The Broken Miracle

by J. D. Netto

  To my mother, who taught me to believe in the impossible.

  Table of Contents

  from Paul Cardall

  from J.D. Netto

  A Blue Baby

  Deep Waters

  Coming Full Circle

  Brothers (part one)

  Brothers (part two)

  Tom Sawyer

  Darkness

  The Unknown

  Life Can Be Mean

  Own Your Story

  Hope

  Good News

  Nothing to Worry About

  Our Children

  Into the Fire

  Another Death

  Dead Man Walking

  The Choice

  An Unexpected Visitor

  A Light in the Dark

  All I See Is Snow

  The Broken Miracle: Part One

  Acknowledgements

  from

  Paul Cardall

  It’s a bit surreal to hold a novel inspired by my own life. I know my journey hasn’t been the easiest or what people consider “normal,” but seeing some of the most challenging moments I lived translated into words on a page brought clarity to many questions I had.

  The experience of having an author put together a puzzle that was often just a pile in my head brought light to my own shadows. The book puts into words many things I tried to voice throughout my life. It portrays the emotions and downfalls I experienced while many around me seemed healthy and strong.

  My personal contribution is burrowed in each chapter. I got to edit each scene with notes from my personal experiences. Seeing them expand into powerful moments in the story was a breath of fresh air—even for me. It brought me perspective, healing, and even more courage to keep on living.

  My hope is that this novel instills in you the desire to live. I’ve been on the brink of death countless times, thought about giving up in a few of them, but in the end, love prevailed. I’m alive. My heart is beating. Life is worth living.

  www.facebook.com/PaulCardallMusic

  www.instagram.com/PaulCardall

  www.PaulCardall.com

  Photo by Mark Mabry

  from

  J.D. Netto

  I was in my hotel room in Seattle in 2010 when the song “Redeemer” came on. I was engrossed in its melody as soon as the string arrangements began. There was something about the song that made me quickly search the internet for the genius behind it. I stumbled upon the name “Paul Cardall” and his remarkable story of living with half a heart. ⁣ ⁣

  He became a constant presence in my playlists, his songs the soundtrack of some of my most personal moments. I downloaded every album and religiously visited iTunes hoping for new content.⁣ ⁣ To my surprise (I still pinch myself to this very day), on February 2019, I was presented with the chance of writing the novel you now hold in your hand.

  These books changed my life. Not only because I got to work with one of my inspirations, but because the journey is one that dares you to believe against all odds. It’s a roller coaster where those riding can’t see the tracks. They’re only sure of the drop, but confused as to where it’ll lead.⁣

  www.facebook.com/JDNettoOfficial

  www.instagram.com/JDNetto

  www.JDNetto.com

  Photo by Zanne Studios / Cassio Silva

  A Blue Baby

  JULY 2005

  1

  I belonged to an exclusive club with only one membership requirement—be born with half a functioning heart. I felt like a lucky dog every time I removed the leash that was my oxygen tubes in the morning. Normal for me was waking up with two thick lines carved on my cheeks that sometimes remained visible throughout the day. I chose to see them as my reward for a good night’s sleep. Or for just being alive.

  My wife, Olivia, was in our bed beside me, eyes closed, her brown tresses strewn on the pillow. She had a beauty mark on her right cheek, right above her lips. Twelve-hour night shifts at the hospital usually kept her asleep until early afternoon.

  I sat up on the edge of the bed, hand on my chest. “Well, you’re still working.” Tom Sawyer beat against my hand. Yes, I named my heart Tom Sawyer—Sawyer for short. Mark Twain would approve, Huck Finn would be jealous, and my favorite rock band, Rush, would be proud since, in my opinion, “Tom Sawyer” was their best song. Every time I listened to their drummer’s patterns, I thought of Sawyer and how, against all odds, he kept on beating. After countless doctor appointments, procedures, and surgeries, I decided to give it a name so I could see it as a friend—a very broken friend.

  Olivia turned over in her sleep, pregnant belly pointing toward me. The sight earned a wide smile from me.

  Whenever I looked at her baby bump, I often imagined the despair my parents felt when they were told about my condition. It can’t be easy knowing your newborn will need heart surgery a few hours after being held for the first time. Most people will never experience that as parents; I prayed to be one of those people.

  For obvious reasons, I don’t remember anything that happened at the hospital on April 24, 1973. From what I was told, my mom’s labor and my arrival were pretty routine stuff until they saw me. I was a “blue baby,” a nickname given to children born with a lack of oxygen in their blood. I’d like to think my lips were so blue that medical personnel thought I inherently belonged to some metal band, but considering the dire situation that day, I don’t think they had much time for sarcasm.

  Cardiologists at Salt Lake County Hospital transported me to the Primary Children’s Medical Center, where I had my first heart catheterization.

