I have a canary loose in my
chest. Quite frequently throughout the day, the little pissed-off bird lets me
know she wants out. There is a thumping, bumping, fluttering sensation pounding
at my inner walls. It is the new state of my heart. My heart, moving to a scattered
rhythm of its own, decided one day last month to go rogue on me. I don’t know
why.
As a result, I quit caffeine.
I did it for the only reason I would ever do such a thing – I thought I was
going to die. If I thought caffeine was slowly
killing me or doing some minor physical impairment to my body, perhaps I
would have stayed on it. I love coffee. And I am not just saying that. I am
referring to real – true - love. We’d been together for over twenty years. If
it didn’t make me feel like I was dying, we’d still be together.
I did go off of caffeine for
my pregnancies. But I confess, I’m pretty sure on more than one occasion my
babies nursed latte straight from my breast. There’s only so much a mother can sacrifice.
And here I am, in that group I never really trusted or fully respected. I’m a
non-coffee drinker. Sigh. I miss it. Oh, and the whole decaf thing is just
mean. Mean, mean trickery.
It all started with a simple
cup of French-press espresso at 6pm on a Wednesday evening. It was a good brew.
Sigh. I had planned to work late, novel-write through the night. No such luck.
The squeezing pressure in my
chest came on suddenly and lasted about thirty seconds. It traveled down my
left arm. I felt light-headed as the
pressure slowly subsided and the squeezing sensation stopped. My arm felt
tingly. Shit. I think I’m having a heart
attack. I took two aspirin.
I was slightly dizzy as I
walked to my bedroom. My goal: A fresh change of clothes before leaving for the
emergency room. I contemplated brushing my teeth. Then it happened again.
Another horrible, squeezing pressure in my chest, more pain down my left arm.
Damn. My daughter asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t feel well and was
going to have dad take me to the emergency room for a test. She burst into
tears. Damn.
My husband and I convinced
her it was no big deal “just a flu test”. We got in the car. I had another
squeezing sensation in my chest, more horrible pain down my left arm. It was
the worst one yet. I told Lee to floor
it.
Long story short, it was not
a heart attack. I was having premature ventricular contractions. The
contractions by themselves are not life threatening. People get them all the
time. Because of the severity and frequency, they were concerning. Radiology
showed a small amount of fluid around my heart. At first, they were going to
admit me to the hospital for further testing. But as the contractions became
further apart and lighter, I felt better. I was told the caffeine probably
triggered them and that as the caffeine wore off, I might start feeling better.
By 2:00AM I did feel better and I was allowed to go home with firm instructions
to see my cardiologist within a few days.
The squeezing sensation has
not returned, but has now been replaced by the funny little irregular bumps and
thumps that have become a regular part of my day. I haven’t had a sip of coffee
since my cardiac episode. With cold and flu season around the corner, it looks
like my own personal mix of “mother’s little helper” is definitely out of the
question. That would have been real Sudafed washed down with a Diet Coke. No matter
how sick I was, the buzz always guaranteed a clean house and new manuscript by
the end of the day. Damn.
I’m not known for my medical
follow-up. I should probably mention I was born with a couple of heart defects.
I had a hole in my heart that eventually closed. I also had open-heart surgery
at age four to enlarge my pulmonary valve. At the time of the… shall we call
it… “cardiac emergency room incident”… I
hadn’t seen my cardiologist in over twenty years. I told you I’m not known for
my medical follow-up.
I did drag my sorry self to
see the cardiologist a couple of weeks later. He walked into the room carrying
a Starbucks cup and looking a little too cheerful. I have an echocardiogram and
a stress test scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving.
And now I’m forced to
exercise or be humiliated. You see, the stress test involves exercising on a treadmill while they
monitor my heart. I’m in training for it – I’m actually working out regularly on
my treadmill at home - since I don’t want a big lecture on how out of shape I
am.
And while I wait for my
diagnosis, the little canary continues to flutter and pound at the walls of my
chest pushing eagerly to get out. It is ignoring my mental pleading to just
calm down, to go back to the steady rhythm I’ve known my whole life, to be at
peace.
