I haven’t shared much lately on my heart because honestly I haven’t known what to say. I’ve struggled with a heart condition for the last 6 years. It doesn’t get easier, but you become more numb.
Numb to the pain.
Numb to the understanding that you might never have a normal day again.
I can normally tell when my heart is getting bad again. Since January I’ve had bad chest pain and numbness in my left arm. It comes and goes, lasting for days at a time. Breathing has become difficult, especially when standing or walking.
It’s my normal.
Yesterday I finally saw my doctor for my regular check-up. My anxiety was so bad the night before. I cried for hours. I dreaded this appointment. The morning of, I sat in the waiting room, wanting to leave.
I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know what to expect. I figured another medication trial.
I got into the room, and they did my routine EKG. I then explained the episodes to my doctor. His face told it all. He instantly was concerned, but he wouldn’t say much to why. He held my EKG report, and he asked for the technician to come in to check my implanted monitor. She scrolled through many pages of episodes.
My doctor immediately said, “it’s time for another ablation. Sooner rather than later”. I instantly knew why I was dreading this appointment.
This will make my third ablation. The first one was failed from the beginning. The second lasted less than 2 months. Third time is the charm, right?
I’ve accepted it. Accepted that my life might never be normal.
It might always be filled with cardiologist appointments every few months. Routine EKG’s, and monitor readings. I might never be able to remove the flash drive sized monitor from my chest. It might always be filled with medication. With dizzy spells. Black outs. High heart rates. Bottoming out blood pressure. Chest pain. Arm numbness.
I’m terrified of this surgery. But I’m more terrified of not trying. This is my next chance at normal.
It might only last a few months.
It might not work at all.
But it might work for the rest of my life.
The outcome is unknown.
All I do know is this is my next chance.
It’ll decide whether I’ll be able to walk up a flight of stairs without blacking out.
If I’ll be able to walk to the kitchen from another room without being out of breath.
If I’ll be able to stand without the room spinning.
It’ll decide if I’ll be able to run around the park with my son.
It’ll decide whether my heart and body can handle another pregnancy.
It’ll decide a lot of things.
This is my chance.
I’d be lying if I said I was certain this chance will be successful. I’m scared. Doubtful. And worried. Worried the outcome won’t be what I want and need. But I’m more worried about the alternative.
Six years of appointments. Six years of heart rates over triple the normal rate. Six years of black outs. Six years of crying, not able to breathe from the chest pain. Six years of my arm going numb and not being to pick something up. Six years of Herald.
I am very thankful God placed my cardiologist in my life. I am very thankful for technology used in the medical industry that helps keep an eye on my malfunctioning heart to tell us when it’s time to have another round of surgery.
I am very thankful for all the lessons my broken heart has taught me.
But I am ready. Ready to take on my next chance.
Herald and I could use prayers as we navigate through the summer, off medication, as we prepare my heart to handle the surgery.