While I was lucky to have a friend there with me, I could see her face turn pale as they pushed the crash cart to the foot of my bed, just a few feet from my faded white winter boots that stuck out from my hastily tied Johnnie. She didn’t need this added stress in her life. Neither did I for that matter. For the past hour my heart had been racing, like I had just run up all 1,860 steps to the top of the Empire State Building. It was beating so fast; I couldn’t feel
my pulse. Earlier that night, I was watching the Olympics from the comfort of my living room, sipping a glass or two of red wine and eating Valentine Hersey Kisses I bought for myself, unaware of my impending adventure.
With a doctor now in the room, the next steps were under his control. First I was asked try some of the techniques I read about online while I was deliberating going to the hospital. They didn’t help. My heart was still beating around 190 beats per minute, which is more than three times my normal resting pulse, typically in the low sixties. The next course of action was to chemically interrupt my heart rate. As the casually dressed physician counseled me about what I was experiencing, other nurses attached wires to my chest and back. He gave a name to the event, calling it
acting up; and I was out of breath after just a few swings. Eventually I realized I should stop. So I departed and went snowshoeing to clear my head before settling in for a night of Olympic melodrama.