When My Heart Rebelled for Two Minutes—and My AICD Stepped In

Back in 2010, I went to my cardiologist for what was supposed to be my usual three-month check-up. Nothing dramatic—just another day of talking meds, heart rates, and pretending I wasn’t tired of being a walking science project. I had with me the interrogation report from my AICD—the device that quietly keeps me alive by stepping in when my heart gets creative. I used to get it checked at Mount Sinai, since they’re the ones who installed it and actually know what they’re doing.

That day, the report showed I’d had what they politely call an “event.” Translation: my right ventricle had gone into fibrillation for two minutes, with my heart rate spiking to 220 beats per minute. The AICD handled it before it had to shock me, but still—two minutes of cardiac chaos.

I sat there trying to remember what I was doing that day, and it hit me. I’d been walking my dog when he bolted up a hill, and—like an idiot—I chased him. I forgot the whole “no sprinting uphill” thing that comes with heart failure and sarcoidosis. By the time I caught him, I felt dizzy, maybe a little off, but shrugged it off as shortness of breath. Turns out, that was my heart throwing a fit.

My cardiologist didn’t share my calm reaction. To him, this was a big red flag—like, “we might be losing ground here.” He started talking about new meds, switching out my heart meds, adding a blood thinner, and—my favorite part—possibly reprogramming the AICD to shock me at 3 a.m. if things went wrong. Imagine that. You’re sound asleep, dreaming something nice, and suddenly it feels like someone kicked you in the chest.

Now, I’ve read what that shock feels like. They say it’s about as pleasant as getting hit by lightning while holding a toaster. So no, I wasn’t thrilled. But I also knew what had caused it—me forgetting I’m not twenty and chasing a runaway dog uphill. I don’t do guilt; it’s a wasted emotion. I prefer cause and effect. I overdid it, my heart rebelled, the AICD stepped in, and I learned something. End of story.

Here’s what happens when you live with heart failure and lung sarcoidosis: you start treating dizziness and fatigue like background noise. You tell yourself, “It’s just the lungs,” or “I just need to rest,” because you get tired of wondering whether every twinge is the big one. But fibrillation isn’t background noise—it’s your heart’s version of pulling the fire alarm. If you don’t have an implanted defibrillator, or someone nearby with an external one, that’s it. Curtain call.

After that 2010 episode, I made a few quiet adjustments. No more uphill sprints. No pretending I’m fine when my chest feels like a percussion section. I started paying attention—not obsessively, but enough to recognize that ignoring my limits is a one-way ticket to a very dramatic obituary.

Doctors talk about stress being a trigger for arrhythmias, and they’re right. When you live with chronic illness, stress is practically part of the furniture. You worry about side effects, test results, the next procedure—and that anxiety messes with your body’s wiring. The heart and brain talk constantly, and sometimes their conversations get heated. Mine tend to sound like, “Really? We’re doing this again?”

The truth is, living with a defibrillator in your chest changes you. Even when it’s quiet, you’re always aware of it—like a tiny bodyguard who could knock you flat if things get wild. I’ve met people who say they’re afraid to sleep after getting one, and I get it. You learn to make peace with uncertainty, to live around the hum of the machine instead of against it.

Looking back, that event in 2010 wasn’t just a medical scare—it was a wake-up call, literally. My heart reminded me who’s in charge, and my job since then has been to respect that balance. I still cook, I still write, I still do life—but I also rest when I need to. I’ve stopped pretending I can outsmart biology.

So no, I don’t dwell on what happened. I remember it, because forgetting would be foolish. It taught me how fragile this setup really is—and how much fight there still is in me.

If you’ve ever had your body ambush you mid-routine, you know that feeling—the sudden awareness that everything you take for granted can vanish in seconds. Share your story in the comments if you’ve had a similar “heart-to-heart” with your own body. And if you want to keep following along as I keep defying the odds, hit subscribe. I promise: no hills, no guilt, and definitely no 3 a.m. shocks.