So for those of you who don’t already know, I was gifted an Apple Watch for Christmas that is better capable of measuring my heart rhythms and keeping track of my breathing rate than my… what was it? Fitbit? FitBit Versa? However you spell, or write, that. At any rate, when it’s not charging it’s on my wrist, and I love how much better the metrics are at… well, keeping track of my metrics. This is a great baseline to be able to give my care team, especially since I’m still pending referral to cardiology (something that should’ve been done years ago with my concerning symptoms that mimicked bronchial asthma and family history).

I’ll get to taking pictures of it on my wrist in the coming days or weeks. I’ve definitely screenshot the EKGs that it’s taken from me. It says that it only records risk of atrial fibrillation — all of them say this — but I’ve gotten better at reading the results of the EKGs that it’s done on me, that have been done on me by doctors, so I have a better idea of what to look for and what some of the… problems might be. I just love this thing.

The medication that I was prescribed for my heart problems… has begun not to work at these doses.

I’ve gone back to feeling like I’m short of breath, and my brain constantly telling me this, even though my lungs work fine (which means that it was never severe bronchial asthma). Giving myself albuterol for this won’t work because my lungs are not the ones with the problem. As a matter of fact, it will actually make the problem worse since albuterol raises your heart rate, and my body has been trying to raise my heart rate through the roof to compensate for its failure to sufficiently oxygenate my body, which is where we’re at. It’s not low potassium, even though the asthma meds that I’m still currently on do lower my potassium a bit. It’s not GERD. I know it’s not GERD. And it damn well isn’t anxiety, because I take medication and see a therapist for that. But there is a history of people with heart problems, and heart failure, on my mom’s side of the family. When my mother was my age, she was having aneurysms in her head clipped — and I’m very lucky not to have gone that route yet — and regularly seeing a cardiologist. I know that I’m at the stage where these are definitely heart problems. Taking hot baths helps, and sometimes sitting in the bathroom on my phone with the heater running so the rest of the house doesn’t have to suffer with me helps. Heat dilates.

When it comes time to call in a refill for this prescription, because my doctor never puts refills on them, I’m going to ask him to raise the dose of this. If that means that I have to schedule a visit with him in person to discuss raising the dose of this medication (or adding other ones in, or even changing them out), I’m fine with that. I can manage that. Because as it was, I’ve never done particularly poorly on pulmonary function tests. I have, however, taken the piss on six-minute walk tests with my heart rate careening through the roof and my oxygen levels dropping as low as 92% or 93% on brutal days. I do have mild to moderate asthma and I’ve never said that I haven’t. It comes out to play when I take NSAIDs or certain other medications that aggravate respiratory tissue. The only two things I wish for are a treatment plan that improves if not stabilizes my cardiac function and the hope that I did not pass my heart on to either of my children. My love for them and zeal for life, yes. But not my actual heart. (Or maybe I did have a good heart at some point, if not a decent heart, and I gave it to both of them. I’d be fine knowing that I did that and would have no regrets.) But my heart can bring it on because I’ve never been one to give up and I’m not starting now.