  Sawyer was diagnosed with double inlet left ventricle. A normal heart has two ventricles and two atriums designed to receive blood. Oxygen-poor blood flows into the right atrium and ventricle before being sent to the pulmonary artery, where vessels carrying the blood to the lungs pick up oxygen. The oxygenated blood returns through the left atrium and ventricle and is distributed to the rest of the body. The only functioning ventricle Sawyer had was the left one, forcing my two atriums to spew blood together like two chemicals never meant to be mixed.

  The story goes that my dad and grandfather got permission to take me into a custodian’s closet on the way to surgery, where they prayed for divine intervention. We want God to just wave His hand and work a miracle, but often times the miracle is God laying the puzzle pieces down and watching us figure out how to put them together. He’s no wizard waving about a wand but, rather, an architect slowly revealing a blueprint.

  I underwent my first major heart surgery twenty-two hours after I was born. A gifted surgeon created a connection between my left ventricle and aorta, the large artery that supplies blood to the lower part of the body. This helped increase the oxygen in my blood as it flowed from my lungs.

  Though the open-heart surgery was successful, my parents were told if I lived out my first year, I’d need several more surgeries at some point in the future. Luckily, after thirty-two years, Sawyer was still around, beating my life away. But the deepening dark circles around my eyes and waning weight were constant reminders of how sick he was.

  After brushing my teeth, I walked out of our bedroom and was immediately greeted by the unpainted walls in the room across the hall. It was to be our baby boy’s bedroom. Olivia had already picked the color for the walls, but I kept postponing painting them. I wanted to hold on to every moment of this pregnancy—especially after all our miscarriages.

  Normally, I’d press play on my iPod and wait to see what song came out of the stereo speakers in the kitchen. But this morning, I was in the mood for Rush. I listened to “The Spirit of Radio” while eating m
y bowl of Cocoa Puffs and a slice of banana bread. The music brought me back to my teenage days, and even though much of it consisted of surgeons, nurses, and needles, there were still plenty of good memories mixed in.

  My younger brother and I would listen to the trio all the time. Jonahs was the only other songwriter in the family aside from me. The difference was that to Jonahs, music was a hobby, but to me it was my whole life—my love and livelihood.

  I went to the living room after breakfast and sat at the piano. It faced the window for a better view of Salt Lake City’s most recognizable sight. The city had been built in a valley, separated by the Wasatch Mountains to the east and the Oquirrh Mountains to the west. Amidst the encircling mountain ranges, one could be seen throughout the entire city. For me, the landscape of Mount Olympus, set apart from other formations by its twin peaks and outcroppings, always inspired new music. A songwriter couldn’t ask for a better muse.

  When I started performing, the mall was my usual venue. I’d play for hours and was lucky enough to sell most of my CDs. Those were the days when I began to realize my music could actually take me somewhere. And that night, I was performing at Assembly Hall on Temple Square, the most popular tourist attraction in Salt Lake City. For better or worse, I was about to experience one of the most monumental moments of my career. Whether it was a packed house full of fans or a handful of neighbors and my parents, it would be unforgettable.

  I looked out at Mount Olympus for a few more seconds and got on with practice. My right hand lifted from my lap, fingers striking the keys. A melody echoed. My left hand joined in and the music rescued me. A close friend died when I was a teenager. It was his friendship that sparked the desire in me to play, but it was his death that actually got me to begin. The better I got, the more I realized music helped me cope with things like death. Like Sawyer.

  Here I was doing it again. Me, the mountains, and my music. The music let me forget I was down to 150 pounds. It let me forget most of that weight was me retaining fluid. It let me forget I was losing oxygen in my blood. It was always this void—this lack—that I filled with each note.

  I spotted Olivia standing in her light blue nightdress. Her shoulder rested on the doorway, pregnant belly in sight.

  “Oh, sorry.” My hands retreated to my lap, the last note, a C in the lower register, echoing around the room. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Was I being too loud?”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I’ll be able to get any sleep this morning anyway.” She sat beside me, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” I kissed her beauty mark, my attention shifting to her belly. “Good morning, you!” I caressed the baby bump with an unstoppable smile.

  “Well, at least he gets to sleep,” she said, making us both laugh.

  “How was the hospital?” I asked.

  “Just another day. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing mothers say goodbye to their newborns.” She shook her head in dismissal. “But I don’t want to talk about that stuff.” She took in a quick breath. “Nervous about tonight?”

  “More like worried.” I chuckled. “What if people don’t show? Imagine how monumental it would be”—I held up my hands, forming the shape of a rectangle in the air—“Paul Cardall plays to an empty Assembly Hall.”

  “Knowing you, you’d still play your songs to an empty room.”

  “Like I was doing before you walked in?” I smirked.

  She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Everything will be fine.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Of course it will.”

  “And listen, if you think the audience is getting bored, just play an Elvis cover on the piano and you’ll be golden.”

  “Let me guess the song suggestion,” I said behind a laugh. “’Can’t Help Falling in Love?’”

