And The Beat Goes On

Last night as I was trying to settle down to sleep, my heart was dancing. Doing the jig she was. I couldn't slow it down by breathing steady, or taking my medicine or anything I thought would work. So I called Laurie, our next door friend and asked her if she'd come and take a listen. Always handy to have a cardiology nurse next door, I say.
She said it sounded like atrial fibrillation, and that maybe it would get better in time, but that my best choice would be to go to the ER.
So off we went.
Wanna know how to make those ER receptionists move? Say something like this:
"My heart is doing something weird and jumpy."
She had me at hello, if you know what I mean.
My bottom hardly hit the chair before I was hustled into a bed, hooked up to all kinds of wires and the monitors were lit up.
Atrial fib was the correct diagnosis, thank you Laurie, and I was given options. Let them shock my heart back into submission, which the ER doc was strangely eager to do (not really), or take the medication-to-slow-the-heart-and-hope-it-obeys.
I chose door number two. Not that I was afraid to take a shock, but heck, I wanted to get a chance to sleep in a bed that made my butt fall asleep. Who wouldn't, right?
My heart decided that it had had enough persuasion after two doses, three hours, one asleep butt, and a partridge in a pear tree.
Wait, that singing partridge is actually a beeping monitor--who knew that grasping your cell phone would cause a blood pressure cuff to malfunction? Now you know.
Meds were on board at three am and the ol' ticker obeyed at four, I got a good report from the doctor at two pm and we were home by three-thirty.
Whew!