Seven times. That’s how many times I’ve visited the emergency room in the last three years.

Each time I thought I was either having a stroke or a heart attack, and twice I felt my insides being squeezed, followed by a hollow sensation in my chest, like someone had pulled my heart right out of me. I literally checked my pulse and couldn’t find it.

Let me share some background for context. I’m a fifty-three-year-old male, overweight, with slightly elevated cholesterol and blood pressure, and sleep apnea. Those are the physical challenges I face.

Now, the emotional and psychological context of this story. My world came to an abrupt halt a few years ago, shortly after the pandemic. I felt as though I was on top of the world career-wise, financially, and personally.  

But there were cracks in the foundation. I should have seen them. There were warnings that came in my dreams. They came in the form of advice from people whose advice I needed to heed. Day in and day out, months leading to the final moment, I fell deeper into what seemed like a perpetual anxiety. I became angrier and more stressed.

The warnings were there. I didn’t listen.

I’ll never forget that day. All of it, my job, dreams, friendships, and a reputation I spent years cultivating, all gone. I went home laughing. No doubt, I was in shock.

What happened shortly after, and I didn’t even catch it because I had become too engulfed in myself, was a fall into personal darkness. I became depressed. It was a mix of sorrow and rage. I felt betrayed. I wanted justice. I think I prayed to the Gods of karma to hit those who had hurt me.

I ate and ate, and my weight ballooned to unfathomable numbers. My sleep suffered. My sleep apnea became worse. I didn’t want to go outside, nor did I want to be in public, let alone a group setting of any kind. The solitude of my apartment was my prison, and I embraced it.

I eventually found a new job, moved to another state, and had to start all over in more ways than I wanted. But the depression followed me. I was lying to myself about everything. It wasn’t long before the sorrow and rage became a crippling anxiety.

The first attack happened one morning at work. I had barely started my new job. My heart rate became elevated. There was a tension in my chest that started as a small series of pangs, like someone was tapping their index finger really hard right in the center of my chest. My heart rate jumped. I began to sweat. I was a little lightheaded.

I couldn’t understand what was happening, but my fear was real. I called my boss, and in a short time, an ambulance took me to the hospital.

The rest of my day, almost nine hours passed, in the ER. They gave me a bunch of tests and took a lot of blood to try to figure out what was wrong with me. A lot goes through your mind when you sit on a bed in the ER and listen to the infinite beeping of the cardiac telemetry monitor. At one point, I felt as if my heart beat had become my torturer.

When it was over, the doctors came in and told me all was fine. My heart is strong. Even with the high cholesterol and blood pressure and a few other things, my ticker was ticking without issue.

That should have been the end of the story. I should have gone home and changed my life and never returned to the ER again. If only.

I made some changes, then fell back into old habits. But that darkness and emptiness inside of me had a grasp on me. I couldn’t shake it right away. So, like clockwork, almost twice a year, I ended up right back in the ER.

Can I just take a moment to thank every doctor, nurse, and healthcare worker out there? Thank you for what you do.

Visit after visit, the tests always came back clear. There was no problem with my heart.

What really gets me is how real that fear felt, though. I really felt tightness in my chest, and dizziness, and my heart pounding violently inside of me, as if it was trying to punch its way out through my ribs.

My depression had been replaced with anxiety, and honestly, it felt far worse. I wanted to climb back into a hole and embrace depression, because at least it wasn’t so abusive.

I can’t tell you how this affected me at work. I couldn’t have been the easiest person to work with. I had become terrified of being in public or any public setting. I started avoiding events, or canceling them, and sometimes pretending something had come up at the last minute.

After each visit to the ER, I told myself this would be the last. But I couldn’t. That damned darkness now nestled inside of me, consuming my happiness. I felt lost.

I used to joke about having a midlife crisis. Well, I can admit, whether or not this experience is a midlife crisis, these last three years have been the worst and most challenging of my life.

There is good news. I’ve gotten therapy, and I’ve worked on improving my health somewhat. I started this blog as a way to keep promises and make changes. One promise is to my future self. I promise him that life will be better.

Never at any point did I blame anyone for what happened to me. I accept that I made choices, even when I felt helpless. They were still my choices. Now, I am making better choices to make for a better future.

I take nothing for granted anymore.

Another promise is that I will never again have to make a trip to the ER. At least not for a long time.