Atrial Fibrillation: Living on Planet Drum

Thah-dump. Thah-dump-dump. 

Thah-dumpbumbum. 

Thah-dump-bum-biddybiddybiddybiddybump-badump. 

This is my heart, in unseen, muffled, but insistent rebellion. A noisy dysrhythmic protest against-what? Its unfair workload? 

The years I abused it? Its anticipated collapse? 

I've just rolled over, settling into the best posture for my night's rest. My left arm reaches around Bob's warm, solid middle, and he mmmm's in response. It sounds like his smile, and I smile back, into the dark. In sleep, he reaches for my hand against his chest, and I wriggle closer, spooned against his back. 

A few seconds later, my chest speaks, and I'm suddenly wide awake again. This is spell number six or eight for the day, but somehow the daytime attacks don't inspire so much fear. At night, lying next to my new husband, I worry about what all this means for him. 

I listen to the flutters interrupted by deep booms, and behind closed eyes I can see the feeling: It's a large fish, gasping and flopping frantically inside a kettle drum. I feel the slap and slam of agitated heart muscle against the chest wall and wait to find out my future. 

Thah-dumpdumpdump-biddybiddy-bump. Thah-dump. 

I've had these feelings before, and my doctors diagnosed atrial fibrillation, "a-fib" for those in the know. It's less serious than "v-fib"-ventricular fibrillation-which causes sudden death, but it's serious enough. A-fib often triggers strokes.