And the award for Craziest Weekend of My Life goes to...

I had the greatest plans for this weekend.

I was going to paint. I was going to clean. I was going to celebrate Memorial Day weekend at a rooftop pool in downtown Los Angeles with friends.

And then Saturday night it hit me.

It wasn't awful, but the pain was bad enough that I had to question it. Heart disease has always played a role in my life. Fortunately for me, it's never played an outrageously big role...but it's always just sort of been there. So usually I don't even blink when I have a palpitation or I notice my breathing becomes a little labored. It's just always been kind of normal.

But Saturday night was different. I don't even really know why, something just didn't feel right.

However this is me we're talking about. I'm the girl that avoids the doctor for every excuse under the sun. "Oh, he'll probably just listen to my heart, run an EKG and send me on my merry way. Why waste my time and money?" or "I know it's going to be slammed in the waiting room; it's going to take too long to get back there anyway. Might as well just stay home."

And yes, I'm fully aware of how ridiculous I am and I'm thankful that something made me pick up my phone and dial the Anthem Blue Cross 24/7 Nurse line. My parents introduced this to me in college as a way to get a professional's opinion without actually going to the doctor right away.

After explaining my pain to the nurse (and downplaying it about 50%) and describing my heart disease (because no one ever knows what it is when I initially tell them), she said it was her professional opinion for me to hang up the phone and call 911.

As much as I wanted to say, "Slow your roll, Nurse Jackie." I refrained, and I listened to what she had to say. She said I was prone to premature heart attacks because of what my heart was doing and that it almost sounded like I was having early onset symptoms.

Insert automatic panic.

However, I still wasn't alarmed enough to call 911. I ended my call with her and casually texted my closest friends with, "Hey, can I call you really quick?" and, "Oh hey! What are you up to right now, out of curiosity?"

I have the world's greatest friends and two of them walked out of a movie theater and one (who was working) demanded updates and said he'd call when he left work.

SO I walked to the ER.
I still don't think I was grasping the idea that this could be serious? I think in my head I really just thought I was having an intense palpitation or something and all was fine. Thankfully, Cedars-Sinai is just two blocks from my house--so it really wasn't that far of a walk at all.

Immediately after hearing my symptoms, they whisked me back to run an EKG. Then I was hurried into the ER and ordered to sit on a gurney. From 10pm until 2:30am, it's really all a blur. IVs, tests, CT scans, multiple doctors and multiple nurses--and then I was informed I was being admitted.

And then I had to call my parents.
Calling your parents at 4 o'clock in the morning their time to tell them you're being admitted into a hospital because your heart is showing depressions on your EKG (which means signs of damage), is not an easy task. My parents handled this so well. I expected lots of tears and panic (which may have happened after I ended the call, I'll never know) but my mom and dad were so calm. They told me they could be on a plane in two hours and be in LA within eight, but I told them to wait until we knew more.

After being admitted to the hospital, I realized I needed to be there. My pulmonary artery is almost double the size of the average Joe's. Basically meaning that it works extra hard and pumps even harder than it should, and because it's so stretched there's a decent chance that once it hits a certain diameter, there could be rupture.

Growing up my cardiologist always said my magic number was 46mm. Forty-six was the number we wanted to never reach; and when it got to that point (well, he always said if it got to that point), we'd have to operate.

My CT showed my pulmonary artery's diameter was now 44mm. It had stretched 4mm in the past two years.

So yes, I spent my Memorial Day weekend in the ICU Tower at Cedars-Sinai with, quite possibly, the best nursing staff I've ever encountered and three of the best friends I've ever had, who took turns sitting by my bed side as much as possible, so I didn't have to be alone all of the time.

Next step is meeting with the cardiovascular team and the cardiothoracic surgeons at Cedars and seeing what my options are. It's looking like they may be able to do a non-invasive procedure that wouldn't require them busting open my chest and breaking my sternum (which is amazing, because when I was diagnosed they said the only option was open heart surgery) and they can do it soon. And my cardiologist is 99% sure he can get it in one shot.

I'm a bit nervous, yes. This is my heart we're talking about.
But I'm ready. I'm ready to not be afraid of every skipped beat. I'm ready to not feel this sharp pain I feel every time my heart is over-working the pulmonary artery. I'm ready to be able to breathe normally and not have to worry so much.

Thanks for all your thoughts and concerns as I go through this next phase of my life. I feel confident and know that I'm in the right place and I'm in good hands.

The doctor asked me as I was leaving. "Well, Ms. Parlor. Are you ready to be heart disease free?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

"But I hold on and I feel strong, because I know that I can."

Two years.

Two years is a long time for pretty much anything to happen.

I remember not being afraid at first. I don't think I truly processed the potential consequences of my actions and, thankfully, never needed to.

I remember the first moment I was afraid.

The girl I was living with (who I barely knew) and I were dropping off my best friend at LAX so she could fly home. It was as if they had planned the whole thing. It reminded me of when I was in kindergarten and my parents would drop me off at school. The teacher would whisk me away quickly before I could cry and distract me with crayons and coloring books.

Meredith pulled up to the curb, Sarah gave me a quick side hug and said goodbye. She walked into the airport before I could even get out of the car. No time for tears; no time for me to change my mind or ask her to stay just a few more days.

Meredith pulled away from the curb quickly, talking my ear off the entire way to dinner. I suppressed my tears and swallowed my fear because Meredith was practically a stranger; I couldn't cry in front of her.

The second time I remember feeling fearful of my decision was when I had been here for quite a few weeks. I still hadn't found a job and my money was starting to run out. I was beginning to plan how much money I needed in order to drive back to Florida; because that was looking like my only option.

And I was scared.
I was scared of going home. I was scared what people would say. But mostly? Mostly I was scared because I knew there was so much more for me in LA. I just didn't know how to find it.
(I got my job that day, by the way).

And now here I am.

I've lived in five different apartments.
I've had two jobs.
I've been promoted.
I bought a new car.
I've tried new things.
I've traveled all around Los Angeles.
I've road tripped to Las Vegas (more than once).

But above all of those things--I know who I am and I like her. The only fear I feel these days is the fear of leaving Los Angeles.

Here's to trying something new because you can; going against the grain and when everyone tells you you're crazy, you smile and nod but do it anyway. Here's to the nights spent at the Santa Monica Pier looking out towards Malibu with friends who become your family. Here's to giving yourself the chance to be happy.

Happy two years, LA.

Thanks for being one of the best decisions I've ever made.