by Me (a totally normal person who now owns multiple pulse oximeters)
One morning, completely out of the blue, my heart decided to start improvising. You know how hearts usually go thump-thump-thump, nice and regular, like a dependable old wall clock or a well-behaved metronome? Mine went thump…thump-thump…pause…JAZZ SOLO!
It turns out this was a thing called AFib, or atrial fibrillation, which is a medical way of saying “your heart is basically drunk.” Instead of beating in an orderly fashion, the top part of the heart (the atria) just sort of wiggles around uselessly like it’s trying to dance but forgot the choreography.
Naturally, I called my friend who is a heart surgeon. You’d think this would make me feel better. He said, “It’s not that serious. We see this all the time.”
Let me tell you something. When it’s your carburetor, “we see this all the time” is reassuring. When it’s your actual beating heart, the one responsible for keeping you alive and not dead, it feels more like, “Oh no, it’s happening, the Big One, call the media, I’ve only got minutes left.”
Because here’s the thing: your heart doesn’t just pump blood. It sets the rhythm of your life. It’s your body’s internal drummer. We’re creatures of rhythm—we walk to rhythm, talk to rhythm, breathe to rhythm. And when that beat goes off? When the drummer starts flailing around like Animal from the Muppets? You feel it, viscerally. It’s like walking and suddenly one leg forgets how to leg. Everything is slightly…off.
And when that internal metronome goes bonkers, you begin to distrust your body. If the heart can flake out on you—arguably the MVP of internal organs—then what about the kidneys? What about the pancreas? What even is the pancreas? I started viewing my body not as a temple, but more like an unreliable second-hand car with a shady MOT history.
I also began taking my pulse every ten minutes. This might sound like an exaggeration, but trust me—it became a hobby. Some people take up gardening. I took up wrist-monitoring. I was like a paranoid timekeeper, convinced that the next tick would be my last. Even now, I still do it sometimes. I know it’s irrational. But that’s kind of the point—your heart goes weird, and your brain follows.
Eventually, I had not one but two ablations, which sounds like something out of Star Trek but is really just a fancy procedure where they burn or freeze the naughty parts of your heart that are misfiring, like a strict headmaster scolding unruly schoolchildren. “No more skipping beats, young man!”
The good news is, the operations worked. The jazz solo stopped. My heart is (mostly) back to drumming in 4/4 time.
But—because life has a sense of humour—I now start every day in a weird way.
You see, my dad died of ALS/MND, which in the league of Horrific Ways to Go is right up there with being slowly eaten by hyenas. His first symptom was slurred speech. So now, every morning, usually in the shower, I do two things:
I count to ten out loud, to make sure my speech is normal.
I take my pulse, to make sure my heart hasn’t snuck off the beat again.
Then I put those demons in a box, slam the lid shut, and crack on with my day.
Is that the right way to deal with fear and mortality? No idea. But it works for me. Everyone has their demons—mine just happen to be a chatty heart and a hyperactive imagination. Some people journal. I do maths with my heart rate. Potato, potahto.
So if your body ever goes a bit rogue—if your rhythm gets wonky—don’t panic. Well, okay, panic a little, but then get it checked, get it fixed, and get on with things. Life’s weird enough already without your organs pulling surprise parties.
Addendum: A Slightly Weirder Epilogue
There’s one last thing I’ve never really told anyone. Well—except my wife, because she notices when I suddenly go quiet and stare at the kettle like it’s explaining the meaning of life.
Ever since my second heart op, I sometimes get these… moments. They don’t happen often, and they never last more than a few seconds. But when they hit, it’s like reality wobbles.
Everything goes strange—but in a wonderful way. The world feels soft and familiar and absolutely right, like I’ve stepped into a place I’ve been to before. It’s fleeting, it’s euphoric, and for those few seconds, I feel completely at peace. I want to stay. I really want to stay. But then it’s gone, and I’m back in the kitchen with the cats staring at me like, “You alright, mate?”
I have no idea what it is. I’m not saying it’s spiritual. I’m not saying it’s neurological. I’m not saying anything, really—because I just don’t know. It could be a side effect from having your heart burned and rebooted. It could be some weird subconscious relief that I’m still here. Or maybe it’s just what happens when you get older and realise that the most ordinary moments—like waiting for the toast to pop—sometimes feel like the most mysterious.
So that’s my strange little secret. Everyone’s body is odd. Everyone’s brain is odder. If you ever feel like you’ve briefly fallen through a crack in reality—and your cat gives you a look like “You’ve done it again, haven’t you?”—well, you’re not alone.
Just count to ten, check your pulse, and carry on.
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