“I got that Feeling and Needed Stentual Healing…”

(Written by Marti Snyder)

“It was heartache like I’d never felt before. It took my breath away. Floored me. Consumed me. “

A short run home for a pair of forgotten shoes would make all the difference that day. Our home was just across the street from the ball field. I could see my front door, but a few strides and my breath was short and my body heavy. I slowed my pace, opened the front door, grabbed the shoes, and began the jog back. Tight in the chest again, I walked. I few swings of the bat and I tired quickly, retreating to the bench. I left the field feeling old and out of shape. I was neither. Two short runs and a few swings of a bat had gotten the best of me. I felt pitiful. Then the thoughts ran through my brain. I’m having a heart attack! This has to be a heart attack. This CAN’T be a heart attack!

I willfully shook the thoughts. I had to. I have two kids, they are growing up so fast. I don’t want to miss a minute with them. I kept telling myself I can do this. I drove home, fell into the couch and convulsed in pain and panic for the next hour, wishing the pain and anxiety away. I buried my head into the couch pillow, my head bouncing quickly on the scratchy fabric as the vibration of my restless legs rattled the couch. I slept it off, sort of.

After a restful night’s sleep, the pain in my arms had faded; the pressure and heaviness was now isolated to should-to-shoulder. Not great, but I’m getting better. A walk through the parking lot and up a staircase got me to my office, but I required two sitting breaks in between. Every movement was slow and tentative. The full two-minute walk strained my entire body. I was ineffective, confused, and fatigued. There would be no more toughing it out. Chest pain, shortness of breath, dizziness, fatigue, racing heart. Reluctantly, I admitted defeat. A coworker summoned an ambulance.

I’m healthy, I’m only 36, why on Earth can’t I get it together? Tears of embarrassment streamed down my face as I was ushered on a gurney past curious onlookers. Other than discovering a deep affinity for nitroglycerin, the emergency room visit was uneventful. My heart looked normal through all of the testing. The doctor scheduled a follow up stress test just to be safe. Maybe I was just a hormonally imbalanced head-case.

I followed the doctor’s advice and took a few days off work. It was Halloween. I took my kids trick or treating. I wasn’t feeling up to it, but I was determined to walk with my kids and take pictures. At 10 and 6 years old and I knew the nights they’d want to spend Halloween walking with mom would be very few. I wasn’t letting this one slip away.

My official stress test the next morning was uneventful and I returned to work. When I walked into my office my world began to spin, my face caught fire and I was dragged down by what felt like a 200-pound bag of cement forcing me to the ground. I had to make it to the health center, but I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t even stand. I was too tired to cry. This would mean another humiliating trip to the emergency room.

Again, all tests were normal. I was a 36-year old woman with no history of heart disease, I didn’t smoke or drink, and I had perfect blood pressure and cholesterol. I was assured all follow-up tests would find me to be the healthiest person in the ward. Was I getting better? Was I simply impatient in my healing of this unknown ailment? I was wheeled to my next stress test. This one would be accompanied by an ultrasound of my heart.

I was wheeled back to my ER bed and the doctor reviewed my scan, but all I heard was “blah, “blah, blah…” I couldn’t quite process it. Then the doctor left. I can’t believe I let him leave. I had questions. Do I have heart disease? What do I do next? I summoned him back. As powerless as I was, I asserted my power to get answers. I needed answers. Am I dying?

My questions were aplenty, but answers were few. Ninety-five percent of my heart looked perfect. Five percent did not. Am I clear of heart disease? Only in 95% of my heart. Only a CT scan would determine the fate of my mysterious 5%. While my husband had confidence in the doctor’s prediction of inconsequential findings, I found little comfort.

A follow-up visit to my primary doctor felt like wasted time. I asked for a referral to a cardiologist and she agreed only to have a cardiologist look at my test results. Another licensed opinion would tell me that there wasn’t much to see. I was told that my chest pain would likely go away within the next two weeks and she prescribed me anti-anxiety medication. So it’s true. This is what the world is coming to. We don’t know what’s wrong with you so it must be in your head. Here take a pill. Not enough? Here’s another pill. I’ve known people, fit people, to collapse — and die — because of an underlying heart defect. I have two young kids; this just cannot be me. Not now.

I was scheduled for the CT scan for the following week. I went back and forth between thinking about what they would find or if they would fine nothing at all and give me the all-clear. I flew through my test. Nitroglycerine always made me feel so much better! Shortly after I finished the test, my phone rang. It was a nurse from cardiology saying that my results were in and the cardiologist would like to see me that afternoon.

I met my cardiologist. He said my scan showed a 50–70% blockage in my right coronary artery. He said it was likely plaque build-up. He told me about the angiogram procedure and said that were going to go in and place a stent to open it back up. He confirmed that I was scheduled for Tuesday morning, four days from now, gave me Atenolol and directions, gave me a hug and wished me luck. My husband and the kids showed up just as we were finishing and we all walked out together.

I was in shock. But now I had an answer. I was, in fact, experiencing heart attack symptoms for five weeks. I was given a hug, some pills to slow my heart rate and stabilize angina, and an appointment for a surgery that was schedule for four days later. I just have to keep myself alive for four more days, and then they’ll do the rest.

The procedure flew by with deceptive lucidity. “You had a dissected artery. They put in three stents,” the nurse told me, as she wheeled me back to my room.

My right coronary artery had spontaneously dissected. There was no plaque build-up. I did not have the traditional heart disease that we associate with older, overweight men who gorge themselves on pizza and bratwursts while chugging beer and chaining cigarettes one after another. I had a Spontaneous Coronary Artery Dissection (SCAD). The internal lining of my right coronary artery had torn in a spiral from the artery wall and flapped over, blocking nearly all blood flow to my heart. The loose flap had likely swayed with blood flow, allowing just enough flow to my heart to keep me alive but not enough for optimal functioning. At any moment during the previous five weeks, that artery could have torn just a bit farther and caused a devastating heart attack, as it does in most people who have experienced a SCAD. Some of us require emergency open heart surgery, some are implanted with defibrillators to regulate deadly arrhythmias, and some live with heart failure and await a donor heart. And some of us just die. There’s no telling when, why, or who it will hit.

Three miniscule stents had reopened my tattered artery, but four simple letters had completely obliterated my mind. S-C-A-D. Determined to understand, I researched SCAD — briefly. The truth was too terrifying and horrific to swallow. My time bomb was still with me. SCAD can recur and it can be fatal. With only days to spare, I had been given more life. But how much more? Days, weeks? I couldn’t fathom beyond that. I lost my ability to see birthdays and major life events. Growing old suddenly became a fairy tale. My parents and my children would both have to bury me. Each night I went to bed, I said good-bye to my family forever, all but certain I would die in my sleep. When my eyes would open, I’d be flush with relief, only to know I would face another day of the unknown. My only escape from the fear came in slumber. Perhaps I would die, but there would be no more fear.

Marti Snyder is currently working on writing her first book: “Stentual Healing”. For more information on SCAD and how you can help us find answers, visit: http://www.scadresearch.org/donate/ #scadstories