There is a bomb in my chest

Two sensations have been with me my entire life, or least as far back as I can remember. These two companions are constant and somehow comforting in their familiarity. The first is an unending sense of warmth, like my torso is a wood stove constantly burning. It is never uncomfortable and very handy in the Canadian Winter. I don’t often get chilled to bone cold, rather a sheen of cold that sits across my skin, but does not penetrate. This has been a source of great comfort to those who have shared a bed with me, as I am the single largest source of heat in the room, and immediately available.

My other persistent friend is the feeling of an immense hand holding my heart. The hand never squeezes, but it is there, grasping the center of my chest in a firm grip. A recent and immediate trip to the doctor has begun to reveal what this hand is, and it’s not the hand of benevolent friend. It’s the punishing grip of vengeful power that wants me dead.

It is stress, and it is slowing killing me.

My blood pressure was read by the clinic’s automated monitor and topped out at 218/140. I told the nurse that can’t be right or I would dead. She was shocked, having never seen a reading that high and took it manually. 180/120 is still bad news. On most heart risk posters it notes that BP that high is cause to call 911. It’s called Stage 2 Hypertersion.

It was a surprise. I had never been told I had high BP before. Blood work was done and I already knew what it would say: there is nothing wrong. Nothing is high or low or anything but normal. My heart is pounding away in that tightening grip because of two seemingly simple issues. My weight, and stress.

I immediately went on medication to bring the BP down and not only did not work, it made my pulse race and drained me of any energy. Walking up eight steps needed a stop on the fourth because I couldn’t breath. A second emergency trip to the clinic replaced that med with a more powerful and effective one. My BP dropped 20 points in 24 hours.

For the first time in my life, I was cold. Cold on the inside.

Just how much stress is affecting my health became instantly apparent, when, as bickering and annoyances grew exponentially among family, and my spouse fled to the bedroom, I collapsed on the floor. Pure fury had been filling me like a shaken Coke bottle and for the first time, there was no cap to contain it. The meds worked, they kept my BP down, something after decades of training my body did not expect. It had expected my pulse to race, expanding my veins with high pressure fluid that would thrum through me. Instead my pulse slightly elevated, sending a steady flow through dilated pipes.

My head was filled with cotton and I suddenly couldn’t breath or stand. Even the cat noticed and trotted over to offer comfort, but my wife and daughter, a few feet away, didn’t.

It is clearer than ever that I need to make changes, or this bomb that has been in my chest for so long, will explode.

As we slipped under the covers, I told my wife that I felt hollow. That the furnace that powered my chest was cold. The hand still holds my heart but loosely, like a caress.

Until the stress comes back.