The Anti-Coreg

There I was, laying on the Cath lab table, the same one my own patients had laid on throughout the years while they were experiencing heart attacks or needed quick cardiovascular interventions done. I was in a surreal daze, perhaps caused by a mix of anxiety, frustration, fentanyl, and midazolam.

This is probably how my own patients felt, I thought. Sometimes, I’d go with them to the Cath lab during transport, and would wonder why they were so scared. “The cardiologist is going to take really good care of you. You’re at the right place and we caught the heart attack right on time,” I told one of my patients once. “Ah but you don’t know … this feeling … you’ll never know, Doc,” he reluctantly told me, as we pushed his gurney into the elevator.

If you’re ever reading this, Sir— I kind of know the feeling now.

Something went into my neck. 

I remember numbers being called out. I remember getting back into my hospital room, and learning that I now officially had to be transferred to the Cardiac Care Unit. I remember having uncomfortable central lines (large IV catheters) on both sides of my neck. I remember asking a resident doctor if one of them was going to come out. “There’s a risk of infection. Take one of them out, please!” I demanded. I remember someone pulling the left one out, and explaining to me that the right one had a Swan-Ganz catheter, which they were going to need to use for the rest of the hospitalization.

Swan-Ganz. This is what my attendings used to do on all their patients “back in their residency days.” Now, the cardiologists usually do them, but “we” don’t. It kind of looks like a swan, hanging out of my neck like this. When is this fentanyl going to wear off?

The attending cardiologist came into my room and explained to me that my “sats were not looking good.” After discussing my results and talking to me about our plan, the team started me on milrinone, a medication to help improve my heart function, for the time being. 

Another doctor came in to tell me some more great news. “Your SVR is over 4000, okay?”

Okay. “Cool man, thanks.” 

What’s normal though? I tried to Google what “normal ranges” were (by the way, SVR, aka systemic vascular resistance, should be no more than 1200). I had forgotten some of those basic cardiology concepts from medical school, but I was too tired to figure this all at that moment. 

I was started on some more medications to lower that great SVR of mine. I had a friendly yellow swan in my neck. I just wanted all of this to be over, so I decided to fall asleep. This was all surely all just a dream!

I don’t know how long I had fallen asleep for, but I woke up to my parents in my room with their luggage. “What is going on with our daughter!!?!"

I sobered up to reality. “I’m fine. I’m in something called ‘shock.' But they have me on medications.”

My dad then asked, “Shock? You said it was your heart, and at first it was a pneumonia…” 

Take a deep breath, Alin. 

“Look, let’s just wait for the doctors to come talk to you guys. Basically, my heart isn’t pumping well, so I’m on these medications to keep it pumping until we figure out the cause.” 

“This is probably like what I have. Remember I told you that I have cardiomyopathy? They need to put you on Coreg. 3.125mg.” 

And this became my father’s word of advice to every single physician who entered the room, from the interventional cardiologist to the transplant psychiatrist.

(One of the cardiologists patiently explained to my dad once that I was actually on the "anti-Coreg" regimen right now because my heart was in a different situation than his heart had ever been, and that this Coreg, which is a phenomenal drug for some patients, would probably kill me. He didn’t care. He was on a mission to get me on Coreg for the next few weeks. It made all of us laugh, and I appreciated how calm and pleasant the physicians always were with him.)

The team came into my room. They began going over my results.  Apparently, my “sats” were in the 30s, my “wedge” was over 40, and my “cardiac index” was 1.3. This is all Medical Speak for “We’ve confirmed that your heart is officially failing miserably.”

A lot of the work-up was pending, but the etiology of my miserably failing heart was probably familial. My father had cardiomyopathy, diagnosed around age 40. And his father, my grandfather, had “some kind of abnormal heart,” and subsequently died of sudden cardiac death in his early 40s. All of this from a mutated sequence of “ATCCTAGCCCC”s that had been brewing in my DNA for years, replicating, and waiting for the perfect moment to show itself (along with other environmental factors, but we won’t go into that).

