My ex-wife used to say that my heart kept her awake at night. According to her, the pounding sent vibrations through the mattress, much like a snorer’s relentless noise. However, I was oblivious to this nocturnal drum solo, just as I was unaware of what I could have done to prevent it. I thought my options were limited – my heart either beat or it didn’t.
A few months ago, I went to an outpatient diagnostic exam in Portland, Maine, after reporting a pain in my neck to my physician. I expected to be home for dinner, but things took an unexpected turn. In the catheterization lab, surrounded by darkness and under the calming influence of medication, I listened to sophisticated music as an angiographic X-ray machine slowly rotated around me. It felt more like a spa treatment than a medical procedure, and we joked about it with the friendly medical team.
Then, suddenly, the chatter and music stopped, just like in a comedic movie scene where the needle is dramatically taken off the turntable. They sat me up and directed my attention to a black and white video of my beating heart, asking me to watch. To my surprise, a puff of what seemed like smoke appeared. I learned that the smoke was actually an injectable dye that should have entered my heart but curled backward instead. A voice in the dark, now accusatory, questioned my length of discomfort.
As a closeted gay man growing up in the southern United States, I have always been vigilant against potential threats. First, the fear of being exposed as gay, and after I came out at 43, the fear of encountering harm from others. While the discomfort they were referring to was not related to this, it made me wonder if there was a connection. The cardiologist explained the procedure to stop my heart, and I couldn’t help but think about the parallel between the procedure and the oppressive experiences I had faced in my life.
During my hospital stay, I shared a room with four different roommates, all older white men like me. However, unlike me, they were all heterosexual. Despite their ill health, three out of four made derogatory and misogynistic comments towards the female nurses. This echoed the experiences I’ve had in the world, where a significant percentage of men exhibit toxic masculinity, causing me to retreat further into the closet. But in the hospital, there was no escape.
Even if I had wanted to remain private and deny my true identity to maintain a sense of safety, it was impossible. Every time there was a shift change or when multiple healthcare workers came in for rounds, I had to repeatedly come out. While it wasn’t difficult in liberal New England, I couldn’t help but wonder about the experience in conservative regions, where the LGBTQ+ community faces targeted discrimination and bigotry.
When I asked the cardiologist about specific risks in open-heart surgery, he mentioned my young age as the most significant risk. I laughed, but he didn’t. He explained that the level of blockage in my arteries was extensive and typically seen in much older individuals. He emphasized that we were only treating the symptoms, not the underlying cause, and that I may have to face this again in the future.
My husband, Paul, has never complained about my heart, but he snores. It’s ironic, isn’t it? If his snoring becomes too much, I’ll nudge him a few times before seeking solace in the spare bedroom. But lying there, staring at the ceiling, I can’t help but think about those nights with my ex-wife and the pounding of my heart. Was it a warning sign all along?
The American Heart Association found that LGBTQ+ individuals are 36% less likely to have ideal cardiovascular health, with transgender individuals facing higher levels of heart disease due to stigma and discrimination. Chronic stressors like stigma and discrimination can lead to chronic inflammation, raising blood pressure and heart rate. While I can’t directly link my heart disease to environmental stress, it’s worth considering my straight siblings with normal blood pressure and cholesterol levels.
My generation and older LGBTQ+ individuals have survived through legalized discrimination, attacks fueled by performative Christianity, right-wing politicians, the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and hate crimes. But what didn’t kill us then was only a matter of time. We’ve made progress, but now we face a devastating backlash. Society must understand that erasing LGBTQ+ individuals through bans on books, anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, and the denial of gender-affirming care is not protecting our children – it’s breaking their hearts. We must speak out and support them, as the Silence=Death project taught us during the AIDS crisis.
The worst part of my quintuple bypass surgery wasn’t waking up with a tube down my throat or facing the scars and bruises in the mirror. It wasn’t the nightmares or the uncontrollable sobbing. The worst part was seeing the pain in my husband’s eyes when he realized that death was no longer a distant concept but a reality. I will die, I will cease to exist, and he will eventually sleep alone. It’s heartbreaking.
But amidst the turmoil and fear, open-heart surgery has transformed my perspective on life. I now cherish all that I have and speak up when I’m feeling pain instead of remaining silent. I want our children to know that joy can be found in an imperfect world, even in the face of pain, and that they should love unapologetically. Perhaps my heart was sending an SOS all those years ago, and although I’ll never know for sure, one thing I do know is that facing death has made me profoundly grateful for every moment of my life. My heart no longer pounds to break free. May our children be as fortunate.
William Dameron is an award-winning blogger, memoirist, essayist, and author of the novel “The Way Life Should Be” and memoir, “The Lie”, a New York Times Editors’ Choice. His work has been published in various prestigious publications such as The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and Oprah Daily.
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