym and not have to hope that someone there can administer CPR if I need it. I’m grateful because I’ve been blessed with access to healthcare that has given me the best return to life possible. I’m grateful because my scar is evidence of my bravery. I’m grateful for my second chance at my life.

Gratitude is quietly tucked beneath the surface, just like my implant.

You might not know I have an implant under my skin, but I do, and I’m grateful it’s there every single day. I was incredibly fortunate to be in the right place at the right time and because of that I am still here today.

And sometimes I wonder what if? What if defibrillators didn’t exist? Would I just be a statistic? What if my bionic addition underneath my skin wasn’t there or wasn’t invented? Would I still feel confident enough to live my life? Would I be here in Boston, so far from the safety of home, living with people who I don’t know too well, trusting them to be able to save my life at any moment?

These what ifs could keep me up at night, wondering and asking why me? Why is this my burden to live with?

But also: why not me? But why am I not gone? Why do some people get to survive yet so many don’t? It’s a terrifying reality.

Why are men 1.23 times more likely to receive bystander CPR than women? And why, why, why do people get petrified of touching the skin that lays beneath bras? Why are they
hesitant to lay their hands on that skin despite the fact that someone lays before them dying?

Why?

Why do people constantly sexualize a woman’s breasts but then use them as an excuse to not help as she lays in front of them, her heart barely quivering, the oxygen no longer getting to her brain? Why can these people say, “It’s not right to touch her boobs” instead of “I did what I had to to save her life”? I am furious that society perpetuates this by creating CPR manikins that reflect male anatomy. I am infuriated that these alarming statistics are true. I am angry at anyone who would hesitate to save a life when they have the chance.

Who is this girl?
What is on her chest?
I am this girl.
Outrage is on my chest.