How I got a Pacemaker by mistake

I’ve been wanting to share this story for years, but never had the courage until now. Here goes:

It all started in 2011, which is hard to believe was over 14 years ago. I was in my second year of university and living on my own for the second year as well—partying, drinking, and eating unhealthily, as many 20-year-olds did in South Africa at the time.

I vividly remember the day I got my first panic attack. It felt like a sudden rush of adrenaline out of nowhere while I was in the IT lab. It kept happening, and I honestly thought I was having a breakdown. I rushed to a doctor, who suspected an adrenal gland issue—possibly tumors—because I have a history of cancer from when I was 10 (now fully clear). Getting that news triggered what I now realize was severe PTSD.

That year was the worst of my life. My anxiety spiraled out of control. I’d feel disconnected, almost watching my own body just walking down the street, and I was constantly exhausted—able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. I had dread coursing through me 24/7. I ended up in the ER at least 10 times, each visit convinced I was having a heart attack.

Eventually, I started noticing the adrenaline-like surges were linked to my heart rhythm. This made my anxiety even worse. One day, I arrived home from campus and practically collapsed out of my car, certain I was dying—though in hindsight, there weren’t any real symptoms beyond my panic. Then I noticed the skipped beats: every few beats, there would be a strong thump, a pause, and then the cycle would repeat. Back to the ER I went.

There, they hooked me up to an ECG. Initially, it showed nothing—just a perfect sinus rhythm. I insisted they keep the machine on because I knew the arrhythmia would show up once my heart rate dropped a bit. Sure enough, right before they turned it off, it caught the quadrigeminy PVCs for the first time. The doctor on call said it was a “regular irregularity” and referred me to a cardiologist.

My anxiety was so overwhelming, I don’t even remember the cardiologist’s visit, other than being prescribed heart-shaped beta-blockers (bisoprolol fumarate). Those pills made me feel awful and didn’t stop the PVCs. I was weak and felt ready to pass out all the time. One day, I felt so bad I went to the ER yet again—except this time there really was an issue. My heart rate was in the low 20s, and I was admitted to Pretoria Heart Hospital. I remember drifting in and out of consciousness, aware of how slowly my heart was beating.

The next day, a different doctor told me I had bradycardia and needed a pacemaker implant. Honestly, I was so physically and mentally drained that I wasn’t as upset as you’d expect—maybe it was relief that there might be a fix.

They took me into the operating room, which looked nothing like what I’d seen before—machines and screens everywhere. The doctor explained I needed to be awake initially so they could insert a temporary pacemaker via a wire through my groin into my heart. I was numbed, but it was still terrifying. I remember seeing the wire on an X-ray screen entering my heart and feeling an intense shock. I started yelling to be put under, and finally, they gave me general anesthesia.

I woke up afterward feeling loopy but relieved. My mom was there, and the nurses used a magnet-like device on my chest to connect to the pacemaker and run diagnostics. When they tested the ventricular pacing, it actually felt identical to PVCs—maybe a bit stronger. It was wild to see them control my heart rate on a screen.

My nightmare didn’t end there. I moved back home, dropped out of my second semester, and still felt terrible. The pacemaker would pace my heart and I could feel it, and my anxiety morphed into full-blown depression. I was 20 with a heart condition—at least, that’s all I could think about. The beta-blockers made me feel so awful that one day I just quit them cold turkey. After a day or two of absolute hell, I started feeling better. My pacemaker hardly paced, my energy came back, and it seemed the meds were the real problem.

Within months, my friends noticed how much better I was doing. Another half-year later, I returned to classes, and at my next pacemaker check, they said it had barely paced at all. Over the following years, the PVCs reduced significantly, and things were going well. I graduated, started a software engineering business, and saw a new cardiac electrophysiologist who confirmed I didn’t actually need the pacemaker. He said removing the wires was too risky, so he just turned the pacemaker off. It has stayed off ever since.

Now, 14 years after all this, the PVCs have come back occasionally—usually when my heart rate goes above 130 bpm or if I have a fever. Sometimes they’re every other beat, and about once a month, I get a string that might be NSVT. But otherwise, I can exercise, and I have a wonderful wife and daughter. My business is successful, and life is good. I wish I could tell my younger self to hang in there—it will be okay. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost that year of university, or rushed into a pacemaker. But here it is, still in my chest, reminding me to be cautious but not too cautious, and reminding me that doctors can make mistakes.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for listening to my story. I haven’t shared this level of detail with even my family, but somehow it feels liberating to share with a bunch of Redditors I don’t know.