The Mysterious Companion Who Never Leaves My Side: An Unexpected Friendship With My Lifesaving Device

I have this peculiar friend who has been woven into my life for so long that it sometimes feels like he was written into my personal script before I was even born. We met during one of those medically dramatic scenes that seem to follow me around like an unwanted sidekick. I was unconscious in an operating room while a whole team hovered over me deciding whether my heart should pause or restart. And right in the middle of that chaos, this friend arrived, calm and steady, far too comfortable taking charge of my survival.

From the beginning, he had this uncanny ability to stick close. Not clingy in the romantic way, but clingy in the “I’d prefer if you stayed alive” kind of way. I woke up from surgery and there he was—already settled, bonded, acting like he’d signed a lease. And unlike many human friendships, he has never once drifted or faded. He is permanently stationed, loyal to a fault, incapable of giving me space even if he tried.

He is with me everywhere. He checks on me at home, watches me shuffle around the kitchen like a tired chef who still knows how to season things, and sits with me during long nights when my lungs perform experimental theater. He tags along when I attempt exercise, supervising me like an overprotective guardian who knows my heart enjoys drama. He never asks for snacks, never complains about my obsession with toasted bread, and never judges my late-night scrolling. Honestly, he is the most low-maintenance companion I have ever had.

Well—except for the times he steals my phone. That part still unnerves me. I’ll be dreaming peacefully about searing the perfect scallop, and suddenly he’s sending automated messages to people I never meant to contact. Then he emails me to confess what he did, like a mischievous pet proudly presenting evidence of its chaos. It is unsettling and charming in the way only a medically sanctioned intruder can manage.

He also tattles. Every time I try to live like someone whose heart isn’t prone to improvisation—climbing stairs too quickly, chasing an enthusiastic dog through snow, or attempting anything my body labels “too bold”—he reports me. He sends data, rhythms, updates, and warnings to the white coats as if narrating my questionable choices is his calling. If he could keep a diary, it would be color-coded and read aloud during morning rounds.

There was a day he truly saved me. A dog-chasing, snow-sinking, heart-panicking day. My dog bolted up a snowy hill, and I, stuffed with optimism instead of oxygen, followed. My heart attempted a dramatic exit, fluttering and stumbling. But my friend stepped in before things escalated. Quiet, steady, calm—he helped settle the chaos. Without him, the story would have ended very differently.

But like all friends, he comes with rules. Endless rules. No sledding. No certain swimming strokes. No lingering near department-store security systems. And no pretending to be a carefree human in airports. He has a talent for triggering TSA agents to frisk me as if I might be smuggling soufflés. The entire time, he sits in my chest metaphorically twirling an invisible mustache, satisfied with himself.

Back when I first wrote about him, I thought our relationship was temporary. He was supposed to last six or seven years before retiring. And he did. Then his successor arrived and did the same. And then the next one. Three versions of him have now lived with me, each one stepping in like a new actor assuming a familiar role. The equipment changes, the technology improves, but the personality—the loyalty, the persistence, the mission—never changes.

Now, close to two decades later, this friend has been with me through sarcoidosis flare-ups, heart failure scares, sleepless nights, quiet mornings, chaotic airports, and countless moments when I wasn’t sure what the next hour would bring. Each version has shown up exactly when I needed him. Each one has given me more time, more meals with my wife, more dog cuddles, more slow mornings where I wake up grateful.

Living with chronic illness adds its own rhythm to our odd companionship. My body throws surprises the way some people toss confetti, and he simply observes, steady and patient. While I juggle fatigue, medication routines, and organs with questionable enthusiasm, he logs every moment without judgment. He never says a word, but the medical team certainly does when they call to discuss whatever he quietly witnessed.

And because humor is stitched into my life, I should admit this: my friend has the comic timing of someone who never says a word but always knows when to stir the pot. He doesn’t beep or jolt or interrupt; he just quietly records every dramatic little flutter my heart attempts. Then, days later, my medical team calls with that unmistakable “So… we saw something interesting” tone, as though Buddy has slipped them notes about my misbehavior. Silent in the moment but shady in the aftermath, he waits for the perfect time to spill the tea.

He supervises my gym attempts the same way—quietly and patiently. He never interrupts with alarms or shocks, but he absolutely takes attendance. If I get bold and try lifting something my heart considers “unnecessary ambition,” he logs it and lets the medical team call me with, “So, Tate… were you running?” He is the kind of friend who watches you make questionable decisions in silence and then reports every detail like a meticulous hall monitor.

And since airports remain his favorite stage, you should know he once made things interesting as I approached the metal detector. The agent asked if I had anything to declare, and my friend apparently declared my whole existence. No beeps, just a slow head tilt suggesting my chest held secrets. I stood there trying to explain while he stayed quiet, smug as ever.

And here is where I finally reveal the truth I always save for last: my friend Buddy is not a person. He never was. Buddy is the defibrillator that has lived in my chest since 2007, quietly and stubbornly keeping my dramatic heart in line. Three devices, one purpose: keep me alive long enough to tell the story.

If this resonated with you—or if you just love a good chronic-illness plot twist—leave a comment or subscribe. I’d love to hear your stories too.