“Anton! I feel so terrible…” Masha gasped, her voice torn as if each word was ripped out from a shattered soul.Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they turned white, resembling polished marble — as if ice had replaced blood in her veins. The pain in her chest wasn’t just discomfort; it was an infernal torment. It felt like iron clamps clenched her heart, twisting and tearing it agonizingly. Every breath demanded a heroic effort, every heartbeat foreshadowed disaster.
“What? Masha! Stop the car immediately!” Anton shouted, his voice quivering from terror.
“I can’t…” she whispered, lips moving while her legs felt glued to the pedals. “My legs… won’t respond… I can’t feel them…”
Without hesitation, Anton lunged for the steering wheel, taking control over her trembling hands. The vehicle, acting like a wounded beast, swayed dangerously on the highway. It suddenly veered to the left, nearly crashing into a colossal truck whose horn blared through the air like a gunshot. Furious honks erupted from drivers behind, panicked brakes screeching.
“Brake! Pull over! Now!” Anton yelled, struggling to steady the car’s path.
With trembling hands, Masha managed to steer the car onto the roadside. The engine died as if it released its final breath. Leaning back, Masha gulped air desperately like someone drowning. Her face grew gray, lips took on a bluish hue, and her eyes rolled back.
“Breathe! Masha, breathe deeply!” Anton shook her shoulders frantically, but no response came.
He jumped out, ran around, and flung the door open. She was nearly unconscious — pale and cold, her pulse on the neck pounding erratically like a wild drum, as if her heart wanted to escape the body that failed it.
“Enough! Get in the passenger seat! I’m driving now!” Anton barked, lifting his wife like a child.
“Anton… you were drinking…” she croaked, trying to resist.
“Doesn’t matter! We’re going to the hospital — now!” His voice shook, but determination rang clear.
Anton secured her in the passenger seat, slammed the door, rushed to the driver’s side, started the engine, and floored the accelerator. The speedometer soared — 120, then 140, then 160 km/h. The wind smashed against the windshield, and the car roared fiercely, like a raging beast. Masha moaned, clutching her chest as if trying to hold her heart in place.
“Hold on, sweetheart… just ten more minutes… we’re almost there…” Anton whispered, his knuckles whitening from his grip on the wheel.
“Anton… if something happens… take care of the children…” she managed, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Shut up!” he snapped, tears streaming down his face. “No ‘ifs’! You will live! A hundred years you’ll live! Hear me? Hear me!”
But silently, he prayed, Just make it in time. Don’t be too late. Please, heart, don’t fail…
This nightmare began six months earlier, right after giving birth to their second child — Sergey, a big baby weighing 4.2 kilograms. The labor lasted two days with emergency stimulation; a cesarean section was nearly performed. Masha left the maternity hospital on crutches, bedridden for a week. Her body felt completely drained.
One month later, the first episode struck during the night. She woke to her heart pounding so forcefully it seemed ready to burst out of her chest. It raced, flipped, and hammered violently.
“Anton! Call an ambulance!” she whispered, struggling for breath.
“What’s wrong?” Anton jumped up, confused.
“My heart… it feels like it will tear apart…”
He grabbed the phone, but before he could dial, the pain subsided. Masha sat up, drank water, and calmed herself.
“It’s over… maybe just stress. I got too nervous,” she reassured.
“Are you sure? Shouldn’t we call a doctor?”
“No need. We’ll wake Sergey. Tomorrow is fine.”
But tomorrow never came. Anton insisted on seeing a cardiologist or therapist the next morning, while Masha dodged the topic, treating his concern as a nuisance.
“Too busy, Anton. Kids, house, chores… I’ll go later.”
The “later” dragged on for months. Fear held her back — fear of diagnosis, surgery, who would care for the children, who would handle the household, what would happen if she wasn’t around.
The episodes returned — initially once a week, then twice or thrice, then every single day. Masha developed coping strategies: deep breathing, coughing, pressing on her chest, taking valerian candy. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes not.
Anton witnessed all of it silently — noticed the pallor, the sweating, the way she clutched her chest in sleep. Still, he feared the truth. It was easier to pretend it was mere fatigue or postpartum adjustment.
- Six months of ignored warning signs
- Growing frequency of painful episodes
- Hidden fears preventing medical help
“Masha, maybe get checked?” he gently suggested, trying not to sound accusatory.
“Why? It’ll pass. Bodies adjust after birth,” she dismissed.
“It’s been six months,” he replied gravely.
“So what? Lena’s headache lasted a year after her second childbirth. It eventually went away.”
Excuses, justifications, and fears prevailed over pain, reason, and love.
The spontaneous fishing trip happened on a Friday. The kids were with their grandmother, the sun bathed the world in gold, and the sky was as clear as crystal. The perfect weather beckoned.
“Shall we go to the lake?” Anton suggested.
“Let’s! We need a break from the city,” Masha smiled.
They packed a tent, sleeping bags, fishing rods, a grill, food, and wine. Masha felt nearly happy — a whole week without attacks.
