Two lives marked by cardiomyopathy
There are two lives for me. The one before my brother's death, and the one after. Thirty years ago, his sudden passing took not only him, but also my certainties. It was like thunder on a sunny day, and the echo of that thunder led me straight to a cardiology clinic. The diagnosis was a gentle but constant blow: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. A complex word to express that my heart bore the same shadow as my brother's.
It was then that I met an expert cardiologist. He immediately became "the professor" for me, the friend who took me by the hand and said, bluntly, "Valerio, from now on, we'll walk together." And we did so for thirty years. I truly hope to have him by my side for the next thirty years as well.
The guardian angel in the chest: the subcutaneous defibrillator
A decade ago, during one of our checkups, after a prolonged dynamic ECG that had revealed ventricular arrhythmias considered dangerous, he looked at me and said, "How about we give you a guardian angel?" He didn't use those exact words, but that was the idea. A subcutaneous defibrillator. Preventive. As we say in my beloved Tuscany, "better to be afraid than to be hurt." It wasn't a choice driven by panic, but by trust. I said yes.
The surgery was performed in Pisa, then directed by Dr. Bongiorni, and was brief. For the first few weeks, I felt that small device under my skin like a foreign body, a constant reminder of my fragility. Then, slowly, it became part of me. A silent companion that never really bothered me, except for that annual license renewal, which is quite a hassle, and the need to skip the airport metal detectors. "I have a medical device," I whisper to the attendant, who quickly checks me manually while the other passengers file out. A small price to pay for the peace of mind.
For ten years, my guardian angel slept. He never had to intervene. But he didn't remain inactive.
Remote monitoring: a heart that speaks from a distance
Once a week, I perform a little ritual. I take a little white box they gave me in Pisa, sit in front of it, and within minutes my heart "talks" to the hospital. It's "remote monitoring." For years, it was just a routine, a gesture done a few minutes before coffee. Until, five years ago, the phone rang.
"Hello, Mr. Pelini? We're calling from the cardiology department in Pisa." The heart, the real one, skips a beat. A call from the hospital never brings good news. "Don't be alarmed," said a calm voice on the other end, "your device has recorded several episodes of atrial fibrillation. It's a nasty beast, but we identified it in time."
A nasty beast, yes. One of those that can cause strokes, that is, embolisms and subsequent ischemia, usually cerebral. My guardian angel hadn't slept, he'd been watching. He'd seen the danger before it could harm me and had raised the alarm. I immediately called the professor. His voice, as always, transformed fear into a plan of action: an anticoagulant immediately, and then back to Pisa for an ablation, a minor operation to eliminate the cause of the problem.
Healthcare that works: trust, prevention, and care
Here I am today, at 74 years old, and I'm telling you this story not to talk about my illness, but about my good fortune. The good fortune of living in a country where a technological "guardian angel" isn't a luxury for the few. Where a professor holds your hand for thirty years. Where an invisible alarm, sounded by a little white box, saves your life without you even realizing it. All this, without spending a penny.
We always hear about medical malpractice, because the sound of a falling tree is louder than that of a growing forest. Mine, however, is a silent story of healthcare that works. A growing forest that we have a duty to protect.
