I should be dead.
A year ago, I was told I was facing “sudden death” and needed a heart transplant.
Wait. What? Just a month earlier, in January 2023, I had undergone a series of routine heart tests to review my lifetime of Mitral Valve Prolapse (MVP). It is a common condition and sometimes requires an outpatient repair. In 1981, while in surgery to have her MVP repaired, my grandmother died.
So being a dutiful person who wants to postpone death, and because I had not seen my cardiologist during the pandemic, a recurring cough hinted that maybe I should see a doctor. Instead of my family doctor, I decided to return to my annual MVP check-ups.
A few days later, just as I have gotten for about 40 years, my letter from the cardiologist arrived and assured me that I was normal. The Jan. 25, 2023, letter said, “I have received and reviewed your recent lab and x-ray results. Your lab results were within normal limits with no indication of congestive heart failure. The x-ray report was also within normal limits with no acute findings.”
That was good, so I tossed my letter in the trash. In mid-February, my cardiologist office called to say I needed more blood tests and needed to see my cardiologist. I reminded them that I was given a clean bill of health but they told me I needed more blood tests. I dug through the trash and retrieved my letter, wanting to make sure I was not crazy.
Nope. Not crazy. But also, not being stupid, I trusted this cardiologist and went for more blood tests on Feb. 18 and returned to see the doctor on March 1.
March 1. Three days before my 62nd birthday, the doctor told me I have Congestive Heart Failure, and the only cure would be a heart transplant. Medication could give me another five to 10 years and without it, I was facing sudden death. My list of heart problems was long so I took a photo of it and sent it to my sister. Nothing is true until a sibling tells you it is.
She called me back and she was sobbing. Being the faithful sister I am, I joined her in sobbing. Like those who remember exactly where they were when Kennedy was shot, I was driving past the Dollar General in Wakarusa when I realized my world has just been turned upside down.
When I got home, I did a Code Blue to Dr. Google. In other words, I researched the internet for “Best heart hospital,” and learned that was the Cleveland Clinic. I was instructed to send an email there and a rep would respond in two days. Like clockwork, I was called on March 3 and told to be at the Cleveland Clinic on March 6.
That week, I had a heart catheterization, more blood work, more tests, and a heart monitor. Countless times, I said, “but, but, but… in January, there was no indication of congestive heart failure.” It was a mistake, a letter sent to me by mistake. Now, if I had died before I started treatment, I would have had a solid lawsuit against the cardiologist. Because I was quick enough to get into the Cleveland Clinic, I did not suffer any damage from the letter being wrong.
Instead, I did what every logical person does: I sent an invoice for $1,395.39 to my Elkhart cardiologist (the one whose office sent me the letter by mistake) listing every penny I spent in Cleveland. I told him that my bill was due within 30 days. He never paid it.
I decided that because of the mistake he made, a second opinion was necessary. If I had been told in January that I was in heart failure, I would have started treatment here immediately. But that letter caused me to lose complete trust in him. Because of his mistake, I had no choice but to get a second opinion.
Turns out, the Cleveland Clinic agreed with him about a transplant being the only cure, but my new doctor said there were a lot of options between a transplant and sudden death. The medication and losing 50 pounds can give me more years. I am working on it.
If I had not gone to the cardiologist in January, 2023, it’s almost certain I would have achieved sudden death by January 2024.
Next week: Being told you are facing sudden death makes you do crazy things.