01/07/2026
My Heart’s Journey: A Story of Stress, Loss, and Healing
It is my hope in risking a little fragility with this post that my experience may help somebody. Anybody. I’m not looking for judgment or guidance—just to say what I need to and hopefully help.
On Christmas Eve, I was up and around preparing for company, rushing to put the finishing details on what would make the evening as warm and whole as it could be in the missing presence of my late grandfather, Alsie Hyden (my Poppie). I had everything planned out. All of my gifts wrapped with intentional love and under the tree, the house extra clean with pine and cookie-scented candles adorning every room, food cooking and on the grill. We did holiday steaks this year in the same fashion my Poppie used to do for Thanksgiving and Christmas, following his tradition. Everything was going to be great!
Then came this moment.
I was in the kitchen and started to tell my husband, Michael, something when I suddenly hit a wall. It felt not only figurative but nearly literal. A wave of pressure came up the top of my back, gripped my shoulders and neck, and radiated down into both of my arms, locking them up. I started to sweat quickly.
I sat down for a moment and let it pass, unaffected outwardly but inwardly thinking, “Okay, that was really weird. I’ve never felt anything like this before.” My mind rushed back to when I worked in the ER at the Oklahoma Heart Hospital. All of the patient complaints flashed like an instant memory rolodex through my brain as I did a quick rundown of all the signs and symptoms I had ever heard about people with cardiac issues who presented and were admitted.
I thought, “Surely not,” but then remembered, “I know cardiac symptoms are known to present differently in women. I also know medical care workers are some of the worst patients.” (Some may know I previously worked 12 years in the medical field.)
After just a few minutes, the symptoms subsided. I cautiously got up and asked Michael to watch me. Even in telling him this, I didn’t make a big deal of it. The evening went on and we had a really great Christmas. I think Poppie would have been so proud.
A couple of days later, I was up cleaning the house and moving around pretty quickly trying to get things done. One of Eve’s friends was over for Christmas break. The house can get a little chaotic at moments with a bird who has a lot to say, an excitable dachshund, and a new Italian Greyhound puppy who weighs no more than a paperweight, is always under your feet when you try to walk, and is constantly running off to an unseen area of the house to go potty. Italian Greyhounds are an infamously hard breed to potty train—one of my personal hells! 😂
A lot was going on.
I went into my bathroom and started to clean the mirrors. I had my arms above me wiping the mirrors in an upward motion, then stopped. My arm got really tired all of a sudden, so I switched arms. That arm fatigued in a matter of seconds too.
I stopped and stood there for a moment. Then came that same gripping feeling in the back, neck, and shoulders—all muscles—down both arms, completely locking up again from the top down. Then came the sweat.
I sat down. “What the hell is going on with me?” I was frustrated at this point. “This routine is just another thing I do on any other day. I’m fine!”
The feeling subsided. The day went on as usual.
New Year’s Eve, I spent the day with one of my longtime friends, catching up on everything after so many years have gone by as they tend to so quickly do. It was one of those ongoing conversations that feed the soul. Hours passed like minutes. We solved the world’s problems and my cup was overflowing. We talked about it all, knowing there was so much more to talk about even still. I was so happy.
Later in the evening, Michael and I stayed up to watch the ball drop. About 10 minutes before midnight, my daughter asked if she could go out with her friends and I told her no because it was already late, we were tired, and she hadn’t planned ahead of time. She wasn’t a particular fan of our decision and disagreed. Michael and I kissed at midnight and went to bed.
The next morning, I woke up and showered. Something felt off. I sat in my bathroom for a minute. I paused and had an honest moment with myself. I wondered if this was the feeling I’ve heard so many of those patients recount when they came into the ER saying, “Something just didn’t feel quite right.”
It hit me… I can’t believe that against my better judgment, I had ignored the signs. My own internal calls to action.
Militantly, I got dressed and hurried out the door without a word, purse and keys in hand. Focused on my objective. I had to go get some answers. I was angry and scared.
I pulled up to the ER parking lot, not apprehensive at this point and doing my best not to project any outcome. “Just go, be curious, and stay calm,” I thought.
I checked in behind the same desks I had worked at, only at the South Heart Hospital location, which seemed not so long ago. Patient complaint: chest pressure.
