For the first time in four years my ICD "delivered therapy," which I discovered days after "the event" when my electrophysiologist's nurse called to ask "if I was okay."
The cracks in my heart have not come from bodies offered in the guise of honey; haven’t shaken my hand seconds too long; taken my eyes for gazing balls; my limbs for casualwear. What pocks its surface could be mistaken for the debris their kind leave behind
I don’t think there is anyone who doesn’t want to belong to something or somebody. Not ownership belong to but be a part of belong to. Even me. I say even me because I’m a natural, albeit ironic, loner. Ironic because I’m a twin and we make two of five sisters. Ironic still because there [...]
The disease has damaged my heart, but it doesn’t have to do any more damage if I can get proper treatment. Of course, proper treatment is expensive...
I need help, but since I don’t believe in getting or asking for something for nothing, for (and with) my heart, I propose the following exchange.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
2017 has been life affirming. I haven't taken y'all on the cardiomyopathy carousel much this year because technically it's all rather new; a little up and down like the carousel horsies; a little boring as incremental change can be; and more than anything for all my say-it-anyway-you-can banner waving, ummm, I'd rather not. Besides, I am so, so Here. And other people that were in my brand of canoe don't always get to say that. So, about being Here. That good girl project has been doing big things this year!