Post 50: Complications & Compliments
My head’s swimming again—but now it’s with questions about the escalation of my AFib, and what that means for me, My Darling, and the cancer.
Last night, just after my soup and toast supper, the ectopics began. I knew straight away—things had changed.
Before the pulmonary embolisms (PEs), my AFib was mild and predictable. A minor flutter every couple of weeks. Barely noticed, barely worried.
Now?
Seven major episodes in quick succession. Both harder—and longer—to stop.
Just two days after Sunday’s A&E visit, I’m getting more warning signs.
For those lucky enough never to have had palpitations: I envy you. Deeply.
It’s exhausting. Your heart behaves like you’re sprinting full pelt, while you’re just sat on the couch trying to finish your toast. The ectopic beats feel like a skipped beat followed by a massive BANG—as if your heart’s trying to get your attention the hard way. And it does. It always does.
When it kicks off, I’m told to take the “pill in the pocket”—an extra beta-blocker to slow or stop the palpitations. It can work, but it takes its sweet time. Up to two hours. So you want to get ahead of it. Quickly.
But this latest event?
A 10-hour marathon.
That’s why, last night, the doctor decided early on to take action—he didn’t want Friday’s chemo jeopardised. He’d read my notes and understood the co-morbidity—cancer and heart, side by side. He needed the heart under control now, so the cancer treatment could continue uninterrupted.
So—bravely, I thought—he gave me 5mg beta-blocker on top of the 5mgs I’d already taken earlier that day. When that didn’t shift it, he returned two hours later with a yellow consent form full of risks and warnings, and a team of people including Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Then came my very first cardioversion.
I’m told it was on the third and final attempt, after shifting the electrodes around my back and chest, that my heart returned to sinus rhythm. Better late than never.
Today, I’m mostly feeling grateful.
Grateful for the NHS, for the expertise I’ve witnessed, for the protocols and the people who’ve kept me going.
The A&E team were phenomenal—to me, and more importantly, to My Darling.
There’s only one lingering issue: the itching. I’m scratching like a flea-bitten mongrel between my shoulders on my chest where those electrifying pads were stuck. (See photo)
So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off for a shower.
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But what’s all this AFib business got to do with PC and Carboplatin, anyway?
Good question.
The answer’s not great. But here goes.
Cardiology will now have to advise my GP on how to medicate and manage my AFib, now that it’s spiralled. There are other drugs available—but here’s the “what if”:
What if chemo—specifically Carboplatin—makes the AFib worse?
That’s a known risk.
So with chemo scheduled to restart in two days, the question is: will there be enough timeto agree on a new plan?
If not—chemo gets delayed.
Oh dear.
Here we go again—another lap on the (not-so-) merry-go-round of modified treatment plans and scuppered hopes.
I’m crossing everything I’ve got that a plan lands today—so My Darling can take a breath, rebuild her strength, and release just a little of the tension she’s been carrying through this excruciating waiting game.
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The first update of the day came from oncology.
And it’s a blow.
My new oncologist has postponed chemo by a week, to give time for the new AFib meds to stabilise things if and when they formulate a new plan.
That’s bad news for me—but great news for the cancer.
One-nil down. But the game’s not over yet.
Time to bring on the super sub—a follow-up on some of the advice and bloodwork suggested by the faraway hospital where I got that second opinion. It’s something proactive. Something positive. Something to keep me and My Darling busy while we wait.
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50 posts.
Not how I imagined celebrating that.
But I’m still here. Still writing. Still fighting.