The cardiac workup process began swiftly and seamlessly. Like a well-oiled machine, I was in a room, stripped down into a hospital gown, stuck with EKG stickers and leads, with an IV quickly placed and a rainbow draw in the works to check my cardiac and all relevant markers. I quickly told the nurse everything, and in a flash, I was alone in my room waiting for labs to come back in about 45 minutes.
Within that time window, Michael showed up, wide-eyed but with slow and intentional questions as he always does.
I was angry because I felt I had betrayed myself and not listened to myself better. I was overwhelmed because I have been carrying a heavy load, especially lately (so many of us do this). I was sad because I realized I had not taken more time to grieve the loss of Poppie. His loss to me was devastating, to put it lightly.
It came out in tears and it was a relief, even though I am no stranger to crying. Michael held my hand and said, “I’ve got you and I am here.” I took the moment and the space for what it was and cried more.
The ER doctor came back in and told me I needed further testing because my troponin level (an enzyme the heart releases when a significant cardiac event has occurred) was 54. The normal range is ≤34 pg/mL.
So additional testing was initiated: chest X-ray, lab re-draw, echocardiogram.
The echo tech came in and was so very kind. She educated me on exactly what she was doing in real time, filling in the gaps in my knowledge of what and where echocardiograms specifically measure. She asked me to turn over on my left side, which faced me toward the echo monitor.
And then I saw my heart on the ultrasound screen.
Consistently racing at the same pace she had been for days prior between 90-100 bpm. This was one of the major missed signs for me because of my ongoing stressors. I watched her move—my heart itself—along with my atria expanding and contracting, my valves quickly opening and closing. All to sustain me. To keep me alive and able to observe this very moment.
I thought, “Oh my god, please, please slow down. You are doing too much. It’s okay!”
I paused. I realized this sentiment was meant not just for my heart. It was meant for my mind too. The self realizing the self.
I thought, “She is so beautiful. What a beast. I am so thankful for you. Thank you for putting up with me. You are so strong. Please keep going, but please be peaceful.”
And then the echocardiogram was done. The tech kindly wished us well and exited the room. I needed to let this marinate.
Next came the cardiologist. I had seen him a few times during my six years at the Heart Hospital but never had the chance to introduce myself. Fun fact about the medical staff there: they are constantly fast-moving and on a mission.
He was quick to inform me my second draw showed my troponin levels had decreased to 50, which was trending in the right direction but was still dangerously elevated. He went on: I was an odd case. I am a 39-year-old healthy female with a solid amount of muscle mass. I have been a fitness instructor for the past 18 years, live an active lifestyle and my only health issue, PCOS, is well-managed with consistent daily medications, sufficient amounts of weekly exercise, and I eat well (most of the time).
So far, the only abnormality was this really high troponin level, which may directly coincide with the recent amount of stress I have been under, especially with the recent loss of my grandfather.
I was then told that undergoing an angiogram, also known as a heart cath, is the gold standard to rule out heart disease.
During my time working on the clinical side at the Heart Hospital, more times than once, I sat on the other side of that thick pane of glass in the cath lab and shuddered at the thought of ever having to undergo something like that. Fun fact about me: I have a crippling fear of venipuncture. Ironic and hilarious that I lasted as long as I did in the medical field considering this! I’m working on it though! I told Doc that even though a cath is the most straightforward answer, I would heavily appreciate an alternative approach. He suggested I go inpatient, stay overnight, undergo another lab draw to further track my troponin levels, and undergo a stress test in the morning.
I immediately agreed, relieved for the alternative.
As expected, Doc exited the room kindly and quickly, conversing about my care plan with the nurse. So inpatient I went.
Michael never left my side except for a few trips home to get the essentials, inform and check on Eve and the animals, and ask her to hold down the fort during my time at the hospital. She agreed and quickly called me so we could talk. I assured her I was going to be just fine and we were going to figure out what was going on.
Next, it was time to call one of my closest friends, Brian, whom I had previously worked with in the Stress Test Department at North. I started the conversation wishing him a very happy New Year, then quickly asked if he was working on Friday and if so, which location he was assigned to. He quickly let me know he would be at the North campus the next day—where I was. What luck!
Naturally, he asked why. I told him it was because there was a solid chance I would be seeing him in Stress the following day and proceeded with the rest of the details. He asked for my room number at the hospital, which I gave. In a very non-negotiable fashion, he said, “Okay, we will be there in 20 minutes.”
Before I could really interject, the conversation was done.
