The Tale of the Bleeding Heart

I know it's taken me a while. Please forgive me.

Anywhoots...here you go!

Many people know that I have been struggling with some health issues recently, more specifically...my ticker is broken (quite literally). I've had three instances of pericarditis in the last year...which is the fancy word for swollen pericardium, which is the sac that your heart sits in. I like to envision it this way...picture a really fat man trying to wear a really tiny sweater. Uncomfortable? You betcha. The pericarditis causes Premature Atrial Contractions...which is doctor speak for: heart beats funny. I illustrate PAC's this way: imagine that one guy in your church. He's often a white middle aged male (but not always!) and he loves praise and worship. He is blessed in many ways, except for the gift of rhythm. So he dances and praises and claps very loudly. His claps are consistent but they always manage NOT to fall on a proper beat. Sometimes he claps slowly and then remembers that the tempo is quick and adds extra claps to catch up. Distracting? Absolutely.

And all of this...fat man in a tiny sweater and unrhythmic praiser...goes on in the caves of my ribcage.

Of course, I am very curious to know the cause of this so I may avoid this discomfort. But the doctors, in all their doctory wisdom, have dubbed my pericarditis as idiopathic. Do you know what that means? It means they have absolutely no idea.

So here I am on my third round of medications that cause side effects that rival the initial complaint (ranging from nausea to raging diarrhea) and I'm actually pretty sick and tired of bombarding my body with 2400 mgs of ibuprofen, daily.

Add to that the number of other stressors that are currently tap dancing through my life and you can come close to imagining my frustration as I walk into my doctor's office on Wednesday...

After enduring many weeks of the horrific side effects and very little relief of the pericarditis, I am convinced that it is time to see someone. I call ahead to schedule an appointment to see my doctor, who is finally back from maternity leave (have a baby on your own time, lady! just kidding, guys...just kidding). After jumping through numerous hoops I finally manage to secure an appointment. Hurrah! I take a detour to my job to pick up some things that I will need for the next day and scurry along to my appointment.

I check in with the receptionist who is confused for a few minutes before she discovers that I am in the wrong room. So she points me to the correct room and I check in there. This receptionist is even MORE confused, especially when she concludes that I have no appointment. I assure her that I made an appointment, but even after minutes of searching, she is unable to locate the elusive appointment.

So what's a girl to do? Apparently, a girl is to go to the nurse's triage station, where a nurse will determine if I am actually truly sick and then AND ONLY THEN, will I be connected with a doctor. So I go to the triage station. I check in...once more and I wait. There are many people waiting and I am jammed between a woman having a very loud and very personal conversation on her cell phone and a canoodling couple. Somehow, I still manage to remain unperturbed.

[Let us break for a moment so I can mention that on THIS particular week, I managed to commit myself to 60+ hours of work between two jobs, Vacation Bible School daily from 6-8:30pm, socializing, bonding with the boyfriend, planning and executing a surprise midnight birthday party for my grandmother (because that's how we roll in this family!) and choreographing and teaching 2 minutes of a routine. I was burning my candle at all ends. It was not the best example of moderation or time management or appropriate sleep patterns. Now back to our story...]

Finally, I'm called back to a room, by a nurse named Nancy. I'm so glad her name was Nancy, because Nurse Nancy has a very nice ring to it. Nurse Nancy is short and wears glasses. She is neutral and her fingers flit over the keys as she asks routines questions. As she has probably done 300 times today, Nurse Nancy asks me what the problem is. And I explain, for the third time today, that the medication is destroying my body. And my back hurts...a lot. She is patient and asks a lot of questions that I have already answered. I try my best to reciprocate her patience but I am slowly feeling months of built up frustration beginning to rise to the surface. I tell her about how I stopped taking my medication for a few weeks because the side effects were just as bad as the pericarditis and it doesn't even seem to work because the pericarditis just keeps coming back!

She encourages me to tell my doctor this. I have. She has a revelation and tells me that I should see a cardiologist! Light bulb! Oh wait...I have. Light bulb dims...

"Well what did he say?" she wants to know.

"He said he doesn't know why I keep getting it. He says he doesn't know if or when it'll come back. He pretty much said he doesn't know anything." (I mean, I appreciate the man's honesty but COME ON!!)

And now the bough is breaking...uh oh...here come the tears...

Now I'm officially bawling and I unleash my tears and frustrations onto Nurse Nancy. I tell her every frustration I have and I do not edit. I tell her that having to decide whether you want your heart to hurt or your body to feel like it's being turned inside out is not a fun or fair decision.

Nurse Nancy maintains a stern face the entire time. After I'm done with my rant, I expect her to give me a canned and placid answer and redirect me to my Primary Care Physician.

Instead, she hands me some tissues so I can stop using my dress to wipe my face. Then she takes a deep breath and goes on a rant of her own. In a very stern and very maternal voice she encourages me. She reminds me that doctors are busy and don't always take the care to be thorough. She reminds me that my body is my responsibility and implores me to be its greatest advocate.

I'm still crying and I'm sure I look a hot mess.

So Nurse Nancy...cries with me. She just stands there and cries and empathizes and rubs my back and affirms my frustrations. She makes me feel like someone cares. She hugs me and tells me that her daughter is my age and she would hate to see her go through something like this. She tells me I am strong. She gives me world's wettest pep talk. She schedules an appointment with my doctor and assures me I can come to Module 4 on the 4th floor if I need another voice to advocate for me and my body.

I finally stop crying. I think about a million things: how much more compassion I have for my clients who are frustrated with their own illnesses, how much back and heart still hurt, how much time I have to get to VBS, how Nurse Nancy's make-up is runnig a little. But mostly I think about how much love is in the room. How godly Nurse Nancy is being...

1 Corinthians 1:3-4 Praise be to the God of all comfort who comforts us in all our troubles so we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.

Thanks Nurse Nancy for being a vessel of comfort. And putting a band aid on my heart (figuratively, speaking of course).

Sometimes love looks like a bleeding heart.