Dread weighed heavy on my shoulders as I got ready for my cardiology appointment in the morning. I couldn't get myself to eat, so I took my morning pills with a glass of water mixed with olive oil instead (it sounds way worse than it is, but it still doesn't taste good). Then, I headed outside into the cool, mid-morning air to try to relax while listening to the birds and people practicing in the tennis courts across the street. But, I couldn't relax. I couldn't stop obsessing over my heart, or what horrible things my cardiologist might uncover that day.
Logic couldn't relieve any of the anxiety I had about the day. I couldn't convince my anxious mind that I wasn't dying, and chances were nothing unusual (at least, for me) would be found. I wouldn't even dare to search the internet for any answers, because of how unique my case of Pulmonary Atresia was. I've made that mistake before, and pretty much shat myself when I read about how awful Pulmonary Atresia was for pretty much everyone who has ever been cursed with it.
Normally, people afflicted with Pulmonary Atresia suffer from severe heart issues their whole lives. Normally, people with Pulmonary Atresia have to get way more than just a couple heart surgeries to keep theirs beating, and oftentimes they require heart transplants shortly after they reach adulthood. Even with treatment, only about 50% of those who have Pulmonary Atresia survive to adulthood. And, very few of those people actually make it to adulthood with an even marginally functioning heart (at least, that's true for people born twenty years ago). But, I'm not at all normal.
For reasons nobody has ever been able to properly explain, my heart miraculously healed itself when I was around five years old, saving me from needing any more medication or surgeries to keep my heart functional (so far). Every cardiologist who has ever looked at my case has just shrugged their shoulders, completely bamboozled by how healthy and normal my heart appeared to be.
If it wasn't for the shunt that my heart more or less used as scaffolding to form a brand new pulmonary heart valve, my main cardiologist has admitted that nobody could've suspected anything was ever wrong with my heart. Let alone, that I was born without a pulmonary heart valve at all (just a tiny little hole in my heart where my pulmonary valve should've been, which is why I didn't die immediately though I was born blue), and doctors needed to construct a temporary one for me when I was a newborn (and were prepared to reconstruct many more pulmonary heart valves for me for the rest of my life, using a handful of shunts, pig heart valves, springs and rubber, and my own skin cells).
Of course, instead of calming myself down with the facts, I sat on my front porch freaking the fuck out over what that day had in store for me. I sat in my metal chair, catastrophizing; convincing myself that something was seriously wrong and would need immediate and dramatic attention (AKA another open heart surgery).
Soon, my grandma Debbie arrived. She agreed to be my "emotional support animal" for my appointment. My grandma Debbie was a nurse until the pandemic hit. She retired in April of 2020, and has been keeping busy with grandkids and family obligations ever since. As stressful and nerve-wracking as they are, my grandma enjoys attending my doctors' appointments with me, as she takes on the duties of a nurse in a way. Also, unlike my mom (who freaks out just as much as I do at my doctors' appointments), my grandma is able to calmly and logically talk to my doctors, and always asks the most compelling and interesting questions (and takes a lot of notes as well).
I knew I would be well taken care of with my grandma by my side, and it substantially helped reduce my anxiety surrounding my appointment.
