In July 2025, I suspected something was wrong with me. For years, I’ve exercised regularly, yet found myself quickly running out of steam. After climbing the stairs in my home, I’d have to sit on the edge of my bed to catch my breath. In my defense, the staircase is a steep Victorian and not easy to ascend. When we first moved here, I dubbed it the “Thigh Master” after the exercise product Suzanne Somers promoted in the nineties.

Another thing I noticed was when I exerted myself—like going up the stairs or on my daily walk—I could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck. At an acupuncture treatment around that time, he expressed concern that my pulse seemed erratic. Over the years, my nurse practitioner has commented it was irregular at times. I dismissed their concerns. My father had an irregular heartbeat and lived to be eighty-one. I attributed mine to genetics.

As much as I pushed to increase my stamina, the weakness only worsened. One morning in September, I headed out for a walk, got a half block, and was forced to turn around because my heart beat so frantically I could barely catch my breath. I believed I was having an anxiety attack, and took a lorazepam when I got home.

 Even with all my excuses and denial, I knew this was something that needed to be addressed. I thought about what I’d advise another person and the answer came back that I’d scold them into seeing a doctor.

But here’s the thing—I live alone and at the time my 12-year-old Lucy-dog wasn’t doing so hot. I didn’t have the luxury to discover some heinous illness that would land me in the hospital for God knows how long.

In early December, I had to have Lucy put down. Shortly afterwards, I made an appointment with my nurse practitioner who referred me for an EKG at the hospital. Sure enough, something was wrong. I had arterial fibrillation—or A-fib for short. It makes the heart’s upper chambers beat chaotically, reducing its ability to efficiently pump blood. I was warned it could cause me to pop a clot which would, in turn, give me a stroke.

 A week later, I had an echocardiogram that showed something amiss in the left part of my heart.

Goddammit!

I went to bed each night worried whether I’d wake up with my full faculties or drooling from the left side of my paralyzed face, unable to move. The following two weeks, as I let a prescription blood thinner do its thing, I texted proof of life to my sister Molly each morning. She was under strict orders to call if I hadn’t texted her by nine am. If she wasn’t able to reach me, she had to call 911. I gave her the backdoor lock code to pass along to the paramedics. I didn’t want to add a busted door to my list of worries.

To make matters worse, it was winter. Darkness prevailed and I mourned the loss of Lucy. I belly-flopped into the blues.

 Fortunately, I quickly got a referral to a cardiologist in Santa Rosa, a serious fella who didn’t waste time or words. I proudly reported that I walked nearly every day, worked out regularly, basically ate a Mediterranean diet, rarely indulged in processed foods or went to restaurants.

He furrowed his brow, flummoxed. “You don’t present as someone who should be having these issues.”

No shit, I wanted to say. Instead, I felt guilty over being such a disappointment—not only to him, but to myself.

Over a period of seven months, I went from taking zero prescription medications to taking six! December: Eliquis—a blood thinner. January: Metoprolol succinate—to bring down blood pressure—and Amiodarone—to keep the heart in normal rhythm. March: Entresto—a diuretic and reducer of high blood pressure–and Spironolactone—another diuretic. June: Jardiance–another diuretic.

I was humiliated and humbled. I’d prided myself on being robust for my age—at times even bragging about it. Suddenly, I was a pathetic mess.

It took a week or two for my body to adjust to each medication. Exhaustion, weakness, and impaired balance were the main side effects. I still experience these from time to time.

While I resented having to take so many pills, I tried to be grateful that the medication was intended to get me out of A-fib and fix that pesky thing going on in the left part of my heart. When this had not happened by early May, I was schedule for a cardioversion—or medical shock to the heart.

The only things that concerned me about the procedure were not being able to eat the morning of and having to travel two-plus hours to Santa Rosa. However, I’d heard from a fellow A-fibber that I’d be given a sedative similar to the one administered for a colonoscopy. I must admit, the only thing that gets me through the colonoscopy prep day is the promise of the next day when that dancin’ queen’s magic would cha-cha all my cares away.

On heart-shock day, my dear friend Kathleen picked me up at the crack of dawn and drove me to Santa Rose Memorial Hospital. As instructed, I checked in an hour early and was taken to an outpatient ward where nurses performed all kinds of voodoo, including an EKG to determine if I was still in A-fib.

I was.

A nurse asked if I had any questions.

I did.

“When do I get the sedative?”

“Not until right before the procedure.”

