Infamy at 300 beats per minute

For a brief, yet poignant time in my childhood, I lived in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania – just 40 minutes west of Philadelphia, where I was a patient at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP). The five years I spent in this little town brought me the most profound experiences that would shape the adult I am today, from the two wonderful elementary teachers whom I still attempt to keep in contact, to the two life saving open heart surgeries (performed by Dr. Norwood himself, if you don’t mind a little horn tooting), to forming the two most meaningful relationships of my life; that of my cat, Mr. Destiny (hello, crazy cat lady here) and my best friend, KD.

Those five years saw me in and out of the hospital more times than all the rest of my years outside of the 19406 ZIP code put together. My heart “problem” (as we so lovingly referred to it) was well known throughout the town, especially those unfortunate individuals who happened to either work or attend or have some affiliation with the elementary schools I attended because I was at school just as much, if not more, as I was at home. My health reached new levels of high tension drama, one that could quite easily rival any prime time medical show (I’m looking at you, Dr. House!), and one instance my heart having a throw down with me garnered enough attention to send me in local King of Prussia infamy that still follows me today.

During the winter of early 1990, between my second and third open heart surgeries, I was enjoying a peaceful morning in my first grade class. My teacher, Ms. Twiss, chose myself and another little girl to take the slips of attendance and lunch orders up to the office and cafeteria, respectively. This little girl and I…did not get on well. She did not like the way I looked, and I did not like the way she displayed behavior common to a sociopath. We made the walk up to our respective destinations in silence, I to the office first while she went on to the cafeteria. As we were instructed to go together, I knew we would have to go back together as well. I waited in the main foyer for her return from the kitchen when BAM! Everything went black.

The next thing I knew I was lying on the overstuffed, split-pea green vinyl bed in the nurses office while phones were blaring, people were rushing in and out, talking in rapid, tense tones and panic rose in the air. The nurse, dear Mrs. Noll (whom I would later see in my adult life and thank profusely, though there are no words to express the gratitude I feel for this woman) told me to lie still, my parents were on their way.

I caught on that something was amiss, though I laughed it off and insisted I was fine, cradling my head in my arms Ferris Bueller style to emphasize my point. That is when I saw it – my thick, mint green and pale pink woolly sweater leaping in rapid palpitations from my chest, over and over and over, as if it had suddenly been given the Powder of Life. It was tachycardia – and after the initial shock wore off, embarrassment set in. WHY HERE AT SCHOOL? OMG!

My parents were soon by my side, paramedics on their way but caught in traffic. TRAFFIC? Traffic! What could they do; they were a good twenty minutes away and I needed to get to CHOP now. It was decided that the spacious field beyond the baseball diamond would be made use of by the hospital-issued helicopter and I would be air-vaced to the Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia. I believe my reaction was, and I may be paraphrasing, “Rad!”

Embarrassment was gone, and what I oft refer to as my patent False Bravado (a self-preservation tool) officially kicked in. I could hear the principal speaking with my classmates in the cafeteria; she had wisely decided to hold an impromptu assembly so as to keep little busybodys away from the windows as the medics strapped me in my own luxury seat and wheeled me to my first class position on the waiting helicopter. On our way out, I caught sight of local news vans and told the medics my left side was my best side. They laughed and secured me in my sweet new ride, my dad buckling up near me, ready to join in on the adventure.

When I eventually returned to school, my best friend proudly showed me the newspaper where my aerial had a write-up and told me I even had a spot on the local news. Dude, I was famous.
Fame is fickle, though, and not a year went by afterward nor in the years after I would move from Pennsylvania and return irregularly for visits that a person stopped me, mid-conversation and cried, “Oh my GAWD! You’re Rachael Faught? You’re the Little Girl with the Heart Problem? You’re the one that got picked up in a helicopter? I totally thought you were dead!”
Moved to Fresno…dead…you know…same difference?
(Just kidding…go Bulldogs!)

I’m never insulted, however, because I always take great comfort in the fact that upon realizing who I am, though perhaps we had very little interaction as children, these well-meaning individuals always seem extraordinarily relieved to discover I am alive and (relatively) well.
Twenty years later, their peace of mind at unburdening them with thoughts of a fallen peer still never fails to bring a smile to my face, and determination of survival to my spirit.

Six Years as the Bionic Woman

via

::Original post: December 17th, 2010::

Six years ago today I was on an operating table having my pacemaker put in. Pacemaker surgeries are fairly straightforward and usually take no more than two hours. However, due to my anatomy (my heart sits in the center of my chest, favoring the right side) and my surgical history (I had a Senning surgery when I was two years old and this blocked the upper left area of my chest where the traditional placement of a pacemaker is) my surgeon was forced to turn a traditionally simple procedure into a serious open heart surgery.

My pacemaker was put in because my heart pauses, usually when I'm asleep. Yes, that means it stops. My heart has stopped more times than I care to know. It is the pausing but that triggers arrhythmia and palpitations, dangerous ones that I have managed to live through, especially as a child. I have been aware that a pacemaker may be in my future since they initially wanted to stick one in me back in 1991.
I fought it until it was unavoidable.
When, in fall of 2004, I was told by the man who not only would become my electro-physiologist but who also operates the non-profit organization I began to volunteer with that same year that it was time, I did not protest.