I thought about how my genes were probably talking amongst themselves, “Why don’t we wait for her to be at the PRIME of her life, right when she’s the happiest she’s ever been, right before she moves to New York City, and then just F$&! everything up?” I chuckled and went back to listening to the physicians.

They explained to my parents that I was in a critical state. I had to be transferred to another hospital for “advanced heart failure measures” … in case the milrinone didn’t help my heart. 

I explained a lot of this to my parents as best I could. 

My parents continued to be in denial, and would ask things like “Why is the critical care doctor saying that you’re stable, but the cardiologist is saying that your labs are abnormal?” 

Because I’m stable from a Critical Care perspective, but not from a Cardiology perspective. 

And yes, my dad continued to ask about adding the 3.125mg of Coreg to my medications, despite being told that I needed the “anti-Coreg” to stay alive. 

So glad those days are over. Until next time!

Today’s End-of-Blogpost Treat will be a book recommendation, since I’ve been reading a lot lately. Mark Manson’s “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck” is not your average self-help book. It’s hilarious, and gives you a new perspective on life.

“The desire for more positive experience is itself a negative experience. And, paradoxically, the acceptance of one’s negative experience is itself a positive experience.” That quote (from the book) resonated with me throughout my hospitalization.

Inconsistencies & Ambiguities

I had just seen my terrible echocardiogram, and had diagnosed myself with a sad, failing heart. I waited patiently. The cardiologists came into my hospital room and sat down. One of them asked, “Is there any personal or family history of heart failure, Alin? What exactly were your symptoms?”

For what seemed like the hundredth time, I explained. I had this cough around Halloween and it never got better. I had a cold. I was feeling short of breath over the last few days, perhaps it was due to post-viral reactive airway disease, I don’t know. I feel fine. I want to go home. 

“Any weight gain?”

“No.” But the ED nurse said that my weight was 110 pounds. I’ve never been over 90 pounds. The scale was wrong.

“Any decreased urine output? Swelling in your legs?”

“No. No.” But Matt did say my legs looked kinda swollen. Wasn’t pitting though, I don’t think. 

“Were you using more pillows at night?”

“No.” But I always use two pillows to sleep. The other night, I woke up to catch my breath. Thought it was a panic attack.

“What about significant family history?” 

“My grandma has high blood pressure. My dad has dilated cardiomyopathy from myocarditis. I think his dad died suddenly when he was in his early 40s. That’s all.” Grandpa died of sudden cardiac death at age 40…

They all leaned in. “What did he die of?”

“We aren’t sure, nobody knows. Something with his heart? It was sudden, and he wasn’t around much. It’s all unclear.”

And then we stared at each other for a few more seconds. Something in his heart, sudden cardiac death, dad has dilated cardiomyopathy, but his is from myocarditis, I think that’s what he said. Where’s my dad?! 

I frantically called my parents, who were on their way to Philadelphia. They were at the airport, waiting nervously for their plane to board. 

“Dad, I think I have to go to the cath lab. It's my heart. It’s failing. Do you remember what your dad died of? And why do you have cardiomyopathy?” 

Between my father’s hindered tears and my mother’s silence, I realized how much of my character had just spewed out. I’m straightforward. I like to get to the point. It’s the Emergency Medicine mindset, and I had always been that way. I had to go to the cath lab so that the cardiologist could check my pressures, and then something about Swan-Ganz, a possible balloon pump. Risks? Bleeding, inflammation, infection, etc. Yeah, yeah. I had consented for everything. Now, I just needed these questions answered so that I could move on with my life.

I broke the silence. "Don’t cry, I’m fine. I feel fine. I’m breathing better now, too. These people know what they’re doing." I wasn’t breathing better, but they probably need to give me some Lasix or nitro. No wait, my blood pressure. How do I do this “doctor-patient” thing?

