What Colour Is My Heart?

A little heart-to-heart about an unreasonable workload.

I have always wondered what colour my heart is.

Red, presumably.

That is what we have been told.

The human heart is red because it is full of blood.

Fair enough.

But I have another theory.

Perhaps the heart is red because it is furious.

Think about it.

Of all the organs in the human body, which one has been given the most unreasonable job description?

The heart.

No weekends.

No public holidays.

No lunch break.

No annual leave.

No opportunity to say:

“I’m feeling a little under the weather today. Perhaps the liver could take over.”

It simply keeps going.

Day after day.

Night after night.

Year after year.

Pumping away as though it has something to prove.

And nobody even thanks it.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the distribution of work among our organs was deeply unfair.

Imagine an internal staff meeting.

The Brain is in charge, naturally.

It probably called the meeting.

“Right,” says the Brain. “Let’s review everyone’s responsibilities.”

The Lungs speak first.

“We breathe in and out.”

“How often?”

“Quite regularly.”

“Any breaks?”

“Not really.”

“Fair enough.”

The Stomach clears its throat.

“I handle food.”

“Continuously?”

“Only when there is food.”

“And what happens between meals?”

“I rest.”

I begin to suspect the Stomach is getting a very good deal.

The Liver has a long list of complicated duties and probably deserves whatever respect it gets.

The Kidneys are quietly doing their work.

The Legs are standing around waiting for instructions and occasionally complaining about stairs.

The Eyes seem to work particularly hard whenever there is something interesting to look at.

The Ears have perfected the art of selective listening.

And then comes the Heart.

“Your responsibilities?” asks the Brain.

“Keep pumping.”

“How often?”

“All the time.”

“Weekends?”

“No.”

“Public holidays?”

“No.”

“Night shift?”

“Yes.”

“Retirement?”

The Heart pauses.

“Apparently not.”

There is an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, the Heart says:

“Does anyone else find this arrangement slightly unreasonable?”

Nobody answers.

The meeting moves on.

And that isn’t even the worst of it.

We’ve given the heart a whole second career.

Emotions.

We blame the heart for falling in love.

We blame it when love goes wrong.

We say our heart is broken.

We ask people to follow their hearts.

We have a change of heart.

We give our hearts away.

We steal hearts.

We have hearts of gold.

We have cold hearts.

Warm hearts.

Heavy hearts.

Light hearts.

Tender hearts.

Brave hearts.

At some point, I think the heart deserves to ask:

“Am I an organ, or am I the customer service department for human emotions?”

Nobody says:

“She broke my liver.”

Nobody tells you:

“Follow your pancreas.”

And I have yet to hear anyone say:

“He has a beautiful spleen.”

Yet the heart gets dragged into practically every emotional situation.

It pumps blood.

Apparently, that wasn’t enough.

Then there is the matter of its shape.

I remember reading somewhere that the heart begins as a long tube that folds and twists into the complicated shape we recognise.

I don’t know how scientifically accurate my understanding is.

But if it is true, I can understand why.

Imagine being given that workload.

Eventually, you’d fold your arms too.

Perhaps the heart simply got tired of asking for a better job description and clenched itself into a fist.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

And perhaps that’s why we clench our fists when we’re angry.

We aren’t expressing anger.

We’re simply giving our hearts moral support.

I should perhaps admit something here.

I haven’t always been particularly appreciative of my heart.

A few years ago, it decided to make its point rather dramatically.

I had a heart attack.

Fortunately, my wife, my sisters and Amma were with me. They acted quickly, got me into an ambulance and made sure I reached the right hospital within about thirty minutes.

The doctors took over, and I was soon on the surgeon’s table.

And apparently, my heart wasn’t finished creating drama.

I had another attack on the operating table.

At that point, I suppose the heart had formally submitted its resignation.

Fortunately, the surgeons weren’t prepared to accept it.

They operated, and, rather remarkably, my heart decided to stay.

I am still here.

Which is why I am now in a position to complain about its workload.

So perhaps I shouldn’t be too hard on my heart.

It has, after all, been through quite a lot with me.

It has kept going while I slept.

While I worried.

While I laughed.

While I was completely unaware of what it was doing.

And when it once decided not to cooperate, there were people around me who made sure it got another chance.

Perhaps that deserves a little respect.

Although I still think the working conditions could be improved.

And just when I thought the heart had enough responsibilities, I recently discovered that even the little heart we send in messages has a whole wardrobe of colours.

Red. ❤️
Yellow. 💛
Green. 💚
Blue. 💙
Purple. 💜
Black. 🖤
White. 🤍

Suddenly, sending a heart isn’t as simple as it used to be.

You have to think.

Which heart?

Red might be too much.

Yellow could mean friendship.

Blue seems safe.

Purple…

Depends.

Black could be interpreted in ways you hadn’t intended.

White looks innocent enough, but I’m not taking chances.

And heaven help you if you send the wrong colour to the wrong person.

At this point, I feel sorry for the actual heart.

We’ve made it responsible for love, heartbreak, courage, kindness and forgiveness.