AS I WAS SAYING

by Alan Williamson

The Day My Heart Went Haywire

      Most days I wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, toss back some coffee, go to work and everything kind of unfolds within the familiar framework of my daily life. Now don’t get me wrong – there are surprises, small adventures and moments of spontaneous departure from the established plot lines, but for the most part, I can count on the essential who, what, where and when of my life being firmly in place on a daily basis.

      Except . . . for the Monday morning my heart started beating like an extended drum solo performed by a manic-depressive jazz musician. It sped up. It slowed down. At one point, it even played an African-influenced bongo riff from Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints album. The end result of all this uncoordinated percussion was that my heart stopped efficiently pumping blood to the rest of my body, making me lightheaded, dizzy, and morbidly preoccupied with my own mortality.

      A quickly arranged trip to my doctor for an EKG revealed that I was experiencing something called “atrial fibrillation.” A-fib, I was told, is an irregular heartbeat where the heart’s two upper chambers (the atria) beat chaotically and out of synch with the two lower chambers of the heart, affectionately referred to as “the ventricles.” This disruption in the heart’s electrical system causes poor blood flow to the body, heart palpitations, weakness, and an increased risk of stroke.

      “This is all good information,” I told my doctor, “but there’s one small problem. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

      “Are you the guy whose wife drove you over here because you had a rapid heartbeat and dizziness?” she countered coolly.

      “Yes,” I conceded, “but this is the kind of thing that happens to unhealthy people – people with heart disease, high blood pressure or a thyroid condition. I’m in the best shape of my life, I work out, I meditate, eat whole foods, don’t smoke, drink red wine moderately, and have never been admitted to a hospital in over 50 years on this planet.”

      “Well your heart didn’t get the memo,” she pointed out. “I’m putting you in the hospital for further tests.”

      Going from a self-reliant man in command of his destiny to a patient with three IV’s in his arm and a skimpy hospital gown covering up roughly 50% of his God-given goodies is a serious blow to a guy’s pride.

      “I’ll run home and bring you some sleep pants,” my wife volunteered. “Anything else you want?”

      “Do we have any ‘Get Out of Hospital Free’ cards lying around?” I ventured lamely.

      Any remaining shred of manly dignity disappeared the first time I had to pee in the plastic container they put at my bedside. Had I known I’d be relieving myself in a plastic jug any time soon, I would have practiced at home in my spare time to hone my speed and accuracy. As if taking a wiz propped up in bed while strangers walk by your open door wasn’t degrading enough, I then had to hang my steaming micro-brew from the IV stand for visitors to gaze at.

      “Just bottled a fresh batch,” I told the nurse stopping in to check on me. “I’m calling it Haywire Heart Amber Ale.”

      “Did they tell you what needs to happen by tomorrow morning?” she asked, unimpressed with my entrepreneurial spirit.

      “Is that the part where I wake up and realize this was all a dream?”

      “Actually, with the help of these IVs, your heart needs to convert back to a normal rhythm by then.”

      “And if it doesn’t?”

      “If it doesn’t, we put you under and electrically shock your heart to interrupt the arrhythmia.”

      “Sounds like a plan,” I nodded thoughtfully. “Listen, if for some reason I’m not here in the morning, feel free to start without me.”

      Fortunately, my heart did convert back to a normal rhythm, at 11:46 that night to be precise. I know this because I woke up out of a fitful sleep to see a nurse standing under the clock at the foot of my bed saying, “You converted.” Groggily coming to, my mind scrambled to grasp her words – I converted? To Judaism? Organic living? A life of fighting crime wearing a skimpy hospital gown?

      “Your heart converted back to a normal rhythm,” she clarified. “Now go back to sleep so we can get on our schedule of waking you up every 20 minutes throughout the night.”

      With my heart back on script, the only remaining concern was why it went rogue on me in the first place. Because all the tests confirmed that I didn’t have any underlying heart disease, high blood pressure or thyroid issues, all the main causes of A-fib didn’t apply. The cardiologist called it “lone atrial fibrillation,” which is basically medical jargon for “sometimes stuff happens and with any luck it won’t happen again.”

      Here’s what I think happened. My pericardium, a thin, two-layered, fluid-filled sac that covers the outer surface of the heart, became inflamed because of a viral infection. With the membrane around the heart swollen, the pressure caused changes in the normal heart rhythm bringing on the isolated episode of atrial fibrillation in an otherwise healthy man. But hey, I’m no expert . . . just a guy with a computer who Googles the Mayo Clinic.com and the New England Journal of Medicine.

      Just to be safe though, I have made some lifestyle changes. I’ve converted to an organic diet and taken up interval training wearing a hospital gown. The healthy eating and extra exercise are great for my heart, and wearing the hospital gown reminds me of a profound but simple truism:

Life is short, so live fully and cover your butt when you can. 

Alan Williamson is an award-winning writer with 27 years in the field of true fiction (advertising). A practical man who knows that writing for a living is risky going, he has taken steps to pursue a second, more stable career as a leggy super model. Alan can be reached at [email protected].