Well, dammit it anyway.

I now had time to obsess on what I’d read about the transesophageal echocardiogram part of the procedure where a tube would be inserted down my throat and into the esophagus to check for blood clots in the heart. What if I had a blood clot—or two? If so, they wouldn’t do the cardioversion, and maybe rush me into intensive care or helicopter me to UCSF Medical Center. As they raced me through the hallways, elbowing people out of the way, would they let me call my kids before I had a stroke and became incapacitated?

I was emotionally spinning by the time a tall, blonde Nordic nurse approached and introduced herself as the one who would accompany me to the procedure room. She was friendly, yet had a take no prisoners vibe. She reviewed my chart on a computer and asked if I had any questions.

I did.

“When do I get the sedative?”

“Right before the doctor does the procedure.”

Bummer.

She pulled a cell phone from her pocket, punched in some numbers, and said, “Where the hell are you? Your patient is waiting on you.”

Within minutes, a cardiologist I recognized as a partner in my doctor’s practice, rushed in, a big smile on his face.

The nurse—who was a good foot taller than him—declared, “Finally!”

He ignored her, took my hand, warmly, introduced himself, and explained what he’d be doing to me. By this point, I’d been seeing my cardiologist for five months and he’d never once ever smiled at me, nor exuded the least bit of warmth. He always looked as if he suffered ingestion while pondering the mystery of how I’d gotten my normally healthy self into this messy situation, and his requirement to figure it out.

My bed was wheeled down a hallway to a room that looked like a large storage area. Random pieces of medical equipment littered the perimeter. An aide hooked me up to an EKG, handed me a tiny cup of lidocaine, and told me to drink it. It was thick and minty, and I had no problem holding it in my mouth for the required thirty seconds before swallowing. This would numb my throat enough to tolerate the tube inserted into my esophagus. For the first time, I got scared. Would I be awake when that happened? I did not want to be awake when that happened.

The cardiologist leaned over me with his delightful smile. “Before doing the cardioversion, I’ll use this to check for blood clots.” He held up a skinny white tube attached to what looked like a digital thermometer.

I wanted to scream, If I’m reminded of blood clots again, I’ll become completely unhinged!

Instead, I asked, “When do I get the sedative?”

“I’ll give it to you now.” Nordic nurse injected it into a portal of my IV tube.

“Thank,” I started to say, but I didn’t get the “you” out.

The next thing I knew, I woke in the ward I’d started in.

“How’re you feeling?” asked the nurse who’d admitted me.

“Am I out of A-fib?”

“You are.” She gave me a smile.

“Woohoo!” I whispered. My relief was so great I could have jumped from the bed and done a lap around the ward. Instead, I savored chocolate pudding as I called my kids and my sister to announce the wonderful news.

Kathleen drove me home and made certain I got settled.

Aside from being unable to eat that morning, the entire process was painless except for a mild sore throat from the tube being shoved through it. The following day, my throat burned, making it too painful to eat solid food. Also, I had what felt like a mild sunburn on my chest and mid-back from the shock paddles. I pureed my food for a week and slathered aloe vera on my burns.

Friends asked if I felt better, but the answer was no, I didn’t. I hadn’t recouped my stamina and continued to take short afternoon naps. I then learned it can take four to six weeks to regain energy after a cardioversion. Over that time, my walks slowly increased from fifteen minutes to forty—sometimes fifty. I’m so grateful to have reclaimed a lifestyle I’d once taken for granted.

Unfortunately, A-fib is chronic. I’m out of it for now, but the cardioversion isn’t considered a permanent solution. There’s another procedure called an ablation that’s more invasive, but more successful in holding off a recurrence for a number of years. However, this is only considered after the cardioversion fails.

When I visited my cardiologist in early June, he didn’t scowl when he reviewed my chart, which allowed me to assume he was pleased with my results. He prescribed a blood test in July, a heart monitor in August, and said I didn’t have to see him again until September.

“Awww,” I quipped, “I’ll miss you.”

He grimaced.

“Have a good summer,” I said, smiling.

This got a tiny smile out of him, and he said, “You, too.”

This sparked a feeling of affection towards him. I think he wants to be warm and personable—he simply doesn’t know how.

Or maybe he just had gas.

Unlike all the other appointments where I’d call my fellow A-fibber friend to cry as I drove home, I flew out of there on a cloud of sweet gratitude and went to Alameda to snuggle my newborn grandson.