Private Chef, Writer & Podcaster
Waking up to heart failure, sarcoidosis, and a life sentence of meds wasn’t in my five-year plan. Neither was an implantable defibrillator with discontinued leads that could’ve killed me. Here’s how one month of stubborn hesitation saved my life. Chronic illness, heart failure, and sarcoidosis survivors—this one’s for you.
A reader wrote to me with a blunt question: how the hell am I still alive and semi functional with sarcoidosis, heart failure, and a heart that occasionally tries to be creative with rhythm Just between us the answer is far more chaotic and heartfelt than any clinical chart will ever show Sarcoidosis taught me to take every prognosis with salt and faith and maybe a dash of rebellion
We’ve all handed over our medical privacy to forms and HIPAA posters, but why does the reception desk still broadcast your address and phone number like morning radio? As someone juggling sarcoidosis, heart failure, and the joy of frequent waiting rooms, I’ve turned accidental oversharing into a personal crusade. Welcome to the absurdly human side of patient privacy—where your lungs aren’t the problem, but your info is.
Long before sarcoidosis turned my immune system into a half-functioning smoke detector, my wife and I were card-carrying germaphobes. Yes, both of us. We cringe at communal pens, we wash clothes after stepping outside to walk the dog, and we carry more Purell than snacks. Here’s why we’d rather bring our own pen than touch yours—and why every shirt that sees daylight gets washed. (sarcoidosis included)
Living with heart failure and sarcoidosis means my heart sometimes behaves like an untrained sous-chef—dropping beats, burning the sauce, and sending everyone into panic mode. After a surprise fibrillation episode, some extra beats, and a cardiologist who ambushed me with a flu shot before I could protest, I’m trying to stay calm, breathe, and avoid yet another hospital stay.
Tate Basildon 