•Why Gratitude Beats Complaining When Your ICD Is Busy Keeping You Alive

I’ve never had much patience for chronic complainers. Not the people who vent because life kicked them in the shins—those folks get a pass. I mean the people who wake up searching for something to be irritated about, like it’s a spiritual calling. And yes, I’m aware I’m complaining about complainers, but at least I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge the hypocrisy while doing it with panache.

Years ago, when Twitter was still somewhat tolerable, I followed accounts focused on sarcoidosis, heart failure, and general chronic-illness survival. One day, a tweet popped up declaring, “ICD patients like me have no access to our data.” I just stared at my screen like, “Sir… what?” Because I absolutely did have access. Not because I bribed anyone with cupcakes—though that usually works—but simply because I asked.

Naturally, I clicked the blog link expecting a thoughtful discussion. Instead, it was a full-blown digital meltdown about the horrors of remote ICD monitoring. According to this person, the system was depriving him of face time with his doctor. Meanwhile, I’m over here thrilled that modern technology watches my heart 24/7 like it’s guarding the Hope Diamond.

For anyone unfamiliar with the glamorous life of having an ICD—this little device isn’t just sitting around waiting to shock you back to reality. It collects heart rhythms, tracks abnormalities, and if you’ve got the fancier models, it even monitors fluid levels. It is basically a tiny, judgmental cardiologist living inside your chest, silently taking notes every minute of the day.

And in 2025, the whole monitoring setup is even better than it used to be. Back in the day, you plugged a clunky unit next to your bed that hummed like it was sending telegrams. Now? The device itself pairs with an app on your iPhone. You set it up once, and suddenly your defibrillator and your phone are chatting like lifelong friends. It syncs automatically in the background—while I’m sleeping, cooking, or lying dramatically across the couch contemplating my existence. It quietly sends encrypted data to the clinic so my medical team can make sure I’m not doing anything reckless like, you know, dying. And honestly, any technology that lets me stay alive without interrupting my nap is technology I adore.

Even better, if something goes wrong—like a damaged lead or device issue—the app immediately tattles on you to the clinic. They call and say, “Hi, we need you to get to the hospital right now,” which is incredibly convenient when your life depends on these tiny details. That’s not inconvenience; that’s modern medicine doing its angel work.

But this blogger was upset because he didn’t get to see his doctor often enough. Let me be clear: the person who implants your ICD is a surgeon. Their job is to install the device, do it well, and then go back to implanting the next fifty for the day. They are not supposed to become your new best friend. Their clinic forwards reports to your actual care team—your cardiologist, your heart failure specialist, your sarcoidosis doctor, and yes, you. I used to receive a 25-page report that read like a Rosetta Stone for medical professionals.

If he wasn’t getting his copy, he just needed to ask. And if the clinic refused—switch clinics. You can change providers the same way you change bad Wi-Fi routers: swiftly, without guilt, and ideally before smoke starts rising.

Maybe living with chronic illness has rewired me, but I genuinely feel blessed. Blessed that I had access to an ICD. Blessed that remote monitoring gives me a digital guardian angel. Blessed that my pulmonary hypertension—a thing doctors said would never reverse—somehow packed its bags and left years ago. Life is weird, unpredictable, and occasionally miraculous.

So the complaining confuses me. If you wait ten extra minutes in a doctor’s office, breathe. Maybe that delay saved your life. Maybe leaving earlier would’ve put you directly into the path of that bus that barrels past the hospital every morning like it’s auditioning for an action movie. Life has a strange sense of timing.

So sit. Relax. Let your shoulders drop. Appreciate that you’re still here—still breathing with lungs that have been through wars, still living with a heart that refuses to give up, still protected by a device that monitors you more faithfully than half the people on your contact list.

I’m not saying don’t vent. I do it. We all do it. But making complaining your personality? Exhausting. For you and the rest of us.

Take a moment today. Notice something small that’s going right. Celebrate the technology keeping your heart in line. Appreciate the miracle of still being here, even with all the complications. Life hasn’t always been kind, but it’s still yours—and that’s worth more gratitude than grumbling.

So …

If this made you nod, laugh, or rethink your next complaint, leave a comment or subscribe. Let’s navigate this chronic-illness-and-survival circus together.