The Party Planner’s Heart

I was planning a 100th birthday party for Daddy.

Not a casual affair.

This was a legacy event—streamers, spreadsheets, and my best attempt to keep the warring factions of the family present but separated. It would’ve been easier to broker peace in the Middle East.

I was strong, healthy, medication-free, and powered by kale, sarcasm, and generational grit.

I was not a person who had heart attacks.

I was the person who prevented heart attacks through exercise, denying myself food I actually loved, and sheer willpower, because I planned on being around for a while, just like my Daddy, who was still strong and was able to live alone and take care of himself. A miraculous feat at 100.

Then my back started to ache.

Not the “I’ve been hunched over centerpieces” kind of ache.

More like “someone’s stabbing me with a fondue fork while I try to inflate balloons.”

I couldn’t catch my breath.

My jaw ached.

I broke into a cold sweat.

My esophagus did the cha-cha.

My stomach staged a rebellion.

“Esophageal spasms,” I muttered, self-diagnosing with the confidence of a woman who once survived a board meeting with six passive-aggressive VPs and no caffeine.

No elephant sitting on my chest sensation or arm aching, none of what I was told to expect if you had a heart attack.

But my heart?

My heart had other plans.

It threw a surprise party in my chest.

No RSVP. No warning.

Just a confetti cannon of betrayal.

At the ER, I tried to explain I wasn’t the patient—I just needed something to help me get through this party.. I was a 74-year-old superwoman.

“I have a party to finish,” I insisted, clutching the guest list like a sacred scroll.

The nurse smiled gently and hooked me up to machines that beeped like judgmental metronomes.

“You had a heart attack,” the doctor said.

I blinked. “No, I did not. I am going home now.”

He had different ideas.

Twelve hours in the emergency room and then a hospital bed.

But this ridiculous life was not done with me yet.

Then it threw a curveball.

While I was in the hospital, Daddy—a centenarian, devoted Christian, and living legend—had a stroke.

Because apparently, the family heart doesn’t just break.

It performs ensemble pieces.

I'm in a hospital room and Daddy is in the emergency room.

But I had decided that, only three days out, the party would go on.

Because grief doesn’t cancel cake.

Because legacy doesn’t wait for clean test results.

Because I had built this celebration like a fortress—and even if the generals fell, the glitter would rise.

We were both released one day before the big event.

Guests arrived.

Photos were taken.

Daddy laughed through the weakness on his left side.

I tried to help, but everyone treated me like an invalid.

Nope, I was not an invalid and would not behave as one.

Although I was not my perky self, no matter how hard I tried.

But in spite of everything, the party accomplished what I wanted:

He realized how much he was loved, and people streamed in to celebrate him.

Despite everything, he loved it all.

The playlist played on.

And somewhere between “Unforgettable” and “Staying Alive,” Daddy—half-concerned for me and half for himself—opened his eyes and saw my son, who had driven over 1600 miles to be there, and he said:

“Where are my dogs?”

Not “I am so happy to see you.?”

Not “Thank you for coming so far.”

Not “Is Hunny okay?”

Just:

“Where are my dogs?”

Because love, loyalty, and canine companionship outrank mortality.

Because even in crisis, the heart remembers what matters.

I was so happy that my son has an amazing sense of humor and laughed it off.

I wore red.

Because nothing says “I beat death” like stilettos (I wish) and a smirk.

I wasn’t just surviving—I was going to soar.

Because now I had a new project:

The Cardiac Comedy Tour.

A one-woman show about women’s health, medical gaslighting, and the absurdity of being told “you’re too healthy to be sick.”

I drafted segments like:

• “Esophageal Spasms and Other Lies I Told Myself”

• “The 25 year old male ER Nurse Who Called Me ‘Young Lady’ and Lived to Regret It”

• “How to Plan a Party While Your Heart Plans a Coup”

I even wrote a musical number:

“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (It Already Did)”

Featuring backup dancers dressed as arteries and one rogue cholesterol molecule.

And the finale?

I would plan a TED Talk meets stand-up set called:

“I’m Not a Person Who Has a Heart Attack—Until I Am.”

The Survival Guide

I plan on publishing a guide for women everywhere:

“The Silent Squeeze: What They Never Told Us About Women’s Hearts”

It includes:

• Symptoms that don’t look like symptoms

• Men's and women’s hearts react differently in love and attacks

• How to argue with a doctor while wearing a hospital gown

• Why rage is a valid recovery strategy

• And a checklist titled:

“If Your Body Throws a Tantrum, Don’t RSVP With Denial”

I will not just live.

I will rewrite the script.

I will turn pain into punchlines, betrayal into advocacy, and this experience into a glitter-drenched call to action.

And the next time someone says, “You don’t look like someone who had a heart attack,”

I will smile and reply:

“Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

And Daddy—still recovering, still legendary—asked again:

“Where are my dogs?”

Because even when the body falters, love remembers.

And the party?

It was perfect!