I was thirteen years old. Mom said she didn’t care if I didn’t make a dime on the tour. She just wanted to make things as normal as possible for me. So we paid for an extra bus for just me, Mom, Mammie, and Noah. (The rest of the kids stayed in school.) After the show I’d come back to the bus, do schoolwork, then watch a movie with Mom and Noah. It was all weirdly normal. If there’s such thing as normal when you’re a teenager doing a twenty-city concert tour.
I was psyched that my mom went for the bonus bus. Being with the crew is fun for a little while, but it’s impossible for me to live like that. I have to have space. I need the downtime. And it was more than just mental. Like I said before, weird or not, I’m okay being alone.
Even though the tour bus situation was sorted out, not everything was perfectly smooth on that tour. To be specific—two words represent how NOT smooth things were . . . St. Louis. I have nothing against St. Louis in principle, but I can’t say I want to go back.
My bad luck in St. Louis started on that tour, and hasn’t let up since. I was onstage in the middle of singing “Who Said” when I started feeling really sick, like I was going to throw up. I ran off the stage. It was really bad. My dancers just kept going. They didn’t even notice I was gone! (Thanks, guys!)
As soon as I started to feel better—about five minutes later—I hurried back onstage. I said, “Sorry, guys. I had to hurl.” (Later my mom was like, “Real classy, Miles. Guess you’re never having dinner at Buckingham Palace.”) Then it happened again. I had to run offstage during “Best of Both Worlds.” So much for “the show must go on.” I thought it was a stomach bug, and by the next day (we were still in St. Louis) I was feeling better, so I went on that night.
It happened yet again. Somehow I made it through the show this time, but in the next city, Dallas, I went to a doctor. He said I was fine, but at the show that night I felt bad again. This wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t nerves. Nerves meant having to pee when it was too late to go. This was different. Something felt really wrong. I went to another doctor, and this time they did an echocardiogram. (An echocardiogram uses ultrasound to look at your heart. It’s totally painless. Like when they look at a pregnant woman's baby, except if they see a baby in your heart you're in big trouble.) They found a hole in my heart (and this was before my first breakup!), but they said the real problem was tachycardia.
Tachycardia means my heart rate speeds up and the rest of my body can’t keep up. ( Tachy means too fast and cardia means heart. When I told Brazz my diagnosis, he said, “You sure it’s not tachymouthia?”) It just figures that if I had a problem, it would be that part of my body works harder than it should and goes too fast. I’ve always been an overachiever.
The type of tachycardia I have isn’t dangerous. It won’t hurt me, but it does bother me. My heart rate increases a lot just from going up a flight of stairs. It’s worse when I wear a wig. I get hot, my body tries to cool down, and my heart goes extra fast. When I wear that wig in a concert, it sometimes gets so I can’t breathe and can’t think. I feel claustrophobic. There is never a time onstage when I’m not thinking about my heart.
Psalm 43: 5
WHY AM I DISCOURAGED?
WHY IS MY HEART SO SAD?
I WILL PUT MY HOPE IN GOD!
My diagnosis stopped me in my tracks. On that tour, I felt like it was really important to me to look great. I wasn’t eating much. Some days I’d eat one Pop-Tart. That was it. Not good. I’ve always struggled with my weight, but when I found out I had a hole in my heart—there was no way in heck being skinny was worth sacrificing my health. I was scared. Like lots of girls my age, I can be self-conscious about my looks, but it was immediately clear to me that I’d much rather be healthy and normal-sized. The minute I got home
I was psyched that my mom went for the bonus bus. Being with the crew is fun for a little while, but it’s impossible for me to live like that. I have to have space. I need the downtime. And it was more than just mental. Like I said before, weird or not, I’m okay being alone.
Even though the tour bus situation was sorted out, not everything was perfectly smooth on that tour. To be specific—two words represent how NOT smooth things were . . . St. Louis. I have nothing against St. Louis in principle, but I can’t say I want to go back.
My bad luck in St. Louis started on that tour, and hasn’t let up since. I was onstage in the middle of singing “Who Said” when I started feeling really sick, like I was going to throw up. I ran off the stage. It was really bad. My dancers just kept going. They didn’t even notice I was gone! (Thanks, guys!)
As soon as I started to feel better—about five minutes later—I hurried back onstage. I said, “Sorry, guys. I had to hurl.” (Later my mom was like, “Real classy, Miles. Guess you’re never having dinner at Buckingham Palace.”) Then it happened again. I had to run offstage during “Best of Both Worlds.” So much for “the show must go on.” I thought it was a stomach bug, and by the next day (we were still in St. Louis) I was feeling better, so I went on that night.
It happened yet again. Somehow I made it through the show this time, but in the next city, Dallas, I went to a doctor. He said I was fine, but at the show that night I felt bad again. This wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t nerves. Nerves meant having to pee when it was too late to go. This was different. Something felt really wrong. I went to another doctor, and this time they did an echocardiogram. (An echocardiogram uses ultrasound to look at your heart. It’s totally painless. Like when they look at a pregnant woman's baby, except if they see a baby in your heart you're in big trouble.) They found a hole in my heart (and this was before my first breakup!), but they said the real problem was tachycardia.
Tachycardia means my heart rate speeds up and the rest of my body can’t keep up. ( Tachy means too fast and cardia means heart. When I told Brazz my diagnosis, he said, “You sure it’s not tachymouthia?”) It just figures that if I had a problem, it would be that part of my body works harder than it should and goes too fast. I’ve always been an overachiever.
The type of tachycardia I have isn’t dangerous. It won’t hurt me, but it does bother me. My heart rate increases a lot just from going up a flight of stairs. It’s worse when I wear a wig. I get hot, my body tries to cool down, and my heart goes extra fast. When I wear that wig in a concert, it sometimes gets so I can’t breathe and can’t think. I feel claustrophobic. There is never a time onstage when I’m not thinking about my heart.
Psalm 43: 5
WHY AM I DISCOURAGED?
WHY IS MY HEART SO SAD?
I WILL PUT MY HOPE IN GOD!
My diagnosis stopped me in my tracks. On that tour, I felt like it was really important to me to look great. I wasn’t eating much. Some days I’d eat one Pop-Tart. That was it. Not good. I’ve always struggled with my weight, but when I found out I had a hole in my heart—there was no way in heck being skinny was worth sacrificing my health. I was scared. Like lots of girls my age, I can be self-conscious about my looks, but it was immediately clear to me that I’d much rather be healthy and normal-sized. The minute I got home
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