Surviving a Heart Attack

But it's clear now that my symptoms were a heart attack waiting to happen. And, it's also clear to me that I had spent a lot of time taking care of just about everyone except myself. I came home from my heart procedure on Thursday, and on Sunday morning I was back in the kitchen cutting strawberries. My little girl, Sarah, was three years old then. She was asleep on the couch. My husband and father-in-law were in the fields working—I could see them out the window when the crushing pain in my chest began again. I took the nitroglycerin my heart doctor had prescribed, and it had no effect. I yelled to my father-in-law and he heard me—some sort of miracle, because he's deaf in one ear—and grabbed the phone and called 911.

In sheer terror, I took my first trip in an ambulance. As we made our way down the driveway and back down the road, I tried to convince the paramedics not to turn the siren up because I didn't want Sarah to wake up. I was so worried about my husband bringing up Sarah by himself. It was all I could think about.

This time, a blood clot had come loose and caused another blockage. It's not that unusual after angioplasty. But, the blockage was much worse the second time around, and it was in a different location. I had another angioplasty procedure and stayed in the hospital for five days. I was so scared by this time, I hardly moved at all. I can still see the concern on my strong brothers' faces as they sat at the foot of my hospital bed most of my entire stay.

Did my life change? Everything changed. I went through heart rehabilitation and learned all about heart health from the heart team. I bought all the cookbooks I could on heart-healthy food and walked and walked. I probably went overboard. Since then, things have calmed down a bit, and now I've even let ice cream back into the house.

After my heart attacks, joining a heart-health group in my small town was helpful—everyone was very nice—but I didn't really fit in. I was the youngest woman by a good 20 years, and the support sort of ran its course. My family helped out a lot, especially with Sarah, but I was never sure whether I should get up and go running or be still on the couch.

At some point, everything just froze and stopped. Something told me I needed therapy—more support—so I called a therapist. No one I know has ever tried therapy before. But, I felt so alone. Sarah was in preschool and my friend's children were all grown. Here I was in a rural area with a four-year-old and heart disease. I know now that depression following a heart attack is common, and I continue to be treated for it.