Hemorrhoids of the Heart

Not long after 6 am on the first Friday of the year, a little Flamenco dancer started her whirling and twirling around my heart, thumping her blocky-heeled shoes every few seconds. Sitting calmly on the couch and breathing slowly didn't deter the persistent gal. Stretching out on the bed made it worse. As if that performance artist in her dress of vibrant colors said, "Hey, muchas gracias amiga, I dig this bigger dance floor!"

Once I realized my own private show was not going to end, (and geez, there wasn't even a tapas dinner on offer) I called a friend to take me to urgent care. An EKG showed atrial fibrillation, or AFib. The nurse and then doc appeared quite relaxed about the whole affair. All my other vitals were good. And, indeed, though it had been three hours by this time, I had not descended into any sort of panic. 

The doc took the time to explain the electrical misfiring happening in the upper chambers of the heart during AFib, summing it all up with, "AFib is the hemorrhoids of the heart. Common, a pain in the butt, and very treatable." 

Great, I thought, give me some of that Preparation H and I'll be on my way! 

He did send me on my way, but to the ER. Because I actually felt the irregular heart rhythm (people often don't), and because I actually did something about it within the first 24 hours (even more often not done), the doc explained the ER may want to shock my heart back into rhythm. 

Another EKG soon after checking into the ER showed my dancing friend had brought the festivities to an end. I more or less could feel the truth, however there was some residual rapid beating from nerves. While a young nurse hooked me up to a heart monitor, I asked if she had a two-year RN degree or a four-year BSN. She replied RN and I grabbed the opportunity to tell her all about the RN to BSN program at my university that would allow her to get the degree she needs, while still working, to move into nurse management.

Fifteen minutes later, while kicking it on an ER bed with electrodes sticking to my chest and an IV in my arm, I groaned out loud. What was I thinking!? Trying to recruit a new student in the middle of a health crisis. 

That's when I decided to pull out the book and sip some of the water I had stashed in my backpack before leaving my house, anticipating it might be a long day. My Flamenco artist didn't return. For about an hour, the monitor showed a perfectly steady rhythm. 

The ER doc gave me the choice of starting meds right away, or waiting to meet with a cardiologist to determine the best treatment plan. He would refer me, he said, and I'd meet with them in the next few weeks. I chose to wait.   

My dad, I remembered, had AFib. Diagnosed when he was 54, two months away from turning 55. On Friday, Jan. 5, I was 54, exactly three weeks from turning 55. I found the coincidence comforting. And comfort is something I've needed. 

Though I am not scared by the diagnosis, my stress response of not feeling much like eating has kicked in. By Sunday evening I was pretty worn down from a lack of calories. I've slowly been building my energy back up, reaching out to friends for company either in person or by phone, to help with the process. Aging is done best, I am learning, with your best pals. 

One of them suggested to me that even though the big event, the big splash, was over on Friday by mid-afternoon, it makes sense that I am in a stressed state because I am still in the ripples. 

I find that image profoundly beautiful. Having had the privilege of living near water my entire life, I find ripples to hold a certain calm steadiness. I am moving through the stages of understanding my new state of health and eventually I will flow gracefully back into calm waters.