I'm wary of all surgeons; they're an odd bunch. They make the big bucks and perform medical miracles by defying nature with science and bring life into someone once again. Second chances. That's what surgeons specialize in. I kept my distance from mine; he was friendly enough but I didn't need to tell him I loathed the idea of going under anesthesia and that there might be a chance I would have to have a full open heart procedure. I told him to do his best to avoid that.

I won't lie, I was scared. It had been fifteen years since I had last gone into heart surgery. Medicine and quick fixes had kept me off the operating table until then. I couldn't remember the healing process all that well. I couldn't remember the pain of healing. I only remembered wanting to get up and get the fuck out of bed and into the playroom where there was a free Pac-Man standing arcade game waiting for me.

I went to UCLA medical center so early it was still dark. I think my surgery was schedule for around 9:00am, so I had to be there around 5:00am for paperwork and prep. That was another thing. The paperwork. It was mine to fill out now. Who do they contact in an emergency? Who gives the final call on my life should I be rendered unable to make my own decisions? Who gets my Sailormoon collection?

I was smart and went in my pajamas, fuchsia pink scrubs with Hibiscus flowers on them from a company I briefly worked for earlier that year. I had my rabbit, Boo-Boo, with me. She was tired looking and sagged a bit more than she did fourteen years ago, but she had been my companion then and I'd be damned if I'd go into the OR without her.
Or so I thought.

When it was time to say goodbye to my mom I confessed my nerves to the attending nurses that stuck close to my gurney. In the OR, while waiting for the anesthesia to be prepared, a young nurse looked down on my worried face and gave me a reassuring smile. She looked identical to my friend Jen, who I had been in Sydney, Australia with just a year earlier. I told the nurse this and felt myself relax. Having a friend in the OR, even her doppelganger, put me at ease.

I told them how much I hated anesthesia; it was the necessary evil of surgery. Don't get me wrong, I said to everyone who would listen, I appreciate anesthesia and of course, I want to wake up. But when you do wake up? It's like realizing you'd been hit not by a truck but by a convoy.

Going under is fun, though. I have to admit it. It's a twisted little game to play in the OR, between myself and the anesthesia.
"All right. I want you to count from ten backwards. Ready?"
Aloud, I'd say: "Ten...nine...eight...seven."

I'm out.

We won't get into the recovery from this surgery. Least to say, it was a bitch. I'd never been in so much physical pain, nor cried so much over seemingly nothing in all of my life. I never once before nor after thought OH GOD I AM GOING TO STOP BREATHING AND DIE. I could not laugh and I could not cry. No, really. If I did my chest would constrict and I'd be unable to breathe. Hurt like hell. I did it without drugs, too. They loaded me up with a bottle of Vicodin but I never took a single pill. They make me puke. The point is, I recovered.

The pacemaker has been great, though its presence in my body has had its moments of annoyance. Particularly, metal detectors. I won't go through them if I don't have to, though I hate to inconvenience people for a pat down. I've only ever come across one or two harassed looking security personnel, and one doubtful stink eye (Thanks, Sunset Gower Studios Security Guard. You were a dick.)

I have monthly check-ins with a machine that dials in my pacemaker's monthly recordings via magnet and phone line. It sounds cooler than it is. It's a fussy, fickle bitch of a machine that is more trouble than helpful (on my end.) My pacemaker is in a pretty obvious spot, but the magnet doesn't seem to think so and I have to tinker with unique positions, twisting and turning until all five lights decide to light up. It's a pain in the ass. I much prefer my in-house calls with my doctor who has more high tech machinery. That appointment is in January.

My pacemaker is also on a timer. It paces me heart at a slower rate during "down" hours ie. night time when my heart rate is supposed to be lower for sleep. You can imagine some of the low-energy problems I ran into while being eight hours ahead in Ireland for two weeks. I had forgotten all about the timer portion of my pacemaker, as did TEAM RACHAEL! We had a good laugh about it a couple months later, when I realized.

So, what do I have to say about my pacemaker after six years of sporting a piece of machinery in my left upper abdominal? I'm glad it's there. I don't think ill of it one bit; it's made my life more manageable in the long run. Medical technology does not walk swiftly or even run; it leaps and bounds from milestone to milestone. It rarely bothers me that a hunk of metal is helping me stay alive. I'm just too happy to be here, with all of you.

A Cardiac Crisis and the Monster Mash

The latest prompt from Chronic Babe blog carnival asks: How do you handle a crisis? No matter how hard we try to take care of ourselves, there are times when things go horribly wrong, either with our health or some other personal issue. How do you prepare for such a turn of events? How do you cope in the middle of it all? And how do you recover?

Well, a crisis has to be handled on a situation by situation basis. There are two major crisis that come to mind in my life and I believe I already wrote on one, so I'll talk about the other, more recent crisis I had.