Dad interjected. “They told us that you had a pneumonia. Are you still on life support? What are you talking about?”

I almost rolled my eyes. How could I be on life support if I’m talking. I’m on pressors-- I guess that’s life support. I stopped myself mid-thought. I put myself in their shoes for one second.

And thus came the challenging beginning of being the first and only critically ill patient (and also the only medical professional) in my family. I realized the difficulties of patient care quite early— the ambiguity, the unknowns, the constant changing-of-the-plans, the various care teams saying different things. As a doctor, I understand this completely. What I never understood was why my own patients didn’t understand this. But that day, I finally began to grasp the difficulties of being a hospitalized patient with family & friends who cared too much, had too many questions, and couldn’t grapple with the uncertainty of modern medicine.

I took a deep breath. “I’m not on life support, but I need you both here. I have to get a procedure done to see how my heart is doing. It may not be pneumonia. I’ll call you after.” 

And off I went to The Legendary Cath Lab, where I’d get all of my answers while laying flat on a cold, hard slab of metal. Where the cold, hard slab of reality would suddenly hit me.

And with that … here’s a quote (by anonymous) I recently found while “surfing the web” (like its 2001).

“Fear, uncertainty, and discomfort are your compasses toward growth.”

Ejection Fraction

Disclaimer: The first few days of my hospitalization were quite blurry. I don’t recall some of it because of the medications & sedatives I was on, but I do have notes written down from how I was feeling during those times, so I will be alluding to the notes occasionally.

Anyways … continuing with my hospitalization:

Nobody knew what was going on. I was extubated and breathing on my own (barely). My heart rate was too high, my cough wasn’t getting any better. My liver function tests were abnormal, my electrolytes were off. My chest x-ray showed complete "white-out" of both lungs, which is Medical Speak for “Something serious going on in the chest.”

I had almost every consulting service seeing me. I’m on my way to becoming an Internal Medicine resident’s winning case report in the New England Journal of Medicine. If you can’t tell, my dry humor got me through a lot of this.

One of the doctors in the Intensive Care Unit came to my room during the morning of Hospital Day 3. He was determined to solve the puzzle. He asked me a few questions and then proceeded to do a full physical exam on me— probably the 8th or 9th one in the last 24 hours. He spent some time pontificating about what this could’ve been, and what we should’ve done, and what the next step would be. 

He was in deep thought when suddenly he realized that he may have figured it out.

“I think it’s your heart, Alin.”

He turned to the resident physicians and calmly said, “Get Cards on board. Someone send a troponin and a BNP.” 

This is Medical Speak for “I think that your heart is failing.” He then asked me a few more questions, and we talked about the plan. The team left the room quietly.

My HEART!? My heart? My lovely heart! The one that got me through the last 30 years of my life! The one that kept me going. The one that helped me physically exercise every day. The one that helped me at work, while I ran around room-to-room in the ER trying to convince patients to stay in the hospital for their own good because I genuinely cared about them. The one that I wore on my sleeve. The one that was “too much” at times. The one that loved everything so passionately, and was always loved in return. 

I took a look at my lines and my tubes. I stared at the intravenous medications— “the drips." I was getting all sorts of antibiotics, antivirals for this possible infection of mine. My blood pressure had been running low, so I was put on a medication to help my heart pump. I had a catheter jammed into my radial artery that was reading my low blood pressure, my low mean arterial pressure (that’s the one I always look at … why’s it 60? We need to up my Levophed, guys). I then came to the conclusion that I was … pretty sick.

I picked up my pen and paper and wrote down: Heart???? I still can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? I feel like I’m drowning. Dying. 

A very long hour passed. One of the cardiologists walked into my room. We joked about how this definitely could not have been my heart. He then proceeded to place an ultrasound probe on my chest wall, something we do often to check a patient’s heart function.

And there it was.

Global hypokinesis. Thin walls. Dilated chambers. Chronic changes. Terrible squeeze. Severe mitral regurgitation. Ejection fraction? 5-10%. 

