When Your Heart Throws a Tantrum and Your Doctor Ambushes You With a Flu Shot

There’s nothing quite like sitting in the cardiologist’s office listening to a machine describe all the ways your heart tried to misbehave behind your back. The latest AICD interrogation—yes, that’s really what they call it, like my chest is hosting a tiny criminal—reported that I had a fibrillation episode last month during a stress echo. Apparently while the tech was telling me to “just breathe normally,” my heart was auditioning for tap-dancing school for a full seventy-six seconds. Impressive commitment, terrible timing.

Then there were the extra beats over the weekend, which felt like a tiny boxer inside my chest warming up for a title match. Naturally, I took my dramatic self to the cardiologist to make sure everything was still attached and functional. Having two fibrillation episodes in seven months—one earlier that year when I sprinted up a snowy hill after my dog like a man who still believed he had twenty-year-old knees—didn’t thrill my cardiologist. He started eyeing my medication list like it was a menu and he was about to send my Coreg back to the kitchen. He mentioned switching me to another drug whose name I promptly forgot because I’m terrible with names unless they belong to a food item or a dog.

The catch? That medication change requires a hospital stay. And hospital stays and I are not on speaking terms. I’ve done enough time in those fluorescent-lit wellness prisons to last several lifetimes. Thankfully, after a long moment of doctorly brooding, he decided to leave my meds alone. Small mercies.

Even though I’d just had a remote interrogation the week before, he decided to do another one in case my extra beats were actually sneaky fibrillations in disguise. They weren’t—just a bunch of irritating misfires. Still uncomfortable, still unsettling, still enough to make you question every thump in your chest like you’re living with a suspicious roommate.

While I was sitting there trying to look calm and medically responsible, my cardiologist asked if I’d gotten my flu shot. I said no, because honesty is still a thing I practice occasionally. Before I could blink, a nurse materialized with a syringe like she’d been crouched in the shadows waiting for her cue. I swear she slid that needle into my arm with the speed and efficiency of someone who’s seen people like me bolt for the exit. They ambushed me, and I folded immediately because apparently I am who I am: a grown man who melts at the sight of a determined nurse.

No side effects the next day, just that dull soreness that feels like your arm is judging you for being dramatic. But the verdict remains: if I have more fibrillation episodes or a new wave of extra beats, they’ll have to switch my meds, and that means another hospital stay. And I simply refuse to pack a bag for that nonsense. I’ve spent enough time lying in hospital beds listening to machines beep in keys no composer would ever accept. These days, my pulmonary hypertension has reversed itself—yes, reversed, like the medical equivalent of a plot twist nobody saw coming—and I’d like to keep my victories.

So I’m doubling down on my lifelong strategy: breathe, meditate, and pretend I’m a calm, gentle spirit floating through life instead of a sarcastic chef whose heart occasionally forgets that consistency is part of the job description. If serenity is what keeps me out of the hospital, then sign me up. I’ll sit cross-legged on a cushion, hum like a malfunctioning refrigerator, and channel whatever inner peace I can find—even if it’s only for five minutes before my mind wanders off to think about dinner.

And that’s the glamorous reality of chronic illness: a constant dance between acceptance, rebellion, and pacifying the misbehaving organ that keeps trying to add a little extra excitement to your day. I’m still here, still cooking, still muttering at my own biology, and still choosing calm over chaos—mostly because chaos comes with paperwork.

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