The worst situation, in my head, was to have a major episode of tachycardia around my friends. Though I am not embarrassed by my health and I am happy to talk about it anytime, I knew I would be just mortified if anything occurred while my friends were around. I think it was the idea of appearing weak and sick around my friends that scared me most. I like being the loud-mouthed funny one; not the sickly mousy girl.


So, back up to October of 2007. I decided to throw a Halloween party for my girlfriends. Not just a simple dinner and scary movies party, either. Oh, no. I went ALL out ~ glowsticks, homemade and store-bought decorations, a YouTube channel to loop videos of Halloween cartoons from our youth, a ShoutCAST radio station to play retro spooky tunes as we ate spaghetti topped with my signature homemade spaghetti sauce. I had a variety of movies on hand, ranging on the fright meter from so bad it's scary to mildly gross to downright nightmare-worthy. I even created a few spooktacular games including a horror movie version of WHO AM I? and a full fledged Halloween theme JEOPARDY! complete with final Jeopardy question and prizes.
It was a crowning achievement in my parties, and I was extra pleased that nearly all of my guests were able to come. As we are getting older, lives are changes, careers are blossoming and it's becoming more and more difficult to get together.

Earlier that day I felt a little palpitation at work. No worries; I popped my back-up pill and alerted my supervisor just in case it turned into something bigger. Fortunately, it didn't...while I was at work, anyway!

That evening, my party was in full spooky swing - we had played one game, watched the Garfield Halloween special and were sitting around the dining room table enjoy dinner with Halloween-y tunes in the background when all of a sudden--! WHAM! My heart takes off like a bat out of hell, going into full-blown tachycardia. Remaining calm and quiet about it, I do not let on what's going on. I drink copious amounts of water and take deep breaths, then slowly get up and take my evening pills. Nothing. My heart doesn't even slow down or pause.
I excused myself and go visit my mother in her room, collapsing on her bed and confessing what has been going on. I want to keep it a secret if I could, try and get my heart down on its own. My mom tries to listen and record it with her stethoscope but it was going too fast.

She goes to get another emergency pill I use for rapid heart rate - trying not to meet the eyes of my friends in case they ask where I wandered off to. She gives me the pill, but I am suddenly nauseous and...well, I get sick. Sicker than I've ever been. I have never, ever, once upchucked during a tachycardia episode. This does not bode well. It was time to call it quits, throw in my towel and get my ass to the ER.


My mom went out to my friends and told them - I was too embarrassed (not to mention sick) to do it myself. They were totally shocked, having no clue I what I was dealing with. They tried to clean up a little, just enough to make sure my kittens (only 6 months old at this time) wouldn't get into anything. I changed into my pajamas (the only way to be admitted to any hospital!) and took my electric razor and quickly buzzed off my arm hair.

PROTIP: If you're going to the hospital, shave your arms! You will thank me when the hospital tape doesn't hurt as much.

I tried to crack jokes for my friends, but they were clearly freaked. I was pale, sickly and probably a little blue around my eyes and lips. Perfect look for a Halloween party, but not under these circumstances!
I apologized profusely, lamenting about my ruined decorations, games, prizes, etc. but my friends were of course more concerned about me than getting to dessert and Jeopardy.

They gathered their things and left, and my mom and I left. In front of my friends, I remained collected, calm and even jokey. As soon as they were out of sight, though, and I was in the backseat of my mom's Toyota, I was crying, stressed and utterly freaked out.
This was one out of two situations where I honestly thought to myself, Oh my god, this it. This is freakin' it. It's all over, age 25. Well, at least I traveled...

So it's 40 minutes of these kind of thoughts that I am trying NOT to have. Now, you may be thinking OMG WHY WOULD YOU DRIVE SO FAR? Frankly, I don't trust my local hospitals, especially in an emergency. They're not specialty hospitals, they don't know how to handle me and they've already proven to be incompetent twice over by this point.

When my tachycardia first began, it would send me to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia ER at least once a month in a four year span. This night blew those episodes out of the water!
It was the actual act of being physically ill that made kept my internal panic button flashing, but I did my best to not think this was curtains for me. When I was finally at the ER and surrounded by doctors that I knew, however, I felt better and was able to calm down. I trust TEAM RACHAEL! and TR! affiliates like Dr. Catwoman with my life. These are the people I knew would save me and make it better. As much grief as I give them, it's moments like these that make them worth every single pill they prescribe, blood test they order and obnoxious stress test they administer.

How did that night end? Well, I'm here, aren't I? They knocked me out and decided to electrically cardiovert me (that's when they get out the paddles and yell, "CLEAR!" on TV) which shocked my heart back into submission. I woke up immediately afterward, feeling surprisingly rested (amazing what 100-400 watts of electricity can do for the body, huh?) and asked how long I'd been knocked out. 30 seconds!

Thank goodness, they found the source for my tachycardia: hypothyroid (crazy what that little sucker thyroid gland can control!) and while I've had a couple of arrhythmia issues here and there, I have, thankfully, not been to the UCLA emergency room since October of 2007.

So, long story short: How do I handle a crisis? Get my butt to TEAM RACHAEL!, stat!