Last Monday I was playing squash and my heart flipped out. It was beating twice as fast as usual and wouldn’t slow down. At first, I assumed I was having a panic attack, but after an hour? Not so much. I had a phone call with a Physician’s Assistant at One Medical and they said, “go to the emergency room.”
Fun times.
My wife and I gathered up some stuff and walked two blocks to the E.R. on 7th Avenue. I was having some rather dark thoughts, at the time. Like, “this could be it.”
I wish I could tell you I had some profound thoughts, or deeper insights. But the main one involved some swearing and frustration that I’m only 43 years old. I didn’t want my son’s last memory of me to be dying in an E.R. the day before Independence Day.
I’m not what you’d call a crier. Toxic masculinity or otherwise, I haven’t done it for at least five years. But I did it quite a lot last Monday. And by the time they figured out what was going on, it was about five hours on an EKG machine. I have a thing called “atrial fibrillation.” It’s an irregular heartbeat. If you Google it, or talk about it, it turns out, it’s very common. I had no idea about it, at the time, though. As far as I could tell I was the only person in the world with such a weird heart condition. After a while my wife was able to go to Zazzy’s and pick me up a slice of pizza. Normality returned. Thank heavens.
I now have a cardiologist. They’re doing tests. I’m on some drugs. My flippy heart righted itself after 24 hours, as though somebody changed the record. I managed to sleep. Thanks, valium! And, in about a month I hope my doctors will recommend a course of action, so it doesn’t happen again. I’m cleared to do exercise, as usual. And right now, I’m hooked up to a two-week EKG sensor, which they mailed to me from Philips. I’m very lucky indeed that I have health insurance through my wife’s employer. I’m very lucky indeed for a whole host of reasons. And I’m feeling very grateful that my darker fears last week weren’t realized.
I would have written about it last week, but I have a writing rule to “air your scars, not your wounds.” And everything was a bit fresh. I wanted to get some more tests done before sharing what had happened. Now, I’m telling everyone. Half the guys I play squash with have all had some sort of weird heart thing over the years. It’s like they’re initiating me into a cool new fraternity. “Davis had the a-fib. James had the stroke scare. Remember Barry? His heart stopped for six weeks, once…”
And even my priest, it turns out, has the same condition. I’d contemplated calling him at the hospital but figured it might not be the best idea. The last thing you want to see in the E.R. is a guy with a bible ready to administer the last rites. I’m superstitious. He told me to call him, next time it happens, anyway, though. So, I have a plan of action, there, at least. Even if I didn’t think about God a single time when I was certain I was due an early exit.
What a coward I am. How self-centered. Those are a couple of the thoughts I’ve had, since. One of my favorite writers, Graham Greene, a staunch convert to Catholicism, used to subscribe to a theory that even the “worst” people could find redemption in the moments before they died. He dwells on it in the novel, Brighton Rock, especially. It turns out conversely that despite having some religious faith most of the time, it didn’t help me much in what I assumed were my final moments. Perhaps there’s something in that. Perhaps there isn’t. I still went to church on Sunday and plan to go again next week, regardless. Call it an insurance clause if you like. I’m a work in progress.
I’m also very grateful to my wife Logan for holding it together. She was remarkable in a crisis. And to the team at Lennox Hill ER on 7th Avenue between 12th and 13th. Stefanie, Kevin, Isabella, and Jay were all super understanding that I was freaking out. They gave me first class care. The security guys were all excellent. And to Brad the PA at One Medical who told me to go along, thanks, too. You never want to hear the words “go to the Emergency Room immediately.” But in your case, they were well-delivered. And I’m grateful for the immediate advice.
So, there we have it. Atrial fibrillation. Or “a-fib.” It’s a thing. I have it and I don’t like it. But there it is. I might talk about strategic communications again next week or I might not. Meantime I’m grateful to be here writing to you. An expression I hate, but: It is what it is. Isn’t it?