  She gave me a peck on the lips. “You are correct.”

  “I’ll add your favorite song to the list in case of a concert emergency.”

  “Have you heard from Jonahs?” she asked.

  “I did. He seemed better last week. But I suppose he’s still getting back to normal. Hard to say.”

  “Is he coming tonight?”

  “No.” I cleared my throat. “It’s too soon for anything like that.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Tell you what, you keep on playing, I’m going to shower and then run out.”

  “Want me to come and inspect your work?” I asked, hoping to get my mind off the concert with a little romance.

  “Ha-ha very funny.” She raised my chin with a finger. “You’ll be great tonight.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Not even a two-minute make out session?” My brows arched up.

  “Let’s focus.” She pecked me on the forehead and, defeated, I watched her retreat upstairs.

  I returned to the piano. Seeing Olivia pregnant had inspired some of my best melodies. I imagined what my days would be like with a little boy around. I had never heard his voice, but lately I was combining notes I imagined would sound like his laugh. I pictured tiny soul-piercing eyes and how much of an honor being a dad would be.

  But we’d already had two miscarriages. There was no way to look forward without remembering where we’d been.

  Olivia was five months along. I knew the risk she took when she decided to build a family with me. Her father advised her not to. He said he didn’t want her life turning out like his. He’d cared for her mother when she fell ill with cancer. I once overheard him say that no matter how much she loved me, choosing me would leave her walking toward the same cliff he had.

  Her mother’s cancer was the downfall of her siblings. Many resorted to drugs and alcohol for comfort, leading to years of suffering and misery. I’m sure she feared the same fate awaited our family if I didn’t make it—a life full of cracks and holes and questions.

  A dark progression of notes turned the light song I played into a somber hymn. For a moment, the music showed me my son mourning his father’s early death. Olivia beside him over my graveside, regretting the decision to have ever loved me, wishing her heart could’ve loved someone else.

  I didn’t fear death. I only worried about its aftermath for my family.

  I’ve learned how limited our time on Earth is over and over since childhood. When I was nine, a kid in town named Spencer died of cancer. Before he passed, we prayed, raised money, fasted, and did all the godly things we were supposed to do. He still died.

  It was funny how this “curse” of mine had the power to inspire me. Sawyer was broken. Badly. My clock ticked a little differently. And it was the constant reminder of the shortness of my life that motivated me to defy the odds.

  Even if death whispered in my ear every once in a while, I refused to be remembered as the one who was defeated by Sawyer. I wanted to be remembered as the one who fought the good battle. That was the hopeful spirit I was going to play with at my concert. That was the life I needed to live.

  Deep Waters

  JULY 1986

  “Ready for the big day?” Mom asked, hands on the steering wheel, the top of her freshly permed hair in view from the backseat. “Fly by Night” by Rush played on the stereo now that she had finally allowed me to choose the music.

  “I mean, I’m ready to surprise any stranger who asks why I have a scar under my right armpit,” I replied with a grin.

  I thought Dad had believed in me a bit too much when he signed me up for the National Scout Jamboree and got me started with this whole Eagle Scout business. Dad claimed he had such a great time when he did it that I should also get to experience it. Of course, I said yes to the whole thing. A part of me was afraid of what I had gotten myself into. If it was already hard for the other guys, imagine how it would be for me.

  “I’m serious,” Mom said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve trained so hard.”

  “Not just trained.�
� I counted off with my fingers. “Trained, suffered, and almost drowned.”

  “Oh, please.” She smiled. “You loved every minute of it. But if you don’t survive, we’ll just give all the records and cassettes you bought with your paper route money to your siblings.”

  “No, no. If I don’t make it, you’ll give them all to Jonahs. And that’s my final wish,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate my collection more than the rest of them.”

  She laughed. “Done.”

  “But seriously, they had me jumping in the deep end and then they told me to make a flotation device out of my clothes,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. I loved my Goonies t-shirt, but the tag always felt like sand rubbing on my skin.

  “But you made it through, didn’t you?” Her diamond eyes glanced at me through the mirror.

  “I knew I would And honestly, I think Coach Dave enjoys watching us struggle in the water.”

  “Why do you say that?” She lowered the volume of the music as a frown appeared on her face.

  “Because a whole bunch of boys making flotation devices out of their clothes in the deep end of a cold swimming pool is a classic example of a corny summer camp movie.” I shrugged. “He gets to watch us suffer while getting paid for it.”

  “You do remember he’s a friend of ours, right?”

  “Then that makes him our lazy friend,” I said snidely.

  “I’ll be sure to tell him that.” A laugh followed. “Your dad is very proud of you. You’re setting such an example to your siblings and cousins. They see what you do and want to do the same.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mom. Just remind them I still have to survive today. And even if I do, I won’t even be an Eagle Scout yet. There’s still a long journey ahead.”