I thought I had at least another year, maybe two before I saw the inside of an operating room again. Another year or two before I lie on that table strapped into place, wide awake, as the cut my chest open and rip out my low battery defibrillator and ship it off to India (Yes, that’s what happens to old defibrillators. They get cleaned up and used in people who can’t afford them in India), then slam a new one in.
I know, I am being dramatic, but I really didn’t expect it to be replaced already. Although I am told I got a good life out of mine. Seven years. I was hoping for ten. It’s funny though, but I have grown a sentimental attachment to my defibrillator. I call him “Buddy”. Although it’s uncomfortable, and I never really grew accustomed to having it in my chest, where the slightest knock could have me doubling over in pain. Where I would walk through the crowded city streets with my right hand over it as if I was constantly pledging allegiance to the flag so no one would bump into me. Where I would always make sure never to book a concert ticket or plane seat on the right side aisle. Where my right hand always would fly up instinctively over it when ever the dogs or cat jumped onto my lap. Where for the first year of living with it I lived in constant fear of it shocking me.
Yet, it is comforting to know that it’s there, in my chest, silently monitoring me, listening out for those times when my heart starts to behave like a crazy bumblebee, and it would gently, without my knowing or intervention, bring my heart back to normal.
I have to wait until the voltage gets to a certain level before they can do anything like begin to think of scheduling an operation, but I am close. Very close. I will send in a transmission in a month to see where my battery voltage us is at and then I go from there.