This LevittownNow.com multi-part reporting on women and heart disease has been supported in part by funding from In The Know Club members.
This LevittownNow.com multi-part reporting on women and heart disease has been supported in part by funding from 
It took me weeks to finally decide I would write about my own ordeal with atrial fibrillation (A-fib). My diagnosis several months ago was the reason I got the idea for my series about women’s heart disease.
A-fib is an irregular heartbeat involving the pumping of blood from the upper chamber of the heart, and episodes can be occasional or chronic. If there’s such a thing as A-fib luck, I have it because I have the occasional type. Untreated, the irregular beat can cause a clot to form in the heart, and the biggest dangers are stroke or heart attack.
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In December, my daughter, Beth, came home from work to take me to a local hospital’s ER, where I had gone a few times in the past few years with the same symptoms: light-headed, weakness, trembling, racing heart. All tests came back normal.
This last time I decided to go to St. Mary Medical Center where I told the ER doctor that I thought something had to be wrong; This shouldn’t be happening. After some tests – again, normal – the doctor tossed my own words, that the symptoms shouldn’t be happening, back at me as the reason they would keep me “overnight” for observation.
Overnight became three days, followed by extensive outpatient testing. By January, I was told I had A-fib. My reaction was distress, not to mention culture shock because, from never taking any pills, I’d be tied to a lifetime of prescriptions. Culture shock was the easy part because, at the same time, came the onset of panic attacks – panic attacks on steroids.
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At first, I confused panic with A-fib, until my cardiologist explained the difference, and that was some comfort, except when they struck, several times week. In the midst of those mental storms concern about cardiovascular disease took a back seat.
Panic did crazy things to my head, like making me think I was dying, or having a heart attack, or worse, imagining that my cardiologist didn’t understand how sick I was, especially when I called him at 4 a.m., or on a Sunday afternoon.
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It was distress cause by my diagnosis that brought on the panic, I was told.
I didn’t drive for three months. Beth would try to take me to a store, and I’d have to turn back. I just couldn’t do it. I’d walk to the library, one of my favorite pastimes, but browsing among the shelves felt like a suffocating experience. I’d take a tranquilizer just to keep an appointment with my doctor. OK, so I’m an invalid, I thought.
I believed my life was over. Except didn’t want it to be. A combination of prayer, doctors’ care, and my own stubbornness effected a turnaround, slow as it was.
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That started one morning when I woke up and thought, HELL NO, I will NOT be an invalid. I WILL get my life back. The trick was, how do I learn to be normal again? I took the return to civilization in baby steps:
- Hey, me, keep taking your pills, but get back to your daily routine. No getting up every day and wondering how your heart is behaving.
- Listen to music, but only happy music. Watch only comedies, or fun musicals. No dirges, no sob stories.
An exception: I didn’t give up being a news junkie. With 40 years in the business, news didn’t scare me. I’d have gone through withdrawal.
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I give no small credit to my grown children, comedians that they are. When I was thinking about downsizing, getting a smaller house and I didn’t know what to do, my daughter, Kathy, texted that she’d heard about an A-fib Island.
My son Barry followed that text with an “exclusive photo” of A-fib Island. Nice try, kids. I know Burlington Island when I see it.
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They sure knew how to make me laugh through all this. They would also occasionally roll their eyes at my whining.
“Don’t define yourself by A-fib,” Beth warned me.
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It took practice, and a couple of weeks, but the Panic Monster’s claws gradually began to loosen, and finally let go. My life is back to normal and I’ve had no symptoms of anything, so far, anyway.
It’s never easy to admit a weakness, but this is my story for the women I spoke with who are still in the grip of panic and A-fib. For the 99 percent of the time when you’re not in your doctor’s office to tell him or her how you feel, do your own mental workout. Whatever makes you happy, or soothes you, just might help.
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Previous stories in the series:
- Heart Condition AFib Common In Women, Boomers
- Local Doctor’s Cardiovascular Disease Advice For Women: ‘Listen To Your Bodies’
