I’m constantly playing tug-of-war against myself, and it’s this never-ending tie. I want to be strong enough to finally get that win so this game can be over.

“There are no easy choices,” Dr. Emeterio says.

“But something has to change. This can’t keep being my life.”

No one gets the toll all this takes on me.

Like waking up in hospital rooms, relieved that I’ve beat the odds again but dreading when I won’t. Or the smell of bleach and just-fine food. I’m even over the get-well flowers that we’ve stopped bringing home because they attract flies. I’m embarrassed every time Dayana’s temper gets the best of her as she fights with doctors like they’re personally withholding healthy hearts in the break room’s refrigerator. I feel guilty every single time my health gets in the way of my family’s life, especially since I shouldn’t even be their problem in the first place, since I’m not actually family.

But nothing’s changing.

This is going to be my life until I don’t have one.

My anxiety is mounting, blowing up my heart like an erupting volcano.

Between my blood pressure cuff and all the electrodes, my ECG monitor is going off.

“Breathe, O-Bro, breathe,” Dalma says, rubbing smooth circles into my palm.

Easier said than done, but I don’t go off, she’s only trying to help. It’s just really frustrating being treated like I’m catching my breath after running a marathon when in reality I’m literally lying in a hospital bed and my heart is racing more than someone who’s been sprinting. I’ve been combating with home remedies, trying to get better. First we worked fish into every meal—fish tacos, anchovy pizza, salmon chowder—so I can get all the omega-3 acids I need to reduce the risk of sudden cardiac death. No lie, I was relieved when it wasn’t doing the trick because those meals were so gross, one hundred percent not for me; I went full vegetarian after that. Then we experimented with beta-blockers to slow down my heart rate, but my lungs kept spasming, and suffocating is a no-go when you’re trying to live. Lately I’ve done a couple yoga classes with Dalma to strengthen all my muscles, but all that quiet time leads to anxious thoughts and panic attacks, which, you guessed it, makes my heart run wild.

Like now.

When all else fails, I try little exercises that can be done anywhere, stuff like gagging on my finger or hugging my knees to my chest. Though when the attacks are bad, like tonight at Times Square, even something as simple as that is unmanageable.