It Could Have Been Worse

I suffered a severe left anterior descending artery blockage (LAD)/widow maker heart attack and cardiac arrest. I had a fifteen Ejection Fraction (EF) after a stent procedure, and could not walk more than six blocks for several weeks after being released from the hospital.

According to friends, family, I am a passionate person with fortitude, grit, and scrappiness. No adventure is too large. I love to scuba dive, mountain bike, do yoga, play pickleball, hike, golf, and ocean paddle board. Co-workers and friends called after the heart attack to express bewilderment that the “healthiest person they knew” had a heart attack.

On a gorgeous April morning in Hampton, New Hampshire, I laced my running shoes and set out to jog three miles to my annual physical. For years, running errands—literally—was my routine, a ritual that masked the latent chest pain I’d felt for two years. Despite repeated consultations, tests, and procedures, doctors always told me my heart was fine. But everything changed on April 19, 2021.

That morning, halfway into my run, I was breathless, sweating, and felt like my blood sugar plummeted. I barely made it to the doctor’s office. The first thing I told the physician’s assistant (PA) was, “Something is definitely wrong.” An EKG said otherwise, and the PA said was fine. Still, an uncontrollable surge of anxiety swept over me, and I ran down three flights of stairs to the parking lot, the words “don’t forget your copay” echoing behind me. I was discovered in writhing in pain in the doctor’s office parking lot by two doctors who worked in the facility.

My first ambulance ride began with a vice grip on the paramedic’s hand. “Am I going to die?” I asked. His silence told me everything. After the stent procedure, I woke in excruciating chest pain. “Something is wrong,” I told the nurse, but she assured me it was normal post-procedure discomfort. Acute stress overwhelmed me; I tried to escape, but blacked out. I woke up groggy, five tubes in my arms, EKG machine beeping, grappling with reality.

During the stent procedure, I had a vivid vision. The scene: a vintage speakeasy bar, sunlight streaming, bottles glowing on mirrored shelves. My mother, who passed decades ago, sat at the bar—her face impartial, neither beckoning nor warning. Was this the afterlife or a surge of neural activity? I may never know.

Back to the hospital bed, my heart oscillated between Vtach and VFib for eight minutes. After twelve jolts from a defibrillator, my Ejection Fraction (EF) was fifteen. My heart barely kept rhythm. The stent hadn’t adhered properly, causing thrombosis—the blockage went from 90% to 100%. Instead of going home, anxiety consumed me, fearing another imminent heart attack.

Hospital staff kept me going, especially my compassionate night nurse—sincere, honest, and caring. Friends and family called, visited, and offered inspiration. I forged a false-positive narrative to persevere. Two days after the event, a physician’s assistant announced I was being taken off lifesaving drips—“We’re rolling the dice, it’s protocol.” I broke down, crying. On the third day, staff warned a pacemaker was likely. Despite this, my EF doubled from 15 to 30 by day six. I managed to walk a hallway and stairs, finally ready for release.

Released with a $3,000/month LifeVest, I returned home to balloons, calls, gifts, and the soothing presence of loved ones. My friend echoed his son’s poignant advice: “If not now, when?” Connection and kindness became my anchor.

But PTSD, anxiety, and panic attacks—once foreign—became daily realities. Sleep vanished; nighttime anxiety thrived. I clung to Natali (my girlfriend), who became constant companion, never leaving my side. Grocery trips ended at banana crates, convinced I’d die before checkout. Beach visits felt suffocating as unhealthy revelers triggered my worst fears.

Yet, hope returned. After a month of twice-daily beach walks, mindful breathing, family support, and (ironically) absence of work stress, my EF soared to fifty and I ditched the vest. Recovery milestones followed: hiking in Maine, nervous restaurant outings (“Where’s the nearest hospital?”), and late-night card games with Natali. I moved to Bella Vista, Arkansas—nightmares and anxiety lingered, but life resumed in fits and starts.

I questioned my intellect and coordination. Was my eight-minute cardiac arrest to blame for slower cognition or physical awkwardness at darts, chess, pool? Adjusting to daily medications wasn’t easy. I’d prided myself on “not taking anything.” But I found solace in play and adventure—scuba diving, hiking, snowboarding, biking. Natali and I danced through distant lands and home, rediscovering the joy of movement together.

Eventually, I found my “new normal.” Joy and optimism returned in the second year post-heart attack, anchored by a mantra: “This shit has to stop.” I refused to succumb to fear, breaking barriers on mountain bike trails and resisting the limitations fear imposed. Purpose reentered my life—personal and professional. I strove to appreciate people around me, letting go of achievement for its own sake.

Four years later, I recognize life will never be the same. A friend’s candid comment—“Maybe this was a good thing”—still resonates. Surviving a death-defying moment fundamentally changes you. If it doesn’t, you’re in denial. Embracing your “normal” after trauma is essential. Suppressing emotions is squandering an epic, unprecedented second chance.

What I know now: Life is fragile, ephemeral, and precious. Cherish every moment with friends and family; value time and knowledge above all. Physical activity, connection, and coping mechanisms are lifelines. Mind and body are inseparable; willpower and mindfulness matter. PTSD and panic attacks are real; empathy grows from personal experience. Breathing, meditation, and skilled professionals help bring stability. Reliable friends and personal advocates transform recovery. The U.S. healthcare system is deeply flawed—impersonal and reactive, Accountability is rare, and apologies rarer.

Above all, telling my story is cathartic—a way to process trauma, subdue post-trauma demons, and find gratitude. Life is a series of random events we shape into narrative to stay sane. You rarely get second chances. Seize them. “It could have been worse.” And I am grateful to still be here.