Have you ever known something was coming to you? Or known that no matter what you did, you’d never be perfect. I’ll start right off by saying I’m broken-not in a depressing emo state. Hear me out. When I was a kid I was convinced I was the Grinch because my heart was three sizes too small. That is a lie, my heart is not three sizes too small but it’s what I told myself to turn the constant doctors appointments into fantasy land as a child. That has been my normal since birth. Tetralogy of Fallot: a congenital heart defect having to do with the heart’s overall structure causing four defects mainly involving a poor functioning and leaky pulmonary valve. You can bet money that Tetralogy of Fallot is going to be on your nursing board exam. In other words: the tube connecting the heart to the lungs is messed up and the gate that prevents blood from flowing back into the heart doesn’t do its job properly. This causes poor oxygen circulation because there isn’t enough blood supplying the body with oxygen getting out of the heart fast enough. The blood cannot leave the heart because the valve can’t shut, causing back flow.

I was born with this condition, underwent open heart surgery at three months old at University of California, San Francisco, and then tested yearly to see if the valve was still functioning properly. I’ve been fortunate enough to have been seen by some of the best cardiologists in the world and my parents were there, holding my hand every step of the way. I knew my entire life that I was different. I couldn’t run, I had a compromised immune system, I couldn’t gain weight, I had asthma, and I would have to have a second surgery sometime in the next 13-18 years to replace my valve. The irony of this disease was that my father is a cardiologist, and my brother and sister were both born with severe heart defects. Genetics I tell you. I plan on taking a position emergency medicine but I was close to choosing cardiology. 

These appointments were a huge deal because it was once a year my family would drive four hours to San Francisco where we waited in a white steril waiting room with block toys and clown art in attempt to make it pediatric friendly. The cardiologist would see all three of us at the same time, meticulously listening to each of our hearts’ valves open and shut each time the muscle contracted and relaxed. We’d then get whisked away to a dark room with an echo tech where we’d spend 20 minutes deciding which mediocre kids movie we watch while the echo tech took ultrasounds of our hearts. If that wasn’t enough we were ordered angiograms. My father informed me that I was going to be put to sleep so the doctor to take pictures of my heart. Little did I know I was to pass out watching Harriet the Spy while several techs and doctors inserted a catheter into my inguinal groin go my heart to assess whether or not I had additional electrical passageways. If they existed they were to cauterize them. This was a condition I later studied called Wolff Parkinson White Syndrome. I didn’t have it. But I did wake up groggy, with a bruised groin where the needle had been inserted. Every year I would dread going to San Francisco where I felt like a lab rat; never knowing what further testing they would have to perform. 

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My parents were always calm and appreciative of the staff. They adored our cardiologist and he and my father coerced like old medical school buddies. My parents were very involved and invested in our well being. My mom would bring books and games for us to play to distract us from the focused physicians, residents, and interns who would play guess that congenital defect. Each would ask if they could listen. My mom would nod and if we protested my mom would argue that we were teaching the future and that it was important they learn so they could help us later on. They’d place the cold bell of their stethoscope on my chest and move it around listening to each valve through each intercostal space. Then they’d give our cardiologist their guess. Most got it right. Some got it incorrect. Our cardiologist would ask them to wait outside if they got it wrong. I had grown anxious through the years dreading that one day our beloved renowned cardiologist would tell me I needed surgery again. A lot of my anxiety has stemmed from these high pressure appointments I had as a child and still have as an adult. My cardiologist is amazing. He followed me up until my open heart surgery and then shortly after. When i had to switch to an adult cardiologist I was devastated. He joked that now he could finally retire that he had helped me survive into adulthood. He checks in and then recommended me to my current adult congenital cardiologist. I’ve been very fortunate with my care team. UCSF’s cardiology department has been phenomenal. 

Having this disease has always been my normal. Premature ventricular contractions were a part of my daily life, not getting to play any sports that involved running, having my inhaler on me at all times, and having girls gossip about me being bulimic because I ate so much and never gained weight was a part of my childhood. That was my normal. Yet, for some reason, I insisted on always choosing the most difficult routes to take and took on challenges most people thought I was crazy for. In high school I did rodeo because it didn’t involve running, so naturally riding a horse at full speed weaving in and out of other girls on horses, barrels, poles, and chasing cattle was much more low key, right? In a way, it broke me in that I appeared as a sociopath, having no fear or regulation of how difficult things truly were. Things that seemed impossible didn’t phase me. I also realize I sound like an arrogant, condescending jerk when I say that. However, my mentality has been, give me the biggest challenge you have, add steroids to it, and then watch me destroy it. It has become a game for me. I find myself when I struggle.

When I was fourteen I was riding horses daily. I played tennis with my father every night at the local park’s tennis courts until dusk. During the summers you could find me with sixteen other girls at the arena on the back of my horse riding until we couldn’t see each other. We’d get bucked off and thrown on the ground at times yet insist we get back on and keep riding. (Yet, another reason I come across fearless). It was the coolest part of the day. Where we lived in California got up to the hundreds even though the beach was relatively close. I did drill team which basically involved girls riding horses, much bigger than themselves, running full speed at each other with flags and glitter uniforms. We were the openers for the rodeos. John Wayne music would play and the drill captain would blow the whistle and immediately we’d go into a new formation. Our parents usually watched us until one of us got hurt and then we’d joke that they’d sit in the back of a horse trailer with helmets on, fearful of the fate of their daughters on these beasts. After all, don’t all girls just want a pony?

“Without imperfection, neither you nor I would exist.” -Stephen Hawking