This is Medical Speak for “A poor, poor heart walking on thin ice.” 

He quickly put the probe down, noticing that I had seen the images already. We were both quiet for a few seconds, but he broke the silence. “I’ll be right back with a couple of the attendings, hold on." That’s Medical Speak for “You are … pretty sick.” 

I didn’t need him, or any of the attendings, to interpret anything. I knew how bad this echocardiogram was. That was, by far, one of the hardest parts of my whole experience— trying to be a hospitalized patient while, in reality, I myself was a medical professional. I had completed 9+ years of school, had finished almost 3 years of training in Emergency Medicine, and I was just about to start a specialized fellowship in Critical Care Medicine. I was supposed to be the doctor pontificating & telling young, healthy, scared, sick patients that “it" was their hearts. I was supposed to be putting the ultrasound probe on their chest walls, and ordering the serum troponin levels.

I knew how dire my situation was. I didn’t need anybody telling me this. 

I screamed a little bit, internally.

My heart, you’ve given up on me! 

To end this post, here’s something lighthearted. A direct quote from one of my attendings in medical school— a mentor of mine, a one-of-a-kind radiologist who recently texted me after hearing about my situation.

“I remember you and your energy, Masha’Allah. Going through a few months of residency with a 5% EF? Only you could have done it.”

That Which Does Not Kill You...

Continuing from my 2nd blog post, “Dyspnea."

Let’s go back to the night of December 21, 2018. Imagine me, nervously sitting there, in my own emergency department, waiting for my doctor to come assess me. I had just been at work 24 hours earlier, and I kept telling everyone I was fine. “My review of systems is negative other than this little cough. And don’t even worry about getting a lactate on me. It’s going to be high because my work of breathing is terrible!” I told my attending. 

If you didn’t know, doctors make the worst patients.

A few tests were done, and with some pushing and convincing, I was admitted to the hospital for a work-up of my shortness of breath. Everybody was very concerned for me. The diagnosis, initially, was that of a multifocal pneumonia— an infection of the lungs that I had probably contracted from one of my critically ill patients. What else could it be in this young female with no medical problems? No need for a lactate! She’s fine! She has work tomorrow night!

There was one major issue, though. My heart rate was too high. Anti-anxiolytics, anti-hypertensives and intravenous fluids— all useful at lowering heart rates for reasons I won’t go into right now— weren’t working for me. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the most horrifying moment of my life. 

It all started about 30 minutes after getting settled into my bed on the inpatient floor. I remember suddenly feeling very lightheaded, as beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. The beads of sweat turned into drops of sweat. Large drops. I was feeling cold, clammy. I couldn’t think straight. I looked up at the monitor. My heart rate? 40. 39. 38. 35. 

(FYI, a normal heart rate is between 60 - 100 beats per minute.)

Suddenly, a group of doctors and nurses rushed into my room. I remember apologizing to them. A surgical resident asked if I needed to “be lined.” This is Medical Speak for “She’s crashing and needs a large intravenous line in her neck right now for special medications that need to get pushed right into her heart.” One of the medical residents gently grabbed my forearm and asked if she could check a “gas” on me. This is Medical Speak for “We are so worried about you, that we need to stick a needle into your radial artery to see what’s going on. And this is going to hurt.” I remember staring into a nurse’s concerned eyes. He was in disbelief. Please help me. 

Someone said that my heart rate was decreasing. Someone else called for the crash cart. This is Medical Speak for “She’s about to die.”

A nurse rushingly placed pacemaker pads on my chest, but I was so diaphoretic that they weren’t sticking properly.

I heard someone ask if they should turn this into a “Code Blue.”

And that’s the last thing I remember from my almost-death-day.