The rest of the evening was spent visiting in my room with him and his wife, Jasmine, and him talking to my pod nurse to see to it that any and all possible accommodations would be made for me. I couldn’t help but feel so out of place, still in a gown and wired up with a port in my arm, confined to a hospital bed. I was anxious but knew my rest had to be prioritized.
Needless to say, that night was pretty restless and equated to about an hour and a half of sleep. Nursing came in again at 4:00 AM to do another draw and had to wake me. My port wasn’t cooperating, so my other arm had to be used for the draw. Weight, blood pressure, and fluid output were again checked.
I wasn’t going back to sleep after that.
After the room was quiet again and Michael had fallen asleep, I turned off the TV. Trying to get comfortable, I knew my window for rest was getting shorter. I opted to watch YouTube on my phone instead.
I was distractible and overtired. A few minutes into my video, I heard a ringing in my right ear which started softly and gradually became louder. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and listened.
Then, my Poppie was there.
He took no form, but his presence was warm and intentionally at my side. In what I can only describe as an instant download to my mind, I received the simple knowing: “You are going to be alright.”
Nothing more, nothing less.
I exhaled. Then, a visualization of a blue wave of water washed over me internally with bioluminescent aspects, as if washing me with an intense focus directly on my heart.
I was at so much peace.
And then, as fast as it came on, everything faded back into the darkness of the hospital room.
Peace.
And then came the next moment.
Promptly at 6:00 AM, there was a knock at my door. It was Brian! He asked if I had been told my troponin values. His tone was telling. I held my breath.
He said, “It’s still elevated at 43.”
I said, “Isn’t that a good thing? It’s trending in the right direction.”
While that part was true, it apparently wasn’t improving quickly enough. I was an inpatient add-on to the Stress scheduled for 9:00 AM.
A few minutes before nine, in comes Doc’s nurse telling me I needed to be prepped for cath! What?! This was not the plan! Maybe there was a gap in communication somewhere.
At exactly that moment, in comes Brian to get me for my stress test upstairs. Conversation immediately starts between the two. On one hand, the nurse has just spoken with the doctor to proceed with the cath. On the other hand, Brian and the rest of the stress team understood the care plan detailed with justifications for Stress to proceed as planned.
All I could muster was a request that all associated doctors communicate if anything had changed with my case. I was otherwise speechless and a little shaky.
They both exited to discuss with the pod nurse and call the doctor. It was decided I would do the first half of the stress test as a resting test. The contingency would be, upon how I performed during my resting stress test, to then decide whether or not it was worth the risk of me undergoing a maximum exertion stress test, considering all unknowns.
To my great relief, all were in agreement at this point, so off I went to Stress.
It was a trip to be a patient on the exact table and treadmill I had previously assisted so many onto during my time working in Stress! Everything was seamless! Again, a well-oiled machine performing efficiently and with such compassion.
Before I knew it, it was time for me to undergo the treadmill portion of my test with BRUCE Protocol, administered by Brian. After a quick EKG, the objective was to max out my heart on the treadmill.
I reached maximum exertion at 13 minutes and 36 seconds at a rate of a 2% increased incline every three minutes, starting at a pace of 1.7 mph at a 10% grade incline. For my demographic, my heart performs with superior efficiency according to stress test protocol. I expected nothing less because I know my capacities.
One more round of imaging on the scanner and the test was done. The initial feedback was very positive and was trending in a hopeful direction.
Brian got Michael and me back to our room. A couple of hours went by, some calls were made to catch a few people up on our progress, and we waited for what we assumed would be discharge. Everything was for the most part packed up and ready to go, and I was changed out of my hospital gown, ready to leave.
There was a knock at the door. I was surprised to see instead of the partner nurse to discharge me, it was Doc’s nurse.
She informed me to get back into my hospital gown because I was going to be prepped for my cath scheduled for 4:00 PM!
I told her I thought all of my tests came back without abnormality. She told me the doctor wanted to be absolutely sure.
All I could do was nod silently with my eyes looking downward because of how scared and angry I was, yet again. She exited the room and I called Brian quickly. He was surprised to hear this based on my stress results. Luckily, I caught him at the tail end of his day, so he was able to show up pretty quickly.
He reviewed my stress results in more depth. It was realized that somewhere during testing there was an artifact. This artifact could mean I may have moved incorrectly at some point during the test, which affected the result, or it could mean that there is some elusive part of my heart which hadn’t yet been detected for whatever God forsaken reason.
