Bum Ticker
So I think I nearly died today.
Really, seriously, literally almost died today.
I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest and splatter the train’s walls with my entrails.
But maybe I should backtrack a bit.
Today wasn’t particularly extraordinary. I took the MRT like I do every week day, lugging my laundry bag (yes, I use a laundry bag to cart my stuff around) as always.
Except for two things:
(1) My bag can fit three to four cats, true, but I rarely have a lot of stuff in it. Just a bunch of the usual cords, my wallet, gadgets, a jacket, etc. Today, however, I have a monster of a laptop in it, with the requisite power cord and mouse. In case you haven’t figured it out yet: THE BAG IS HEAVY. There’s practically half my weight in that thing.
(2) I ran. I ran up the stupid stairs to catch the train. I never run, because running makes me look like a dork. More of a dork than usual, fine.
So I ran, the monster of a bag slung over my left shoulder, and made my way into the train. In just a minute or so I was doubled over: I couldn’t breathe, and my heart was threatening to break my ribs and make a run for it.
I know it sounds stupid. Running up some stairs carrying something heavy can be difficult, but it’s not fatal, right?
Not in my case.
I’m not particularly out of shape either.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is mitral valve prolapse.
In a nutshell: exerting excessive physical force causes the mitral valve to retract, allowing blood to back flow. This back flow leads to chest pains, sudden shortness of breath and heart palpitations, possibly even cardiac arrest.
The point, I think, is that “excessive” force is mostly relative. My condition can be triggered by something as obvious as a push-up, or something as mundane as trying to open a stubborn jar of pickles.
So, three days into the new year, standing with my head lolling against the wall of the train, I realized I could actually, literally die.
For something so stupid as running up the stairs.
It’s an actual probability, considering the last few times I had really serious attacks were caused by things terribly pedestrian. There was that one time when I was forcing my bursting suitcase shut; another time I was mashing boiled mongo beans.
Granted, I was mashing them far more vigorously than required.
I realized, somewhere between palpitations and ragged breathing, that it wasn’t the prospect of mortality that bothered me.
It was the recognition that something so mundane as mashing already soft beans, or running up the stairs lugging a heavy bag, or attempting to twist off a particularly uncooperative bottle cap, could be the end of me.
How terribly boring.
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