My Third Heart Surgery: Cardiac Catheter Ablation Experience

 If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be writing about my third heart surgery, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. And yet, here we are.

This time, it was a catheter ablation for atrial fibrillation (AFib), specifically paroxysmal AFib, which basically means my heart likes to randomly go off rhythm when it feels like it. The goal of the procedure was simple in theory: use energy to target and stop the abnormal electrical signals causing the irregular heartbeat. In practice, it’s a lot more intense than it sounds.

I got to the hospital at 6 a.m., which somehow doesn't feel that early when you’re about to have heart surgery. They started with the usual routine: IV, labs, all the prep. Eventually, they brought me back to the operating room and started placing stickers all over my body. These aren’t just random stickers; they act as a map for your heart, helping guide the electrical signals and the ablation itself.

Unlike my previous procedures, this one was under general anesthesia, which meant I was fully put to sleep and intubated. As nervous as that might sound, the vibe right before was actually kind of comforting. They played Taylor Swift as I was drifting off, which felt very on-brand for me and honestly made the moment a little less scary.

The actual procedure went exactly how you hope these things go: smoothly. My doctor told me afterward that he got everything he went in for. Even better, he checked the arrhythmia I had my previous ablations for and couldn’t trigger anything. That was a huge win. For the first time in a while, it felt like maybe we’re actually getting ahead of this.

Waking up, though, was rough.

I was freezing in that bone-deep, can’t-stop-shivering kind of way, and the chest pain hit immediately.  They loaded me up with warm blankets, hot packs, and pain meds, which helped take the edge off, but I won’t sugarcoat it: it hurt. There was a lot of burning done during the procedure, and now they’re treating the pain as pericarditis, which is inflammation around the heart. It’s expected, but that doesn’t make it feel any better when you’re in it.

Another difference this time was that I had incisions on both sides of my groin, instead of just one. It sounds small, but it definitely makes moving around harder. Even something as basic as standing up becomes a whole process.

At one point, when I first got up to walk, I started bleeding from the incision on my right side. Apparently, that can happen, but it still wasn’t exactly reassuring in the moment. It delayed my discharge a bit, but thankfully, everything stabilized.

And then, just like that, I was home by 2:30 p.m.

Same day. Heart surgery in the morning, back in my own bed by the afternoon. It’s kind of wild when you think about it.

Recovery, though, is never as simple as the timeline makes it sound.

A few days after surgery, things got complicated. The medication they put me on for the pericarditis completely wrecked my stomach. I’m talking full-on gastrointestinal issues to the point where I couldn’t keep food down and ended up losing weight. I had to stop taking it, which then meant the chest pain came back stronger. So it became this frustrating trade-off between managing inflammation and being able to function at all.

At the same time, I started experiencing visual migraines, like kaleidoscope vision with wavy triangles that literally block out parts of what I can see. Apparently, this happens in a small percentage of patients after an ablation.

Of course, I had to be in that percentage.

That’s been one of the hardest parts of this whole process. Not just the big things, but all the unexpected side effects stacked on top of each other. It’s exhausting, both physically and mentally.

A lot of people asked me before the surgery if I was nervous. The honest answer is not really, at least not about the procedure itself. By the third time, you know the drill. You know what the room looks like, what the process feels like, what waking up is like.

What I was nervous about was something else entirely: what if it doesn’t work again?

Because that’s the part no one really prepares you for: the mental side of going through something like this over and over again. It’s hard not to wonder if this is just your reality now. If this is something you’ll keep dealing with indefinitely.

Right now, I’m in that in-between phase. I’ll be on medication for about six weeks, and then we’ll stop and see how my heart behaves. It’s also completely normal to have arrhythmias in the two to three months after surgery while everything is healing and the new pathways in the heart are settling in. So even if things feel off, it doesn’t necessarily mean it didn’t work.

Still, waiting is hard.

But despite all of it, the pain, the side effects, the setbacks, I keep coming back to one feeling: gratitude.

Grateful that the procedure went well.
Grateful for a doctor who took the time to check everything thoroughly.
Grateful that, at least for now, things are pointing in the right direction.

Recovery isn’t linear. It’s messy and uncomfortable and, at times, discouraging. But I’m holding onto the hope that this is the last time I have to go through this. That my heart is finally getting the reset it needs.

And for now, that’s enough.

Follow me on social media!

Instagram: @endoisnottheendblog

Twitter: @endoisnothend

Facebook: Endo Is Not the End

Fear & The Psychological Symptoms Surrounding Chronic Illness

Have you ever gone to bed not knowing if you’d wake up in the morning? I have. Many times. That’s the reality of living with heart problems. It’s a terrifying existence that forces you to confront what actually matters in life.