At this point, I was starting to feel like my back was against the wall with the outcome. Brian asked what I wanted to do and said that whatever my decision was, he fully supported it.
The only logical thing I could think at this point was to be educated further on the situation and hear a detailed breakdown from the doctor himself. Brian was off in a flash to go find Doc and his nurse so that the conversation may be had.
I started to once again remove my clothes and change into the hospital gown and socks, and I started crying. A lot. I cried really hard. I don’t remember the last time I cried this much, much less it being of fearful origin.
I know myself. I know my body, my nerves, and everything else in my very own existence that makes me who I am. And right now, I was afraid.
Michael came and sat on the bed while I put on my socks with shaking hands and held me. We both cried together and he said, “I know this goes without saying, but I know Poppie will be right there next to you.”
We cried together more and it felt right to relinquish some of this. My mind flashed back to the early hours of the morning in the darkness of this very room and I remembered my peace and clarity and the message Poppie came to impart to me.
I’m going to be all right.
Michael dried my tears, helped me dress, and we waited a little longer.
It was my understanding on this day that Doc had clinic at the South campus and had two other cases at North to cath, so I could imagine his frustration with my apprehensiveness. But nonetheless, I needed to hear it from him.
So now, in addition to my husband and Brian diligently at my side, we had Doc, his nurse, and three pod nurses in my room.
He highlighted and acknowledged my apprehension, mentioned the conversation the day before in the ER, and said it was absolutely my choice. He explained that since my case was so odd, it was going to be optimal to know if there was anything the tests were missing, even in the slightest.
He went on, but I already had found my resolve. I knew I came here to know exactly what the problem was, and I wasn’t going to leave without it.
I told him I would undergo the cath, thanked him for being conscientious of my fears surrounding the situation, and apologized for causing any probable delay in his schedule.
Because it took time to get to this point, I was not able to be prepped for cath in my hospital room. In came the cath team to take me—two men who worked quickly.
I gave my hugs and said my “I love yous” to Michael and Brian. I let the two men know as they were wheeling me out of my room in my bed that I was very afraid and that I would only ask nicely once to be gentle, otherwise I’d start swinging!
Brian chimed in, “She’s not kidding.”
Both men and Michael laughed, which I was happy to hear. I was sure to let them know I was kidding as we rode the elevator down to the Cath Lab. I let them know I was aware this procedure involved conscious sedation, but if they wanted to completely knock me out, it would be absolutely welcome.
He let me know he would be my “bartender for today” and promised to take care of me. I thanked him profusely.
Everyone chuckled as I transferred from my bed to the cath table in the OR. Once again, I was asked for my name and date of birth, which I stated. My “bartender” came to my right side and started to adjust and strap my arm into a fixed position to get the best access to my port and administer sedation. I noticed a lady to my left securing my other arm. I didn’t give it much thought.
Next, I was prepped on my wrist (radial access) and groin (femoral access as backup in case they could not access my radial artery for any reason) with CHG. I looked up at the X-ray imaging device directly above my head. I looked past that at the ceiling tiles. Everything was white and sanitized. Here I am, in the OR. “I can’t believe this.”
Before I could think much else, I remember saying, “This is that head feeling you get when you’ve had a few daiquiris.”
That’s the last thing I remember.
The details are spotty, but I remember being wheeled out of the Cath Lab. Next thing I knew, I was back in my room with my husband, Brian, and his wife, Jasmine.
I remember the nurse coming in to check my insertion site on my right arm several times. One of those times, apparently, I was hooked up to some IV bag, which I imagine was what was being used to help flush the sedation out of my system. I was encouraged to order dinner and eat.
I asked Brian, in case I had forgotten, if it was standard protocol to strap both of the patient’s arms down during a procedure. He said with a somewhat surprised look on his face, “No, it’s not!” I had to laugh and told them they actually did strap my arms down so even though I told them I was joking, they weren’t taking any chances! I completely get it. Again, working in the medical field for 12 years, you never know when a patient says something like that which one of them might actually make good on their word. 🤣 I’m not amongst that demographic, I promise! Just a little spicy, and always looking to make light of an otherwise scary and serious situation.
Jasmine asked me how high I was right now. My response: “On a scale of one to America, I’m higher than an eagle’s nest!” An appropriately stoned answer.
