Heart-Shaped Box

Hello.

I’m Dave. Let’s get straight to the point. I need a new heart.

In 2012, I was diagnosed with Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopathy (ARVC), which is both a serious heart condition and an incredible Scrabble score. Because of a gene mutation, my heart muscle is being replaced by fat and fibrous tissue that causes life-threatening arrhythmias. Genetic testing has shown that I inherited the condition from my late father, which means that this is the second Turner family curse. The first is supporting Newcastle United.

I was fitted with an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD), a small device about the size of a matchbox that sits in my chest and continuously monitors my heart. I was okay with this procedure, as it technically makes me a cyborg and would make ten-year-old Dave very happy. If my heart decides to start beating like a drunk freeform jazz drummer, the ICD will deliver an electrical charge to restore the rhythm. It’ll make your eyes water, but it’s saved my life on more than one occasion while making me shout some quite inventive compound swear words.

One of the differences between ARVC and other types of cardiomyopathy is that exercise doesn’t help. Exertion of the heart just makes the condition develop more rapidly. So I take my dozen or so pills a day and try to eat more salad than I’m happy with in an attempt to slow its progression. Every now and again, the doctors will carry out an ablation. Which, as far as I understand, involves knocking me out and barbecuing the troublesome bits of the heart.

But progress it has, and my heart is failing. It’s not pumping blood as efficiently as it should to get to all the places it needs to go. After lots of tests and conversations with the experts, it has been agreed that I need a heart transplant.

When something big like this comes stamping all over my life in its size twelves, I tend to deal with it through writing. Heartbroken? Write a romantic-comedy screenplay with jokes about Billy Joel. Get diagnosed with a medical condition that makes you consider the concept of your own mortality? Write a series of fantasy books asking existential questions about life and death in between jokes about Billy Joel.

In this situation, I decided to go route one and start Aim For The Heart.

Why that name? I’ve published under the title Aim For The Head for years. It was the name of a blog I used to write, then the name of my publishing company. It probably had something to do with zombies. Aim For The Heart seemed like an easy, logical leap. You’ve got to have an online brand, they say. And I can be a pretty lazy bloke.

I’ll regularly post here about life on the transplant waiting list to try and make sense of it all. I’m still working on the finer points of the approach. There are obviously important considerations. This isn’t an easy topic, and it isn’t just my life affected by this. It might get dark. It’ll definitely get weird. I hope it’ll be enlightening. Maybe it’ll help someone. There’ll probably be jokes about Billy Joel.

Cheers

Dave