Confluence; Volume Five

One journal entry paired with one image, each of my own creation.

I was scared and alone, with no one there when I needed help the most. It was my third trip to the ER in just ten months—another heart issue, of course. This time, it was tachycardia. Supraventricular Tachycardia, to be exact. Sounds like something out of a superhero story, right? Trust me, it’s not. It can often be terrifying.

When it hit at 3 p.m., it felt different—stronger, faster, almost vengeful. I crouched by the front door, my hand pressed against the screen to signal the paramedics when they arrived. My heart rate had skyrocketed, peaking at 252 bpm, and I watched the monitor as the numbers climbed. I still wonder why they let me see it. I was dizzy, barely able to focus, and they made the decision to reset my heart right there in my living room. Yes, reset—like rebooting a modem when the Wi-Fi’s down. For a moment, my heart would stop, power down. There’s no pain when it stops, only in the drug that forces it to. Two IVs, one in each arm. 12mg of Adenosine. They counted down and forced the fluid into my veins in one swift push.

"Breathe," they said. "This is going to hurt."

And then it hit—heavy, crushing, like a ton of bricks on my chest. I gasped, legs curled up instinctively as they held me down. "Breathe faster," they urged, as I screamed out. The dizziness was overwhelming. I asked if I was going to die.

“We're not going to let that happen.”

But in that moment, it felt like I would. I was certain of it.

The last ten months have been an absolute mess, and I’m beyond exhausted and disappointed. Frustrated doesn’t even begin to cover it—I’m a dozen different shades of anger and resentment. The worst part is the timing. Ironically, this hit me on one of the best days I’ve had in a long while. I wasn’t anxious. I was actually happy, calm. And then, out of nowhere, this comes crashing down on me like it doesn’t care at all how far I’ve come or how much work I’ve put into healing. I’ve fought so hard to get to this point, and the thought of sliding backward terrifies me. Between mental strain and mounting medical bills, it’s becoming too much. How much more can I really take?

—

Update since this journal entry above, written on the night of 9/19 after being released from the hospital: just four days later, I found myself back in the ER, facing the same ordeal—but this time, it was worse. It took three attempts to reset my heart into the correct rhythm. Three doses of medication. Three waves of pain. Now, it seems surgery might be my only way out of this.

This is/was an exercise in awareness, coping, and a way to deal with emotions I’m confronted with on a daily basis.