I woke up one day later in the hospital's Intensive Care Unit, not being able to recall anything that had occurred. I was intubated— tube in mouth, breathing on the ventilator machine. I was sitting up, barely. There was a parched, dry feeling in my mouth, and I was coughing up and gagging on secretions. I felt like vomiting. Restrained to my bed like a prisoner, I was in distress. Everything was so surreal. I had catheter lines coming out of my neck, my forearms, my right groin. My friends, who happened to be the wonderful nurses and physicians taking care of me, were tearfully staring at me.

My heart rate was 140. Better than 35, I thought. Cough. 

I will tell you— there is something compelling about near-death experiences. Your feelings are all over the place. I was so uncomfortable in that moment— I had no idea what was happening to me. But I was so grateful to be alive. I wanted this tube out of my mouth, and then I wanted to hug and kiss and thank everyone. I wanted to dance. Potential Code Blue, you lost!

I was shackled down, physically. But I had never felt so liberated, emotionally. 

To end this post, a classic from Friedrich Nietzsche (one of my favorite philosophers). Remember, folks:

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

Celebrating Life

The story of my almost-death-day will continue later. Today, I want to celebrate life. You see, today is my 31st birthday.

I celebrate my own birthday every year, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. I think I read on a cheesy card once: "Life should not just be lived. It should be celebrated." I thought everybody did this.

When I turned 22, I organized my own “Totally 80s” house party, complete with a Pac-Man cake & cheap, colorful wayfarers for my guests. I spent the night of my 25th birthday at an extravagant restaurant in Atlanta, with a group of first-year medical students (then, strangers; now, best friends). I learned about Stylish Buckhead, and tried Waffle House waffles for the first time in my life. For my 27th birthday, I bought myself a very large lime green cake and rented out a party space in Western Arkansas. Fifty people joined me. It was the party of all parties-- fully equipped with an open bar, lots of delicious appetizers, and slices of lime green goodness for dessert. I had even invited my Rural Medicine attendings to join me. We danced. We laughed. It was a good night.

Last year, for my 30th, my boyfriend & I spontaneously took a trip to Las Vegas for one night. Our plane landed in the city at midnight. By 1:30am, we found ourselves in the VIP Section of some crowded, sweaty club listening to what kids call "House Music" these days. I spent $20 on a slot machine at approximately 3:30am at The MGM Grand Hotel— slightly inebriated, but absolutely happy. 

This year, I can’t go out to a fancy restaurant in Nashville to blow out candles, nor can I roam the colorful streets of Barcelona with friends while signing Happy Birthday to myself. Why? I’m only 2 weeks post-transplant surgery (“It’s flu season! You’re immunocompromised!” they say). But I don’t need to. I will still celebrate life.

Today, the water that I’m drinking is so pure, so clear. So delicious. I feel every drop slowly trickling down my esophagus, and I can swallow with ease. My mouth is satisfied. You see, there’s something delectable about being able to freely moisten your throat with ice cold water after being strapped down in two-point restraints, unable to clear your own secretions while forcibly breathing on the ventilator machine (twice). 

The view I’m looking at of these lovely, busy streets is phenomenal. The dark clouds overlooking the horizon, the cityscape, the flurries. I’ll be walking alongside you and your Toynbee Tiles shortly, Philadelphia. You see, there’s something sweet about even being able to look outside to gaze at something *other* than the hospital plumbing system. Liberty 1, Liberty 2, especially at dusk— I see you and I love you.

And how about those piercing, loud city sounds? To the old man who plays the same rhythmic patterns on his saxophone down my block every single night— I adore you! Wake me up at midnight, like you always used to. I was just trying to sleep soundly after those evening shifts in the ER, but I was never mad at you. Play it louder. You see, there’s something wonderful about the little sounds that you are used to, no matter where you live. The ones that don’t consist of the BEEPs, the BOOPs, and the ANESTHESIA STAT TO THE FOURTH FLOORs.

Today, I am surrounded by my family members— I’m so thankful for the ties that bind that I want to scream! Backstory? My mother has selflessly moved her life to Philadelphia for the time being to help me check my blood sugar level every morning (even though I could do it myself, MOM). 