I don’t remember much of the rest of that evening, but I was apparently told—and retold again later—that Doc had come out after my cath and spoke with Brian and Michael. He said it went great and that I had a completely clean cath! With Brian and Jasmine’s help, we made it home with both of our vehicles and were finally out of the hospital woods!
What I’ve Learned
I’m so very thankful for my health. I deeply believe information is true abundance. This experience, despite the roller coaster it was, is true abundance.
The fact here is that I am a very healthy 39-year-old female who will be 40 next month. (I still can’t believe it and I still don’t feel it) with a solid amount of muscle mass and the heart of a lion.
The gained insight here is that you can have a perfect bill of health and still be susceptible to major health issues due to stress alone.
None of this is to say that I don’t absolutely love my life. It is so rich and so full—I can’t believe everything I’ve gotten to do so far. So much of it seems so beautifully surreal. Even now. I plan and foresee myself living a very long, happy, and healthy life with my family, who I love more than anything in the whole world. They are my everything.
Talking to the few people who know the situation, including my counselor, amongst other stressors in my life, the one that significantly stood out to everyone is the loss of my Poppie. The world just doesn’t feel the same to me anymore without him here. This is what my heart feels.
Logically, I know in my mind that he is no longer suffering and is with my Nonnie and everybody else we have so loved who have gone on before him. I truly believe that leading up to these two cardiac events, my heart and mind hadn’t caught up with one another. I also truly believe this experience, in and of itself, has caused a shift within me which has afforded me much-improved coherence of the two.
This was a lesson not asked for, but demanded to be learned in the time that it was, in the way that it was.
There are other aspects of this entire experience which I know will occur to me at a later time, but I am so thankful for the first bit of clarity I have at this moment.
With this, I say: I am so very strong, with resilience and resolve which continues to surprise even myself. I attribute so much of this resilience to being as closely aligned with my higher self as I possibly can be.
I am truly safe and loved.
My body is my temple, and my family, house, and home are my safe spaces surrounding me with unwavering support. I am encircled with very intense love from my family. I can also confidently affirm I am that much more aligned with my purpose and mission here in my life.
As a healer and an empath, my mission here is to help others gain deeper awareness and accept themselves, their lives and experiences, and meet themselves where they truly exist in this moment. These things, and much more, have been abundantly reinforced.
I say to anyone reading this who feels something is off—listen to that voice. To anyone carrying the weight of grief while trying to hold everything together—your body is listening too. To anyone who thinks they’re too young, too healthy, too busy to slow down—please, hear me: stress doesn’t care about your plans or your age or how strong you think you are.
My Poppie came to me in that dark hospital room and told me I would be alright. And I was. I am. But I had to go through this crucible to understand what my body had been trying to tell me all along: that grief needs space, that stress demands acknowledgment, and that the heart—both the physical and the metaphorical—can only carry so much before it asks for help in the loudest way it knows how.
I write this not as someone who has all the answers, but as someone who almost missed all the signs. I write this as someone who worked in cardiac care for years and still ignored my own symptoms. I write this as someone whose heart literally stopped her in her tracks and said, “Enough. We need to heal.”
If my story reaches even one person who pauses, listens to their body, seeks help when something feels wrong, or finally gives themselves permission to grieve—then every moment of fear, every tear shed in that hospital room, every terrifying decision made will have meant something beyond just my own healing.
We are not invincible. We are beautifully, vulnerably human. And sometimes the greatest act of strength is admitting we need to slow down, feel our feelings, and let others help carry us for a while.
Thank you to my husband, Michael, the absolute love of my life, who never left my side and holds this beautiful space for me in the most delicate, amazing and unspoken way. Thank you for seeing me, my love. Thank you to my daughter, Eve, also the love of my life, who has inspired me to grow, show up unapologetically and love me for everything I am and have ever been. Thank you to Brian and Jasmine, who showed up without question and fiercely advocated for my care and mental health. You all are so rare and so treasured. Having friends like you is true medicine for my soul. Thank you to every medical professional who took such beautiful care of me at the Heart Hospital. I have now experienced that place from both sides as an employee then a patient. Both aspects are phenomenal and the people there are the salt of the Earth. And thank you to my Poppie, who reminded me—even from wherever it is you are—that I am never alone.
Take care of your hearts. The one that beats in your chest. The very one which holds your grief, your joy, your love, and your life. Now and always. You are worth the pause. You are worth the healing. You are worth listening to.
