Op-Ed: A congestive heart failure diagnosis at 49 years old and my journey to better health

September 8, 2019, was a beautiful fall day, a Sunday made for a perfectly lazy day. But this day turned out not so perfect because I found out that I have congestive heart failure.

I’m telling you this story because today is National Wear Red Day and February, the American Heart Association’s Heart Awareness Month. I’m telling you because you or someone you know may be going through the same thing. This is why I will proudly wear red on Friday.

A half-hour later, the doctor told my husband that I would have been dead if we had waited one more day.

I woke up that morning feeling a mild but sharp pain on the left side of my chest. And when I say mild, the story I told myself was that I had just slept wrong. It felt like muscle pain, except it turned out to be my heart muscle. The pain increased as I breathed in. I couldn’t catch a full breath. My legs swelled up so much I could push my finger into my ankle, and the indentation would stay.

I knew I was in uncharted water here, but I didn’t have time to be sick. I was only 49 years old. I had payroll to meet. Stories to tell. And a business to run. But I was exhausted so I laid down on the couch. It had been my comfy place for months. Sometimes I would sleep the entire weekend away, and my husband told me repeatedly: get checked out.

I didn’t.

My congestive heart failure, my change in thinking

There were a lot of stories I told myself, even before that day. I was just tired. Yes, it was a stressful time in my life. But everyone has stress. Still, you tough it out. Work hard for what you want. Suck it up. Rub some dirt in it, you’ll be fine. Keep going. Eye on the prize. Eye. On. The. Prize.

I am my father’s child.

I worked 70 hours a week. I never went to the doctor. Drank alcohol to relieve stress and coffee to relieve fatigue. The breathing issues that had been going on all summer? Those were “just allergies.” Although, I could barely walk up the stairs without feeling out of breath.

And on that day, the pain sharpened like a fine point on a pencil. It dug deep down in my chest. I couldn’t get comfortable and the pain just got worse. When my husband got home, he saw it on my face.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Do we need to go to the hospital?”

I shook my head up and down as tears started to fall. The pain radiated through my shoulders. “Now.”

On the way there, all I could think was, I’m fine, I don’t have time for this, and this hurts so bad. A half-hour later, the doctor told my husband that I would have been dead if we had waited one more day. He didn’t tell me this until months later.

A heart catheterization showed the left anterior descending artery was blocked by 25%. It is affectionately called “the widowmaker.” But I lucked out. I didn’t need an angioplasty to open any blocked arteries. My heart was only working at 35%. They gave me medications to drain the fluid. I walked out of the hospital 17 pounds lighter five days later because I had retained that much water.

Armed with a boatload of meds, orders to limit my salt intake, lose weight, watch my stress levels, drink less alcohol, lay off the caffeine, and work on my sleep – my story was shattered. But in a good way.

But it was a struggle to get here. I have a personal trainer by the name of Lynda Knudtson who has endured my on-again off-again love/hate relationship with working out. I backed off from drinking diet soda. I eat more protein and drink a lot less alcohol. Fiber is no longer my enemy.

Prevent heart disease

If you want to learn more about how to prevent heart disease, here are a number of stories we’ve already written.