There’s an interesting paradox to it all. Having these near-death experiences has pushed me to try to really live, to spend time with the people I love, and to try to live like a normal twenty-something. But doing exactly that is often what puts me into those terrifying episodes in the first place of my heart racing to 215+ beats per minute. So how do you live life to the fullest when a ticking time bomb follows you every step of the way?

We talk about heart conditions, and chronic illness more broadly, as if they are only about physical symptoms. And while those symptoms can be, and are, debilitating, what is discussed even less, which says a lot considering how under-discussed the physical side already is, are the psychological challenges that come with living in a body that feels unsafe.

With endometriosis, the psychological toll has mostly come from not being believed by medical professionals, feeling misunderstood by the people around me, and trying to come to terms with having a lifelong painful disease with no cure. These are things I’m still working through more than ten years after my diagnosis, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fully move past the medical trauma I experienced while trying to get answers. But the psychological challenges I face with my heart conditions are different, because I’ve never feared for my life due to my endometriosis.

Being in your early twenties and having to make every decision based on how your heart might react is exhausting. I can’t eat sugar or drink alcohol too close to bedtime or I’ll be up all night with a racing heart. I have to ask others to replace my water jug at work because I’m not supposed to lift heavy things. I walk slowly up hills and stairs to avoid triggering an arrhythmia. I can’t attend work events if I won’t have a seat. I do everything I can to get a seat on the train so I don’t pass out during my commute. The stress of that alone gets my heart racing in the mornings.

I wake up in the middle of the night thinking there’s an earthquake, only to realize it’s my own heart beating so fast that it’s shaking the entire bed. I go to sleep not knowing if I’ll wake up in the morning. That fear doesn’t get easier. If anything, it follows me into other parts of my body.

After two back-to-back heart surgeries and years of living in constant fear, I developed neurological chest pain called intercostal neuralgia. It is a condition involving the nerves between the ribs and causes excruciating chest pain. After my second heart surgery last February, I underwent every test imaginable and no cardiovascular cause was found. Instead, the conclusion was that this pain is a result of the ongoing trauma my body has endured. My neurologist believes it will subside once I recover from my upcoming third surgery, one that is meant to finally put my atrial fibrillation at bay and allow me to move forward from the trauma my heart conditions have caused over the past few years.

Medical conditions do not stop at textbook symptoms. They can leave lasting psychological scars. I wish I had advice to share on how to manage that part of it, but the truth is I’m still figuring it out myself and probably will be for some time, until I can start feeling safe in my own body again.

I know my loved ones are scared for me. I try to be strong for them, but I’m scared too. Not all the time, because this has become my reality, but often enough, especially when I’m alone with my thoughts. That’s why I try to keep my brain busy.

Still, with my third and hopefully final heart surgery scheduled for the coming months, I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I won’t let myself fully celebrate just yet. I thought this would all be over back in November 2024. But this time feels different. And for now, that hope is enough.

Follow me on social media! 

Instagram: @endoisnottheendblog

Twitter: @endoisnothend

Facebook: Endo Is Not the End

Feeling Invisible

Having an invisible illness, or multiple in my case, is a uniquely lonely experience. No matter how hard others try to understand, no matter how much time they spend with you, they’ll never truly get it unless they’ve lived it themselves. And that’s not their fault. I’m incredibly lucky to have some of the most supportive friends and family, even though they don’t fully understand what I go through every day. Honestly, I’m glad they don’t. I’m glad they don’t suffer the way I do. I wouldn’t wish any of this on my worst enemy. But that doesn’t make it any less lonely.

On top of feeling invisible, I often feel misunderstood. It’s so hard to explain what I experience in my body every single day. Feeling exhausted after doing nothing. Being in extreme pain but still having to show up and move forward. Carrying the guilt of not being able to participate in life the way I want to. Crying on vacation because my body hurts so badly, while seeming ungrateful even though I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Skipping breakfast with friends on weekend mornings because I need to sleep as long as possible to make up for another night of restlessness. Begging for accommodations at school while fearing judgment or denial because I look “fine” and put together on the outside. Going home early when all I want to do is stay. Spending hours driving across states for doctor’s appointments week after week. Living with the constant fear that my heart could give out at any second, or that my endometriosis is growing back with a vengeance.

Because others don’t understand my lived experience, it’s hard for them to grasp that this is simply my life. So sometimes, they forget. I almost never show it outwardly. They invite me to hike mountains or run 5Ks as if that’s something my body can do. I wish it was. But that’s not my reality right now.

The person I am today has been shaped by living with invisible illness for the last ten years. I don’t care what others think of me because I’m too focused on staying alive. I have a lot of confidence, because if I can survive ten years of feeling miserable in my own body, I can survive just about anything. Sometimes I can be blunt. Sometimes I forget others’ feelings. After being worn down by illness for so long, I’ve lost a lot of my sensitivity, and I’m still learning how to balance that.