On Friday, she heard me cry for the first time in years. I couldn’t sleep. Everything was hurting. I had stinging muscle cramps in my legs from becoming so deconditioned on that hospital bed (I was jogging every day just a month ago, MOM). There was an unbearable, raw pain in my chest from the sternotomy-- it worsened with every wincing cry & every breath I tried to take in between (Go to sleep because I’m fine, MOM). She sat next to me for two hours, slowly massaging my legs without saying a word. She let me cry. You see, there’s something special about having your mother there next to you, holding you, during those late nights when you had otherwise become accustomed to feeling cold monitor leads and wires stuck to your chest wall. The only thing you felt on those nights was the artificial touch of the blood pressure cuff clinging to your right arm, cycling itself every half-hour & reminding you of how critical your condition truly was.

Today, I honor the little things in life, and I urge you to do the same. I was never one to take advantage of these moments. But today, they complete me. You see, there’s something celebratory about being able to live after coming almost face-to-face with your own death, multiple times, in a 30-day-period.

Thank you for completing me, Everything Around Me. And thank you, My Organ Donor, for letting me continue celebrating my life.

To end this post, another one from the great Oliver Sacks, from his opinion article “My Own Life” in The New York Times. I recommend reading the whole piece here … because it will change your life.

“...My predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”

Dyspnea

I was settling into a 24-hour hospital shift on a cold day in mid-December, 2018. I was talking to my patient, trying to convince him to stay in the hospital. He was having an asthma exacerbation and wasn’t breathing very well. There was an obvious pneumonia on his chest radiograph, and he was requiring extra oxygen to breathe. He didn’t want to stay. He had to go home to his daughter. 

During my physical examination, I started coughing and excused myself.  “Doc, maybe you need to stay in the hospital instead of me, that cough doesn’t sound too good.”   

Cough. We laughed about it. I left the room. Cough. I went and examined my next patient.  

Cough. I got myself various medications to help with my congestion, cough, and runny nose. And then I convinced my resilient self that they were working.  

A few days later, one of my supervising doctors (side note: in training, we call them our “attending doctors” and they are our educators, role models, mentors, and lifesavers) noticed the symptoms. “Why are you so dyspneic?” she asked. Cough. Shrug. 

Dyspnea was a frightening term to hear. It translates directly to “difficulty breathing,” stemming from the Greek words dys (“ill”) and pnea (“breathing”). Nobody wants to be dyspneic. 

I chalked it all up to a “bad upper respiratory infection” that I was having— I’d get it checked out. The following morning, I called and made an appointment with my primary care doctor for an office visit in a few weeks.

I was going to be okay. For the next three days, I worked hard and continued to see my patients. I wrote out clinical case reports, & reviewed medical board questions. I went out with my friends, read my books, and continued to have my fun. Normal life things!!

Cough. 

There’s a part of this story that I only remembered in retrospect, and it “says a lot about me” (according to my close ones). I recall taking the subway to work and having difficulty going up the stairs without getting short of breath. Because I had stopped so suddenly to catch my breath, I pretended that I wanted to snap a photo in the middle of the staircase, so that the people behind me wouldn’t ask if I needed help. It ended up being a beautiful photo of the tiled subway walls, but a picture is worth a thousand words...

Dyspnea is almost always a bad sign, and I was getting worse. 

(Disclaimer: these symptoms worsened in a very short time period. I strongly urge AGAINST waiting a month to see your doctor if you are becoming dyspneic. Please use our emergency departments to get checked out if you can’t make an appointment soon enough— we are happy to help you.)

The next day was a blur, and the details will eventually surface throughout my stories. But let’s flash forward to me being forced into realizing that I needed to get evaluated by a physician. I walked into our emergency department, backpack in hand. There I was, scurrying around as a frightened, anxious patient in the Emergency Department and not as a young, confident Emergency Department doctor. Those around me said that I looked terribly sick. I was pale. I wasn’t breathing well. And how did all of this happen so quickly?  

