My Personal Path to Diagnosis
For me, the journey began with subtle but concerning signs: shortness of breath during light walks, chest discomfort, and a background of type 1 diabetes, high cholesterol, and family history of heart disease. My GP recognized the constellation of risks but couldn’t confirm a diagnosis, so he referred me for a full workup—blood tests, chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia, and eventually to a cardiologist.
The cardiologist reviewed everything: my lab results, blood pressure, ECG, X-ray, and performed a heart ultrasound. Based on the full picture—my symptoms, test results, and genetic predisposition—she classified me as very high risk for CAD. That moment was sobering. I asked if there were non-invasive alternatives, lifestyle changes, or medications that could help, but she explained that at this stage, those wouldn’t be enough.
She mentioned that a coronary CT scan could confirm the diagnosis, but it wouldn’t change the outcome—it would only show what needed to be addressed. The real turning point would be the heart catheterization, which could both diagnose and potentially treat the issue in one procedure.
Waiting for that appointment was one of the most emotionally intense periods of my life. But it was also the moment I began to truly understand how silent and serious coronary artery disease can be—and how vital early recognition and action really are.
I’ve always considered myself an average man. Just weeks past my 50th birthday, I weighed around 90kg, stood 176cm tall, and lived a mostly sedentary life in management. I wasn’t intensely stressed, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink much—sometimes years would pass without a drop. I’ve lived with type 1 diabetes, but beyond that, I had no major health issues. No surgeries. No hospital stays. I was the visitor, not the patient.
Spiritually, I’ve always believed in something greater—a higher intelligence, the power of energy, and the strength of the mind. I practiced meditation regularly, offered Reiki healing to others, and tried to live with intention. I wasn’t perfect, but I was balanced. Average. Stable.
So when I was referred for a heart catheterization, I packed a small bag, reluctantly. Just in case. It was a Friday, and I didn’t even realize that if I stayed overnight, I’d be there through the weekend. I had plans that evening. I was convinced they’d find nothing and send me home.
The procedure was delayed—an emergency had taken priority. I waited two hours, then was called in. I changed into sterile hospital clothing and lay down on the surgical bed. It was cold. Unfamiliar. The doctor arrived a few minutes late, post-lunch, and introduced himself. He explained the process calmly, professionally. I nodded along, still half-convinced this was routine.
But it wasn’t.
Within minutes, he stopped. He turned the monitor toward me and, in a tone that was clinical but ice-cold, said he couldn’t proceed. My condition was too advanced. He showed me the video—multiple blockages, long and severe. There was no way to stent them. He recommended open-heart surgery.
I froze.
He told me I had to stay in the hospital for the weekend. The heart team would meet to decide how to proceed. He asked the nurse to bring a wheelchair. I wasn’t even allowed to walk.
And that’s when it hit me. I started to cry—uncontrollably, like a child. Not because of pain, but because of the sheer emotional weight. The shock. The rupture in my sense of normalcy. In that moment, everything I thought I understood about my body, my health, my life—shifted.
The Moment Everything Changed: From Average to Emergency
The days that followed were a blur of thought—three distinct clusters of worry, disbelief, and spiritual reckoning.
First, my wife. She had come with me to the hospital, but now she’d have to return home alone. We lived 35 miles away—70 miles round trip—and it was late January, with darkness falling early. She wasn’t a confident driver, and I worried about how she’d manage the visits, the shopping, the everyday tasks. That was my main concern. Thankfully, her mother stepped in, moving into our home to support her. That settled the logistics, but not the ache of watching her carry the weight of uncertainty alone.
Second, I still couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt fine. Sure, I’d gained a bit of weight, and I’d noticed some breathlessness—but nothing that screamed “emergency.” I kept hoping this was a misunderstanding, that the heart team would review everything and decide a stent could still be used. It was strange how quickly the catheter-and-stent procedure, which I’d once dreaded, had become my preferred option—anything to avoid open-heart surgery. I even found myself clinging to the idea that medical technology might evolve in the next few years, offering a less invasive fix. I wasn’t ready to accept the scale of what I was facing.
And then came the third cluster—disappointment in my spiritual life. I had believed in energy, in the strength of the mind, in meditation and healing. I had practiced Reiki, helped others, and cultivated inner peace. So how had this happened? How had I not seen it coming? I questioned everything. Was any of it real? Was it useful? Energy and mind power—my ass, I thought bitterly. I felt betrayed by the very tools I’d trusted to keep me well.
Then Monday arrived.
The heart team met, reviewed my case, and confirmed what I feared: open-heart surgery was necessary. Not optional. Not preventative. Urgent. They scheduled it for the following Tuesday. I was speechless. “Serious state,” they said. But I didn’t feel serious. I had a bit of breathlessness, yes—but no pain, no collapse, no dramatic symptoms. How could I be in a serious state when I still felt like myself?
That weekend changed everything. It was the moment I stopped seeing myself as average—and started seeing life as something far more fragile, far more precious, and far more mysterious than I’d ever allowed myself to admit.