27 per cent, eh? No wonder I couldn’t clean the bathtub or sweep the floor without needing a nap. Suddenly my breathlessness and fatigue and weakness made sense.
Seriously, I couldn’t clean the toilet and wash the dishes in the same night, so I would do one on Sunday and the other on Monday. Working full time exhausted me. Thursday was my favourite day of the week, because by Friday I was too tired to appreciate the upcoming weekend.
I sit on my ass all day in an office.
When my doctor called me at home to tell me the diagnosis, it didn’t sound like she was smiling. She was sporting her calculated-calm voice; the one devised to dispel panic. Unfortunately for me, that tone now creates a knee-jerk anxiety response.
The Diagnosis. Dun, dun, duhhhhh!
My heart skipped a beat (wink, wink) when she told me that I had cardiomyopathy, aka heart failure. Heart failure? Wait, I’m not dead. Nothing has failed. But it was failing. That’s why I had to start the medication right away.
As far as diagnoses go, this one wasn’t the greatest. First, there’s the fact that my heart was messed up. Hearts are serious. Second, cardiomyopathy literally means: hey buddy, you’re heart isn’t working but we aren’t sure why. Could be deadly, sucker.
Long way from Fibromyalgia.
I don’t want to give any Fibro sufferers out there false hope that they, too, could have a possibly deadly heart condition. It’s just what happened to me.
After I got over the initial shock of going from Fibro to cardiomyopathy, I spent lots of time thinking of heart puns. For some sad reason, the only thing I really came up with was What? I heartly know you.
I didn’t die. Obviously. Well, I guess I could be my ghost. But I’m not. So what’s left to write about? My heart. Figuratively. I became quite depressed when Dr. Heart told me things that no woman wants to hear.