Last fall I had a heart attack. A real heart attack. Not an “Oh my goodness you scared me I just about had a heart attack” heart attack, but a real, bona fide heart attack. And it scared me. I haven’t shared it with you all yet because I don’t even quite know how to approach writing about it. Do I write it all tongue-in-cheek, my usual style, and make you laugh? Or do I invite you into my deep, dark, middle-of-the-night fears about how I almost died and make you cry? Or do I just make it all informative and tell you the statistics about women and heart disease and make you scared? Maybe I can do all three. This week I launched a series on Women and Heart Disease because February is American Heart Month. But this week, in this column, I’ll tell you my story.

I had just started making lunch – getting ready to call my son home from a playdate at the neighbors, starting to spread some mustard on the bread when it hits me. A tight, squeezing feeling in my chest. It makes me instantly breathless and nauseous. I start sweating. And keep making sandwiches. But I stopped talking because I couldn’t catch my breath. A minute later, I dropped to the floor. Here’s what I remember after that. 

I remember thinking…help. Somebody help me. My husband – he’s downstairs. But he’s on a conference call, I don’t want to bother him.  Maybe it will pass. Maybe if I just stay here a few minutes, I will feel okay. Maybe I should call out to him. “Help.” Nobody comes. My phone is in my pocket – I slide it out and type “help” and hit send, then drop it. And I stay still. He doesn’t come. Addie is crying, standing over me, asking me to get up. I just stay still. We really can’t afford the money for a hospital visit, and Scott is really busy and wouldn’t be happy to have his day interrupted. No, I’m okay. I’ll just stay right here a little longer. Until I can catch my breath. Until the squeezing stops. Please, God. Make it stop. Everything is silent. Silent for me. And I stay still. I don’t hear my daughter crying, I don’t hear the TV. I hear nothing. I close my eyes.

And then I remember – I remember a similar day from my past nearly 20 years ago, when my father dropped of a heart attack in front of me. He didn’t get up. Instead, he stopped moving altogether, stopped breathing, and I never got to hug him again. I was so angry at him. Parts of me still are. No. No. No. I won’t let this be what my daughter remembers. I’m not going out like this. I open my eyes. I feel around for my phone again, and this time I call 911. I feel almost silly saying “I think I’m having a heart attack.” It feels so melodramatic, so movie-like. But I tell them. Please help. And they come. And they burst through the door at the same time my husband comes upstairs to see what I wanted. And all of the sudden things are not still. They shove aspirin in my mouth and make me chew, they strap things to me and start running tests, and they spray nitroglycerin under my tongue. They load me onto a stretcher and carry me out. And I thought of how these people just saw my messy house. Addie is still hungry, I didn’t finish making her lunch – she needs to eat. And my son is at the neighbor’s and someone needs to get him, and I think I just ruined Scott’s work day I hope he won’t be mad.

A few weeks later when I return to the emergency room for stitches for Austin, one of the nurses recognizes me and asks me how I’m doing. I confess to her that I don’t recognize her – she tells me she wasn’t one of my nurses, but that they all knew who I was. I was the girl who survived. The paramedic said I had the highest blood pressure he’d ever seen in his career on someone who then didn’t die. It was 251/156. For those of you not well-versed in blood pressure numbers, normal is 120/80.

I spent that first night in the hospital wide awake. What on earth just happened to me? How is it possible I had a heart attack? Doesn’t that happen to men? Is my daughter traumatized for life – how much will she remember of what she saw? And what about my son? He wasn’t even there – what will that do to him? Turns out – it did a lot. To both of them. Addie regressed back into a fierce separation anxiety. And Austin makes constant plans on how he will save me when the next one hits. He’s in counseling at school.

I’m okay. I’ll be in recovery mode for the rest of my life, but I’m here. And I’m doing okay physically. Mentally, not so good. I have survived many tragedies. My life would already make a good Lifetime movie, without the heart attack. But this – this thing that happened to me – chilled me to the bone. I know I was really lucky, and I’ve been given a second chance. But I’m scared. Really scared. I’m terrified because I can only do so much to prevent the next one. 23% of women have a fatal heart attack within one year of their first one. I don’t want to be part of that 23%. I wish I could turn back the clock and pay attention to my body. Pay attention to the staggering statistics on heart disease. But I can’t. I can’t go back – only forward. I travel with baby aspirin and medication and my cell phone at all times. Even if I’m just running to the store. I wake up drenched in sweat several times a week, terrified it will happen again, knowing next time I am not going to be so lucky. And I hug my kids with all I’ve got, every day, and I hope they know – I hope they know how hard I am fighting to stay alive, to keep this disease from taking me too early. Please, God, just let me live long enough to help them grow their wings and make it without me. Please don’t let me stay still.