I thought I could be stoic about all of this, but I can’t. This is all really severely depressing. It’s not the “you need surgery,” that I feared, but it’s not really much better. Suddenly the fact I have a man-made ventricular septum, and outer vessels confusing enough to baffle an entire cardiology department has gotten to me. I’ve grown accustomed to having an abnormal heart, but drugs reintroduce a visceral reality of mortality I don’t want to remember.
Mortality? I have a weakened left ventricle. You know, that one that delivers blood to my entire body. Now that I’m on drugs to reduce my heart’s workload, my heart rate is fucking 42 right now. Which proves the drug is working, as a heart capable of supplying the body at 50 beats per minute can surely accomplish the same with less when vessel walls are relaxed. But I’m also bordering on bradycardia at that rate; it’s a fine line between slow and dangerously slow I’d rather not be skimming. This isn’t supposed to be happening! I put up with enough of this shit in 1984, and it’s supposed to be over now. I shouldn’t need drugs to fucking live at my age Goddamnit!
What’s funny is that it’s come down to this:
What do you mean “globally distressed?” Drugs? Fuck!
I thought this would be the same old thing, but it’s not. I’m really not handling this change very well, which is sad considering I’ve somehow avoided conditions which plague other adults with congenital defects. I’ve only had one open-heart surgery. I don’t need a pacemaker, and I can still muster enough energy for bouts of physical activity. Someone else always has it worse, but that doesn’t make it any less real. It’s days like this I wish I didn’t live alone in an apartment in Chicago.
It’s not like I’m having a crisis or anything, but I have to say this has ruined my month. Hopefully I’ll be over it before my birthday on the 18th.