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Nov. 29th, 2011 09:43 pm
"Heartburn or heart attack?"
Okay, that's a phrase I never wanted to be Googling. And certainly not halfway through a day at the office. But I didn't know what to make of that tightness in my chest--tightness that was in simply the wrong place to be my reflux. Sure, I didn't have any shortness of breath, but I've been warned before that not all heart attacks seem like heart attacks. The lack of corroborating symptoms was pretty reassuring--until the palpitations started
It soon became awkward asking co-workers for precautionary aspirin. Like me, they all carried ibuprofen, which they generously offered me on the reasonable assumption that I was looking solely for pain relief, and when I declined, they were confused--or they leapt to conclusions. "Are you having a heart attack?" one asked me outright, and I had to abashedly confess that, no, I didn't think so, but thinning my blood out just a bit would make me feel better on the off chance.
I respect and envy those people who can commit to a remedy, whether it be seeking help or dismissing the problem. I think I lack a critical gene for decisiveness; I couldn't stop obsessing about my symptoms, but I couldn't bring myself to take a couple hours off work to ride up to the hospital and get checked out. At some point, I had to ask whether anxiety was contributing to keeping my heart rate elevated. But it didn't feel like that; it recalled nothing so much as that horrible weekend I was on steroids for tendonitis.
Finally, I walked outside and called my mother, the retired RN, only to find myself leaving her a message. She finally called back at suppertime and I missed the call, doubtless sending her into needless paroxysms of worry and guilt. Once I realised my mistake, I called her back and got an over-the-phone diagnosis of supraventricular tachycardia, which sounds so awesome I want to repeat it to everyone I see. And she gave me some simple remedies for it, like massaging the carotid artery in order to trick the autonomic nervous system into rebooting.
Now I feel drained. And, yet, strangely alive!
It soon became awkward asking co-workers for precautionary aspirin. Like me, they all carried ibuprofen, which they generously offered me on the reasonable assumption that I was looking solely for pain relief, and when I declined, they were confused--or they leapt to conclusions. "Are you having a heart attack?" one asked me outright, and I had to abashedly confess that, no, I didn't think so, but thinning my blood out just a bit would make me feel better on the off chance.
I respect and envy those people who can commit to a remedy, whether it be seeking help or dismissing the problem. I think I lack a critical gene for decisiveness; I couldn't stop obsessing about my symptoms, but I couldn't bring myself to take a couple hours off work to ride up to the hospital and get checked out. At some point, I had to ask whether anxiety was contributing to keeping my heart rate elevated. But it didn't feel like that; it recalled nothing so much as that horrible weekend I was on steroids for tendonitis.
Finally, I walked outside and called my mother, the retired RN, only to find myself leaving her a message. She finally called back at suppertime and I missed the call, doubtless sending her into needless paroxysms of worry and guilt. Once I realised my mistake, I called her back and got an over-the-phone diagnosis of supraventricular tachycardia, which sounds so awesome I want to repeat it to everyone I see. And she gave me some simple remedies for it, like massaging the carotid artery in order to trick the autonomic nervous system into rebooting.
Now I feel drained. And, yet, strangely alive!
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