My preliminary imaging and work-up was pointing to an infection of some sort. I was young and healthy otherwise, and the symptoms were abrupt in onset. 

But we have these sayings in Emergency Medicine that we follow religiously. Passed down by the generations of The Great Emergentologists that came before us... 

“Young people are able to compensate well... until they’re not and they’re crashing.”

With a pale, sweaty complexion, a heart rate in the 140s (normal being between 60-100 beats per minute), blue lips, and a respiratory rate in the 40s (normal being less than 20 breaths per minute), I was admitted to my own beloved second home— my training hospital, with my friends and colleagues around me for support. But for the first time ever, I didn’t want to be there. I was afraid of what was going to happen. 

Ironically, I spend hours daily convincing my own sick patients to stay because I care about their well-being. I never understood the hesitation that they had until this moment in my life. The denial that they are sick. The fear of the unknown. Cough. 

The rest of the details come later, so stay tuned.   

To end this post, I call this photo (taken the day before I was hospitalized), “Dyspneic in the Subway.” I know, my humor can be so dry sometimes. 

Dyspneic in the Subway

Philadelphia, PA || December 2018

The Background

I was born in Los Angeles on January 29, 1988 to a very loving and supportive family. Somehow, everything came together. I grew into— and I had to ask my closest friends to describe me— a “loud, fun-loving, sarcastic, bubbly” doctor with some strange hobbies, an obsession with true crime documentaries, and an innate determination to change the world. I have lived (& continue to live) a good, beautiful life.

In 2018, I was completing my medical training in the captivating field of Emergency Medicine, while spending my free time with loving friends, good food, and crisp wine. I was obsessed with my lifelong hobby of photography. I enjoyed being involved with extracurriculars, interest groups, and academic research. I exercised when I had the chance to, and I cooked a few times a week to get my mind off of my stressful schedule. 

I was happily getting ready for a big move to New York City to specialize in Critical Care Medicine. I wanted to become a “lifesaver on steroids.” I was the definition of a patient advocate. Passionate about my career, I was ready for my next challenging chapter in training. I was stubborn, but enthusiastic and whole-hearted about everything that I did.

I followed the cliche sayings of “Carpe diem, never say never, c’est la vie” and all of the likes. I was living a good, beautiful life.

But on December 21, 2018, I almost died.

And then … miraculously … on January 15, 2019, I was reborn with a new heart, all thanks to a selfless organ donor who happened to have my matching blood type (B+, to be exact, wink face). 

I decided to create this blog to share my journey into what happened, why it happened, and what I’m going to take away from my experience. You see, there are several ways to interpret these “inconvenient" life events (let’s call these ILEs). You can genuinely see them as setbacks and let them take over your thoughts. You can blame yourself or others (or even a higher being) and dwell on the reasons why such ILE happened to happen to good, ol’ you.

Me? I gracefully embraced my ILE. I am continuing to learn from it every day, even in my hospital room on Post-Op Day 7. You see, blogging on Cardiac Transplant Post-Op Day 7 is record-setting.

This project will become my creative space to tell my story, promote health and wellness, give out any life tips as needed, and advocate for transplant research & organ donation. I may ramble endlessly, or do a few “Top Ten” Lists to change things around. Some posts will be longer than others, but I’m generally a concise & straightforward person.

I won’t keep you bored. 

I would like to end each post with a tasteful quote, lyric, photo, or book suggestion, so here goes my first one:

“At nearly 80, with a scattering of medical and surgical problems, none disabling, I feel glad to be alive — "I'm glad I'm not dead!" sometimes bursts out of me when the weather is perfect.” 

Tastefully stated by Oliver Sacks (one of my influencers, a clinician-storyteller with a beautiful knack for words, who died in 2015 of metastatic cancer). 

Until next time, World. Perhaps I will be out of the hospital by then.