Last night I had a nightmare that I was joining some sort of club and as part of my welcome, I was handed a delicious-looking shake. I took two generous sips (I do love a good shake, you guys) and then someone mentioned that it contained alcohol. I freaked out and started screaming at everyone because OH MY GOD stop the world, I signed a contract with UW that I would not drink any alcohol, use any tobacco or do any legal or illegal drugs while under consideration for the transplant list or after being placed on said list. Yes, in both the dream and in real life, they do test me for all of these things. And indeed they will kick me off "the list" if I break this contract. 

I awoke in the middle of the night, sobbing, knowing that I was kicked off "the list" and had no hope for long-term survival. One might draw the very accurate conclusion that I'm having a little anxiety about my life under the literal microscope. 

It's just the way I'm built. 

Every time a teacher or manager has asked to speak with me privately in my entire life, I've assumed I'm getting disciplined for something. Every time I go through security at the airport or the drug-sniffing dog walks past my car at the ferry terminal, I assume they're going to find something on me, even though I have nothing on me. 

So yes, I worry about things big, small and even imaginary.

One of the things we've been worried about since December-- maybe even October?-- is the battery in my current defibrillator. It's been like a secondary worry, niggling at me from underneath the overwhelming worry about getting on "the list." Defibs do have a shelf life and for the model neatly tucked under my chest muscle since 2010, that shelf life is about 7 years (even I can do that math). Unfortunately, like so many other things in our healthcare system, this is highly regulated by the insurance companies, and as I explained in a previous post, the voltage on a defib battery needs to drop below a certain percentage in order to "qualify" for replacement. My li'l buddy first recorded at that percentage back in mid-December, then below it in January. And then well below it last week. But apparently for never 3 days in a row.

Until today. 

This morning the Device Clinic called to say the alarm finally went off and pinged them that I need a new battery (there is wireless transmitter that sits on my kitchen counter that does this, which is really rather remarkable when you think about it). So now I'm awaiting the Device nurse to call me to schedule my procedure, which I'm certainly hoping we can get done before April 1. April 1 is when my new health insurance year begins and my deductibles and out of pocket maximums re-set. 

You can likely imagine that in addition to being highly stressful, these past two months have been really, really expensive.

So this is good(ish) news, because the last thing thing we want right now is for my defib to need to shock me back to life and not have the juice to do it. I say "-ish" because, while the procedure is typically a fairly simple outpatient one, last week at UW there was some talk of complications. Plus, this time I'm totally going to ask them to make me my own personal wifi hotspot. 

And let's face it, my heart is in much worse shape than it was seven years ago or you'd be reading my "Full-Bodied Red" blog right now instead of this. (By the by, it's a fun read. Yes, there is talk of the defib but mostly it's about my dating life before The Boy and about our early life together. Start at the oldest post and work your way forward. Rated decidedly R for colorful language and adult situations.)

Some of you were around for both previous defib implants... so you know that the drama level reallyratchets up and attempts to pull everyone around it into its tractor beam. If I may speak of myself in the third person, Andrea in true fight or flight mode is a force of nature to behold. But some of you are new to this party, so consider yourself warned.

To make a long story short (too late), I'm still sorta kinda on "the list," I have not violated my contract, and one of my anxiety causers has been sorted while another has been triggered.

Around here, we just call that Tuesday.