The Wandering Defibrillator

I have Brugada Syndrome. It’s an electrical issue in my heart. Structurally, everything looks normal, but the wiring can misfire. Years ago, the solution was to implant a defibrillator, so if my heart ever forgets what it’s supposed to do, the device steps in.

I’ve had one for years. It sits under my collarbone in what surgeons call a “muscle pocket.” The name sounds simple, but it’s exactly what it describes: a space created under the muscle to hold a small machine that can save your life.

This one slipped.

Not out of my body. Just out of its pocket.

One day it shifted, and since then it hasn’t really settled back into place. It moves enough that I can feel it. It isn’t dangerous. It isn’t malfunctioning. It’s just… loose.

I’ve spoken to four different healthcare professionals about it. All of them have said the same thing: they’re not concerned unless it flips over. That’s apparently the moment it becomes a problem. Until then, the recommendation is to leave it alone.

I understand that. No one wants to open someone up unless it’s necessary. Surgery isn’t minor just because the device inside you is.

Still, it’s been two years of living with something that doesn’t quite sit where it’s supposed to. I have about two years left on the battery before replacement, and the plan is to deal with it then unless something changes.

What no one really prepares you for is the daily awareness. When I lie down at night, gravity shifts it. It settles in new places. Some nights I can ignore it. Some nights I can’t. It’s hard to sleep when you’re aware of a small piece of hardware moving inside your chest.

It has also made me more hesitant about things like mammograms. I believe in them. I support them completely. Preventative care matters. But knowing there’s a device that doesn’t sit neatly where it once did makes me cautious in a way I didn’t expect.

The medical consensus remains calm. As long as it doesn’t flip, we wait.

So I wait.

I live with it.

I adjust how I sleep. I adjust how I move. I adjust my expectations of what “normal” feels like.

And underneath all of that is something steady: gratitude.

Loose or not, the device is there. It is the reason I have ordinary days. It is the reason my family sleeps a little easier. It is the reason I don’t have to wonder what would happen if my heart misfires in the middle of the night.

It wanders a little.

I adapt.

And for now, that’s enough.