Breathing, Almost

I was born with a chest that caved in on itself, like the bones just gave up and let the muscles pull them down. I found out on my own what the doctors call it—Pectus Excavatum—scrolling through the internet late at night, like I had to figure out how to piece together my own curse, chasing its label the way those fumbling priests do in horror movies, desperate to name the demon possessing the body in front of them. The name itself like screech of tires on wet pavement, sharp and cold, a stretched sound, unwelcome against my lips.

It shaped more than just my body. It carved something out of me, made me smaller, made me see myself differently. It made me feel less than the kind of man women wanted. I remember telling my basketball coach that I liked a certain girl at school, but he just laughed and reminded me about my chest.

There is no “overcoming” it, but something I live with each day. I wake up with it. I go to bed with it. Same as always.

Surgery’s an option if you’re dying—insurance will crack you open if your ribs are crushing your lungs, but anything less than that, and they call it “cosmetic.” As if breathing deep was vanity. And if you did get the fix? They take a rib from each side of your chest so there’s room to expand. Then they shove a long metal bar inside you, push the whole thing outward, and screw it in place, making sure not to puncture your heart or lungs in the process. But, not like hammering a bent nail straight—more like a slow, steady push. Like prying up a warped floorboard, centimeter by centimeter.

My heart is shoved off-center because of it, reassigned to a smaller room to make space for the uninvited guess, except this guest never leaves. I don’t know if I’m supposed to keep track of it—if it’s my job to watch and wait, see if it gets worse. But I do. I always do. I run my hands over it, pressing, tracing the edges, trying to measure the depth of something I can never quite see, only feel. Maybe one day I’ll wake up and find it’s compressed me whole—caved me in completely like a sinkhole.

Growing up, it was another weight I carried, like a bad haircut or a crooked nose—except far worse, because it was built into me, shaped how I walked, how I moved, how I stood. Unformed. Deformed. Something not quite right. Breathing, almost. Kids and adults pointed when I took my shirt off, whispered, laughed. Some were bolder. They told me to my face—I looked like someone had hit my chest with a two-by-four.

I’ve never taken a full breath, not the way other people do. Shoulders pulled forward, uneven. Ribs flared. Pot belly out. Can’t sit still, can’t get comfortable. My whole frame sits wrong, the foundation off-kilter, like a house built just a little crooked, my body looking for a way to settle.

My parents never said a word about it. They pretended it wasn’t there. Never mind that it came from them, threaded through blood and bone and passed down like bad luck. 100% genetic. A family heirloom and mine alone to keep.

I remember praying many nights as a boy and asking God to fix me. And in the morning, I’d lift the comforter slow, half-believing. Maybe this time and maybe this morning. Maybe this time and maybe this morning. Maybe this time and maybe this morning. Nothing ever changed. God never did a damn thing.