My friends sometimes give me a hard time because I don’t love meeting new people or letting others get close to me, especially as I’ve gotten older. What they don’t see is how exhausting it is to explain my limitations over and over again. It’s awkward. It’s invasive. And yet, it’s often necessary just to justify why I do the things I do. My energy is extremely limited, and I want to spend what little I have loving on my inner circle, the people who have been through it with me. The ones who have tried, in their own ways, to understand.

Even if my loved ones don’t fully understand what I’m going through, they still find ways to show me they care, and I appreciate it more than they know. Seeking out the only chair in the bar and giving it to me. Checking in when I go quiet. Letting me cry and vent my frustrations (thanks, Mom). Suggesting something low-key instead of a night at the club. Making sure I’ve made it home safely. Validating my feelings around chronic illness. Sending flowers or my favorite food after surgery. Showing a genuine, consistent interest in my well-being. I am so deeply thankful.

All of this is why I created this community ten years ago and why I continue to lean on it for support. I know others living with invisible illness feel this same mix of loneliness, gratitude, exhaustion, and resilience. And while I hate that any of us have to experience this life, there is comfort in knowing I’m not alone. The worst club with the best members, as we like to say. In the end, this space exists to remind us that even when our pain goes unseen, our stories still matter, and we don’t have to carry them by ourselves.

Follow me on social media! 

Instagram: @endoisnottheendblog

Twitter: @endoisnothend

Facebook: Endo Is Not the End

I’m Excited for Heart Surgery (Here’s Why)

My biggest goal going into 2026 is to have my third heart surgery for my arrhythmias, this time for atrial fibrillation, and finally say goodbye to my cardiovascular issues for good. Of course, that’s easier said than done. This surgery doesn’t come with a 100% success rate. But when I picture my ideal life this year, that’s what I see.

Being excited for surgery sounds weird, right? It’s not something anyone should want to experience. It’s similar to being excited about a new diagnosis. People with chronic illness and chronic pain understand this instinctively, but it can be hard for the outside world to wrap their heads around. I’m not excited about heart surgery itself. I’m excited about the life it could give me afterward.

A life with more energy and less pain.
A life where I can walk up the stairs without feeling like I’m going to die.
A life where I can cook and clean without feeling like I might faint.
A life where my bedroom doesn’t look like a pharmacy just so I can stay alive.
A life where I can do normal twenty-something things, have fun with my friends, and not constantly question how every single decision will affect my heart.

That’s what I’m excited about.

So when I went to see my cardiologist earlier this week, I walked in with that life in mind and I wasn’t willing to accept anything less. Technically, my medications are “working,” and I could probably go without surgery for a while longer. I put working in quotes because while they lower my heart rate and keep my arrhythmias at bay, they also leave me exhausted, lethargic, and feeling nothing like myself.

I don’t want to live in constant fear that missing a dose could send me into heart failure. I don’t want half my bag to be filled with medication when I travel, leaving no room to bring home gifts for the people I love. This is not the life a twenty-something should be living.

Unlike my endometriosis, which I will carry with me for the rest of my life, atrial fibrillation can be curable. When you already live with a lifelong disease that has no cure, you understand just how much of a privilege it is to have a condition that might be fixable.

At the same time, it’s hard to fully let myself feel excited. I thought my heart issues were going to be cured back in November 2024 after my first surgery. So yes, I’m really hoping third time’s the charm.

I’ve had a diagnosed chronic illness for ten years, and chronic pain for years before that. That’s half my life. I don’t remember what it’s like to live without illness constantly looming in the background. Because of that, it’s easy to feel jaded and discouraged when new medical issues show up. And don’t get me wrong, I do feel discouraged. I get angry at my body all the time. That’s normal, and that’s okay.

But I don’t like to stay in that headspace for too long, because it’s not helpful. My body isn’t trying to hurt me. It’s fighting against itself because it’s trying to protect me. Trying to be positive doesn’t magically erase my symptoms or make them any easier to live with, but it’s something I’ve learned helps me survive the mental battle that comes with chronic illness.

Having a medical condition that might actually be curable allows me to see a light at the end of the tunnel that I’ve never been able to see with endometriosis. And that feeling? That hope? It’s really nice. I’m going to hold onto it for as long as I can.

I’m sure there will be a million obstacles between now and my heart surgery at the end of March, because that’s just how our lovely medical system works. But I’m doing my best to stay positive and keep picturing that dream life waiting for me on the other side.

Follow me on social media! 

Instagram: @endoisnottheendblog

Twitter: @endoisnothend

Facebook: Endo Is Not the End