“See? I told you it passes on its own!” she laughed.
“Let’s hope,” Anton murmured, harboring doubts inside.
The lake greeted them with silence, the scent of pine, and freshness. Birds sang while the wind whispered through reeds. They pitched the tent and lit a fire. Anton head out fishing; Masha prepared fish soup.
By evening, they enjoyed barbecue, baked potatoes, beer for Anton, and herbal tea for Masha. Sitting around the fire, gazing at low-hanging stars, they felt at peace.
“This is wonderful,” Anton sighed. “We should do this more often.”
“Agreed, but it’s tougher with the kids.”
“They’ll grow up. We’ll all go together one day.”
They slept in the tent, relaxed and content. Morning brought swimming in cool water, sunbathing, laughter, and more barbecue. Masha felt young, strong, alive.
“Maybe it’s all behind me,” she thought, looking at Anton. “Maybe I was scared for no reason.”
After packing for lunch, Anton drank three beers — not drunk but unfit to drive.
“Will you drive, Masha?”
“Of course,” she smiled.
The first hour passed easily with laughter and nostalgia. Then silence fell, accompanied by faint pricks in her chest — light and almost unnoticed.
“Anton, open the window. It’s stuffy,” she said.
“Turn on the air conditioner.”
“It’s not helping.”
The air was there, but her lungs refused to accept it. The heart rate soared — 120, 140, 160 beats per minute. Suddenly, a brutal blow struck her chest. Masha screamed.
“What? Masha! What’s wrong?”
“Heart… Anton… I feel terrible…” she gasped.
What followed resembled a nightmare: roadside stop, seat change, frantic rush, wind, car, screams, sirens.
Traffic police stopped them entering the city.
“Driver, documents!”
“To the hospital! My wife is very ill!” Anton shouted.
The officer peeked inside, saw Masha — pale, lips blue, struggling to breathe — and silently activated the siren.
“Follow us!”
They arrived in five minutes. The emergency room filled with shouting, stretchers, and doctors.
“What happened?”
“Heart attack! She’s had attacks for six months!”
“After childbirth?”
“Yes.”
“Had she seen a cardiologist?”
“No.”
The doctor shook his head while Masha was taken in on a stretcher to the ICU.
“Anton…” she whispered.
“I’m here! Don’t be afraid! It will be okay!”
“The children…”
“Don’t think about them. Think about yourself!”
They transported her away. Anton sat in the corridor, head in his hands. His heart shattered.
Fool. Idiot. I should have forced her to see a doctor, insisted, begged. But I believed ’it will pass’.
An hour passed. Then two, then three—no news.
At last, a young, exhausted doctor appeared.
“Are you her husband?”
“Yes! How is she?”
“It’s serious. Postpartum dilated cardiomyopathy. Her heart is enlarged. The ejection fraction is 30%, meaning it functions at only one-third capacity.”
“What does that mean?”
“We will stabilize her now. Later, surgery will likely be necessary—possibly a pacemaker or even a transplant…” The doctor faltered.
Anton slumped. His world collapsed.
He called his mother-in-law.
“Mom, we’re at the hospital. Masha… heart problems.”
“Oh God! What happened?”
“Attack. She’s in intensive care.”
“We’ll come now!”
“No, don’t. Don’t leave the kids. I’m here.”
The night dragged endlessly. Anton paced, drank coffee, called for updates.
“Condition stable. Please wait.”
By morning, a gray-haired doctor emerged.
“You can come in now. Five minutes.”
Inside intensive care, machines beeped and wires tangled around Masha, pale and unconscious on a ventilator.
“Masha… darling…”
Her eyelids trembled, then opened. She tried to smile but failed. A tear escaped.
“I’m here. You will get better. I promise.”
She weakly squeezed his fingers.
“Time’s up.”
“One more minute!”
“No.”
Three days later—miracle. Masha breathed on her own. The tube was removed.
“Anton…” she whispered.
“Darling! You’re alive!”
“Feeling awful… but alive…”
“That’s what matters.”
“The kids?”
“Waiting for you. They say mom’s coming soon.”
“I was so scared… thought it was the end…”
“Don’t think that way. You will pull through.”
“Forgive me for refusing the doctor…”
“I’m to blame too. Both of us.”
“If only we started medication earlier…”
“Doesn’t matter now. What counts is recovery.”
Two weeks later, she was discharged. Anton met her with flowers.
“Home…” she breathed.
At home, the children greeted her joyfully. Katya clung to her neck, Sergey smiled widely.
“Mommy! You’re back!”
“Now and forever.”
That evening, after the children slept, they sat together in the kitchen.
“No more self-treatment,” Anton said firmly.
“I promise. It’s foolish to fear doctors; one must fear illness.”
“At the first sign — to the doctor.”
“Immediately.”
“You’ll come back. You’re strong.”
“I will live. For you. Long and happily.”
Outside, spring blossomed. Birds sang. The sun shone. A heart beat.
The most important thing: that heart is still beating.