Well basically what happened was that R.J one-upped me by mopping the downstairs while I went to get my car washed. And when I got home, exhausted from my long drive and long wait sitting in an air-conditioned area, I was like–well, I’m the laziest fiance/roommate/wifey ever. But instead of lamenting on my lack of domestic urgency (seeing that our housekeeper has been missing the last three weeks–and not in a America’s Most Wanted way–in a “I’m sick” or “I got another gig in Hollandale” kind of way) I retired to our bed to take an hour long nap.
Which was not refreshing and I woke up with my heart pounding and pressed down on this motherfucker:
This is my new sidekick for the next month or seven days. It’s a Cardionet Heart Monitor and it’s here to both record my tachycardia when I feel I’m having an episode, and scare the absolute shit out of me with it’s creepy, dog whistle- like, early AOL boot up sounding alarm.
I think event cardiac monitors are dumb. Mostly because I always seem to get normal results with them even when I record actual tachycardia happening in real time. Also because I’m supposed to press the button when I feel an attack coming on–and most of that time I’m too delirious from low blood pressure and sky-rocketing heart rates that I don’t really have the momentum (read: brain power) to remember that I’m supposed to record this event.
I’m feeling kind of hopeless too because I finally wikipedia’d Inappropriate Sinus Tachycardia and I see that the paragraph beyond the “miracle pill” of Ivabradine is ablation and nothing else and there are remarks about “not a lot of studies” and a lot of fancy words to say, “the fuck if we know what to do with you.”
Which is often how I feel about my treatment. Which is certainly how I felt about my treatment last night at 11:30pm when I was vacuuming our bedroom and dusting our shelves and putting away our laundry and climbing up and down the staircase with laundry baskets and then sitting in the bathtub for an hour–not to get clean–but because I was blacking out every time I tried to stand up and get out of the bathtub and then I guess I was just like…fuck it, I live here now.
So many years later, after I had resolutely curled up in my bathtub with a towel and the reality that my heart was probably going to explode if I ever moved again, I moved again and was still alive.
Then I proceeded to sit on my bathroom counter for another twenty minutes catching my breath and taking my handful of nightly medications before making it the incredible five feet from my bathroom to my bedroom and fell asleep for a while in my towel before R.J woke me up and– still not dead–I changed into my pajamas and fell right back asleep.
Cool story, right?
Then I got up this morning and for the first half an hour in my day I felt just peachy. Then somewhere in-between Palmetto Park Road and Military I went back to feeling like I was probably going to die and dragged myself into cardiac rehab where I sat with a second monitor on so we could see that my heart was going–the same usual crappy pace it is continously beating at.
And after the rather obvious decision that I would not be working out today, I blearily drove my way over to Dr. Santa Maria’s office where I fell asleep in a recliner for a half an hour before getting my IV (a day early.)
And my day has run pretty much straight along that vein. Feel like shit. Sleep forever. Wonder why Happy has to take so long to find the perfect patch of grass to pee on. Laugh at how long it takes me to catch my breath after giving him a cookie. Diving into work mode for a solid, continuous four hours — and waiting for R.J to get home from his late class.