In general, I feel great. I went to see a psychiatrist who prescribed some medication that has helped me overcome my anxiety and depression. I had a horrific anxiety attack last month that was a wake up call for me. Apparently, my experience of being diagnosed with congestive heart failure and cardiomyopathy may have given me PTSD. It sounds crazy, but it’s true.

My defibrillator was installed in March, and after my last bike stress test, I am now convinced that it may never go off. You see, I pushed myself to my physical limits, and my heart rate never entered arrhythmia or the heart rate danger zone. If that doesn’t do it, my every day life won’t either. I’m getting used to having an iPod-sized bulge under the skin of my chest, and the pain has faded. I can even sleep on the same side as the implant now, which is crazy.

The bike test brought forth good news — last time, my score was 14, which is the threshold for transplant. This time, my score was 20.7 — not perfect, obviously, but above the threshold. Hearing that number was the happiest day of my life.

Through the process of grappling with my disorder, I’ve been doing what I’ve called “closing the loop.” That’s reaching out to old friends, righting past wrongs and indiscretions, generally dealing head on with issues that made me feel guilty or filled me with remorse for years. As a result, I feel like I’ve been granted a true second chance at life — I feel more at peace with myself than I’ve felt in years, and I generally believe I’m a better person for having gone through my experience. I even went to the doctor who misdiagnosed me and forgave him for that mistake — he needed to know what he did, but that I didn’t hold it against him. These things happen. There will be no law suit, or anything like that, though I suspect I will soon be finding another primary care physician.

The last loop to close is Archie, the splendid Boston Terrier that died last year. I’ve felt horrible for not having been able to make his death less painful, for not having gotten him to the vet in time. And I have felt a hole in my life without him — a need for the companionship of a good and trusted dog. I have had a dog for the past 20 years of my life — my year without one has been fraught with grief.

So last night was the first night that I slept with a dog burrowed under the covers next to me, or woke to having my face licked. Yesterday, Tina and I adopted a 9 month old Beagle named Charlie. He became a member of our family almost instantly — it was like he had always been with us. I will always miss Archie, but I love having a young, generally well-mannered beagle — hounds are such fine dogs, and there’s no finer sub-breed than that of the beagle, that hunted game in Great Britain in 200 AD and is one of the oldest breeds in history.

Charlie is young, but he’s a delightful friend. Full of energy, loving, intelligent. He enjoys exploring the neighborhood as we go on walks, and for the first time in a long time, my life feels complete.

I don’t know what will happen to me in the coming days, weeks, months, or years. But I am content that I have made peace with my demons, that I have a wonderful family and now a new companion animal, and that I have lived the best life I can live. Oh yeah, and my Halo 3 skills are back up. Could anyone ask for more?

Being chronically ill is like being placed in a state of constant limbo and panic. Every bout of sickness takes on greater weight. And with no contact with doctors for weeks on end, it’s hard to know where you stand, what your future may be. You can only hypothesize and worry, and I am a terrible worrier. In the end you guess that you don’t have a future.

I don’t know what I would do without Tina’s constant support and optimism. She makes me feel that I’m not alone, even though some pretty bad things have descended on me, and she can skillfully talk me off a cliff when panic sets in. Without her, I would have already lost this.

Now this person recently lost someone close to them, so they were thinking practically — what I needed to do to make things right for the people I leave behind.  And getting a will is on my list of things to do — but Christ, was it really any of their business to talk to me about it?  It’s one thing to be the survivor after a family member dies — God knows, I know what that means after losing my father — but it’s one thing to presumptuously counsel a person who actually might be dying.

Seriously, work colleagues should not be doing this.

Now here’s the thing, I don’t know if I’m dying.  All I know is that I have a weak heart and that I’m currently in fairly stable condition.  I had a right-side heart catherization a week ago, and the cardiologist told me it looked better than before.  Not normal, obviously — but better.  My gas levels and pressures were fine.  No one knows my risk level yet.  I may need an assist device, or I may not.  I may need a heart transplant, or I may not.  I may only need medication, or I may need more than that.  The point is, no one knows.  But this person treated me as if death was a forgone conclusion.  

Now, death is a foregone conclusion for every human being on earth.  But that doesn’t mean it’s happening tomorrow, this year, next year, ten years from now, etc.  Anyone can die at any time — shit happens.  Shit has happened to me.  I watched my father die of cancer for half a year, and I’ve recently quite suddenly lost a family member.  But I’m not dead yet.  And I’d prefer if people would stop treating me as if I’m going to die in the immediate future.  Because no one knows — I don’t know, my doctors don’t know.  I don’t even feel that bad.  

I have accepted that I may die, and I’ve also accepted that I may live.  I’ve come to terms with that — I’m not in denial.  But I believe very strongly that to get through this I have to fight death with everything I have.  And that means avoiding conversations with well-meaning douche bags who have no idea what it means to have been told things like “you may need a heart transplant” or “you may die.”  Until someone has said those words to you, keep your fucking advice to yourself.  I have enough advice from my top flight health care providers, thank you very much.  Nothing spoils morale more than someone treating you like you’re going to fail in the struggle you are now committed to.  

Even if this does eventually kill me, no one will be able to tell me that I just gave up or rolled over.  I am stubborn and driven.  As a boy, my father taught me how to suck it up and keep going despite pain and doubt.  I clawed my way out of a possible future of dead-end service industry jobs to work in the white collar professional world of Washington, D.C.  

I have modest goals — live to see my girls graduate from high school.  Get my master’s degree in communication.  Live as long as my dad — if I can make it to 50, then I will have succeeded.  That’s less than 20 years.  I can do this.

And if it means replacing my heart and a lifetime of immune-suppressing drugs then so be it.  I will do whatever it takes.

And anyone who wants to tell me otherwise, or focus on the worst possibilities over the best possibilities can go fuck themselves.

As John Darnielle once said, “I’m going to make it through this year if it kills me.”