ORIGINALMy version is just more entertaining
Listen up, folks, 'cause I'm about to lay down some heavy truth for ya. Back in '96, I was just a 17-year-old punk trying to navigate this messed up thing we call life. My old lady, she wasn't feeling too hot, so she decided to haul her ass to the hospital. Little did I know, that was one of the last times I laid eyes on her. She went from a simple check-up to being whisked away to some fancy-pants hospital an hour away with all the top-notch doctors. Turns out, she had a busted ticker and an oversized heart. A couple of months later, she was six feet under.
Now, let's fast forward to 2017.
I had managed to survive nearly four decades on this godforsaken rock, and I was starting to make a name for myself around here. But my health, well, it took a turn for the worse. My heart was racing like a bat outta hell, and I couldn't figure out why. Wasn't doing drugs, wasn't drowning myself in booze, and I sure as hell wasn't popping pills like candy. So, I decided to get myself checked out. Turns out, I had my own damn case of heart failure. Now, let me tell you, my insurance was about as useful as a wet matchstick, and it seemed like those so-called doctors treated me like dirt because of it. If you weren't rolling in dough or had some fancy insurance plan, they treated you like a bottom-feeder.
My first doctor, that sorry excuse for a medical professional, did the bare minimum. Ran a few tests, acted like I wasn't worth his precious time. I played by the rules, went to my appointments like a good little patient, and choked down those damn pills he prescribed. But in the end, I realized he wasn't doing jack to help me. So, I said, "Screw it!" and dropped off the radar. Yeah, not the brightest move, I'll admit.
Now, jump ahead to 2021.
March of that year, I was suffocating, feeling like I was drowning on dry land. Gasping for air like a damn fish outta water. And you know what? I suffered through that shit for two long weeks before I finally had the sense to haul my sorry ass to the emergency room. I knew it was a matter of life or death. And let me tell you, within thirty damn minutes of stumbling through those ER doors, they had me hooked up to x-ray machines, peeping at my heart like some nosy neighbors. Turns out, my heart was swimming in a pool of water, and they needed to drain that shit, pronto. I ended up stuck in that sterile hospital hell for a whole week. They filled me up with water pills and pumped oxygen into my lungs until I pissed out nine friggin' liters of water. Yeah, I was teetering on the edge of oblivion, all because I was too dumb to get checked out sooner.
But here's the silver lining, my friends. During that lovely hospital stay, I got myself a new heart doctor. Finally, someone who gave a damn. They ran all kinds of tests on me, including this freaky-deaky procedure called a left heart catheter. Picture this: they slice open your wrist or groin, jam a scope through your artery, and take a little peek inside your ticker. And get this, you're wide awake for the whole damn thing. It's like a twisted carnival ride. But hey, they gathered some valuable intel about my sorry state, made some adjustments to the meds that quack number one had prescribed ages ago.
But that's not where the story ends, my friends. Oh no, not even close. My new doctor, bless their blackened heart, wasn't satisfied with the tests I'd been through. They wanted to dig deeper, so they ordered something called a TEE, or Transesophageal echocardiogram. Basically, they shoved a tube down my throat and snapped some shots of my heart from the inside. Now, I wasn't awake for that particular joyride, but let me tell you, they hit the jackpot. They discovered something crucial in my case. Turns out, I was born with a jacked-up Bicuspid aortic valve. Most folks walk around with a normal Tricuspid valve, but not me, oh no. I'm special. They found that shit out in July of 2021. And to top it all off, those CT scans they'd been running on me revealed a friggin' aortic aneurysm, likely caused by that faulty valve I had from day one.
Now, let's roll on to 2024.
I was scheduled for some hardcore open-heart surgery. And let me tell you, I've never been more scared shitless in my entire miserable existence. This ain't no walk in the park, my friends. There arerisks, complications, and a long road to recovery. But I knew I had to do it. I had to take that leap of faith and put my life in the hands of the surgeons.
The day of the surgery came, and I kissed my sorry ass goodbye as they wheeled me into the operating room. I woke up hours later in the ICU, feeling like I'd been run over by a freight train. Tubes, wires, and monitors were my new best friends. But you know what? I was alive. I made it through that hellish ordeal.
The recovery was no picnic, let me tell you. Weeks turned into months, and every day felt like an uphill battle. But with the support of my loved ones and the tenacity to keep fighting, I slowly but surely made progress. Physical therapy, medications, and a whole lot of patience were my constant companions.
Now, here we are in 2024.
I'm still standing, folks. Still breathing, still living life to the fullest. Sure, I've got scars, both inside and out. But those scars are a testament to the battles I've fought and the strength I possess. I've learned some hard lessons along the way, like the importance of advocating for your own health, seeking second opinions, and never settling for subpar care.
So, my friends, take it from me. Don't wait until it's almost too late. Listen to your body, be your own advocate, and don't be afraid to demand the care you deserve. Life is too damn short to let it slip away because of neglect or complacency. Stand up, fight back, and live each day like it's your last.
And that, my friends, is the story of my heart.
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