that time I had heart surgery pt. 1

In late 2012, I had the glamorous New York City life most 28 year olds could only dream of.

I lived in downtown Manhattan, had a 6+ figure job throwing parties for celebrities and billionaires at the city’s coolest venues, and was recently engaged.

Growing up a public school kid in a generic Maryland town, with regular degular middle class parents — I got into Columbia University through my own merit and worked my way into the elite echelons of NYC hospitality by being the hardest working person in the room.

I had, by all accounts, achieved what most folks who come to the big city aspire to do:

Become “somebody”

And I, under no circumstances, was gonna fuck that up. My job made me financially secure, socially connected, and impressive to nearly anyone who asked me that age old question, “so what do you do?”

But like most things that glitter, behind the scenes — things weren’t exactly golden.

There’s an energetic groove I clicked into during that era that I now know is, “functional freeze” mode: an elevated and chronic-stress compelled nervous system state that is similar to dissociation but much more frenetic.

I was often called a machine and in many ways, I had become one.

I was relentless, needless and often — sleepless.

Working until 4am then being back on my Blackberry by 8am and in meetings dressed to the 9s by 9am was commonplace. This never felt like a burden or obligation.

How lucky was I to party with the Olsen twins at Bungalow 8, wake up for a meeting with Marc Jacobs’ Creative Director then host a billionaire’s kid’s birthday party with a Wiz Khalifa performance all in one day?

I was living “the dream.” Nobody could tell me different and nothing could slow me down.

Not that anybody tried. My parents weren’t involved in my life and no one was talking about burnout back then. If anything — I was praised for my capacity to grind and man, was I proud of it.

There was a period in 2011 when we were opening the Dream Downtown hotel and my digestive system simply stopped working. I couldn’t eat more than 1/3 of a banana without gagging and I (TMI) started pooping white.

At the star-studded night of the Grand Opening Party which I was personally in charge of orchestrating, I wore a floorlength gold sequin gown. I escorted celebs like Anna Wintour and Amar’E Stoudemire past the velvet ropes into their VIP section. I received praise and admiration from the owners of the hotel’s parent company. They looked at me like proud dads doting on a beloved daughter. What a star I was that night! These important men knew who I was because I mattered, you see?

How special was I? How important was I?

But every few hours, I’d disappear into the lobby bathroom doubled over with pain for a minute or two just to catch my breath. Then I’d put my headset back on and return to the floor, with a fresh coat of MAC lipgloss and an unbothered gaze.

I never told anyone about that.

When a routine gyno appointment revealed a severe arryhthmia later that year, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised — but I was. Surprised, shocked, confused — but mostly, annoyed.

No. No. No. No, I am just getting started. I will NOT slow down over something as silly as my own health.

The irony of all this? I’d been a yogi & vegan for almost 10 years at this point and had recently completed my yoga teacher training. I knew stuff about health. But we’ll return to that later…

I’ve told versions of this story before, many times. As years go by and I gain wisdom and understanding of my own inner-workings, I’m able to piece together the details in a different way.

I have more clarity about how I let things get that bad, and more compassion for the version of me who was so disconnected from herself, that basic bodily functions became irrelevant in the pursuit of proving her worth.

From that initial doctor’s appointment came a months-long barrage of tests and specialists visits. I spent 1/3 my time at the Heart Rhythm center at NYU and the other 2/3 going about my “business as usual,” trying to pretend that nothing was wrong.

But something was really, really wrong.

Years of chronic stress, nervous system dysregulation, and lack of sleep had caused my heart to skip every 3rd beat. Despite the grim prognosis, I was still not motivated to put shit on pause.

I was getting married that March and had just made partner! We were opening another venue in May and THAT was important, so I punted my surgery as long as I could — Memorial Day Weekend 2013.

“You know, there’s a real possibility you could drop dead at any moment if you don’t address this,” one young cardiologist told me.

Well, fuck. I guess we’re doing this…

(to be continued)