By Clare Almand

It’s a quote from one of my favorite movies, “Almost Famous,” a film about a teenage boy who gets his dream job to write for Rolling Stone and goes on an adventure touring with one of his favorite bands. I used the quote in a blog post I wrote about my own adventure—when I first moved to New York a little over a year ago. But as I’m on to a new phase within that same journey, I think it’s worth repeating: It’s all happening.

By Clare Almand

I don’t often associate Valentine’s Day with my heart condition. I think of it as a day that makes couples feel obligated to go out and spend money on chocolate and candy. For me, that’s just another Thursday. And normally, I wouldn’t even be paying that much more attention to my heart condition or the festivities associated with it during this month, but I feel a little differently after doing my first Congenital Heart Walk.

By Clare Almand

The sternotomy scar gets all the attention, all the press. It cuts us right down middle, peeking over our shirts. But while it’s the most publicly known and associated with CHD, my zipper scar was not my first and it’s not my favorite. It’s one of many scars that make me the person that I am.

My first scar was for a coarctation of the aorta repair, which, as a newborn, was easier to fix by operating on my back instead of my front. It now takes over the upper left quadrant of my back, starting a couple inches to the left of my spine and below my left shoulder and following the curve of my shoulder blade. It ends a few inches under my arm.

By Clare Almand

I’m extremely lucky. My condition is not so severe that it affects my everyday life all that much. I take medication daily and once a month I test my INR and transmit my ICD reading over the phone. And of course, every six months I see my cardiologist. But that’s basically it. And while that’s a good thing, there are some instances where I believe my lax attitude about my CHD is a disadvantage.

Hurricane Sandy hit New York City pretty hard. My roommates and I were fortunate enough to be in an area of Brooklyn that got through practically unscathed. We lost our cable and internet Monday night, but regained it by the next morning. Because the subway was flooded (like it was everywhere), we were able to spend most of the rest of the week in our apartment with electricity and water.

By Clare Almand

When I first told my cardiologist about my plans to move to New York in January, she recommended I see a cardiologist there, just to let them know I was there and so I would have someone to see in case anything went wrong. Because I need to be told 18,000 times to complete a task, I didn’t do that.

I stalled at first because I knew there was a chance that New York wouldn’t work out. My internships might not be what I wanted or they wouldn’t turn into a job or maybe I just wouldn’t be able to transition to city life. When it became clear that I was staying in April after being offered a job, I still didn’t make an appointment, because I planned on going home to see my regular cardiologist in June, like always.

By Clare Almand

I write a lot about strength. How my heart condition has made me stronger and given me the resilience to take on any challenges that may come my way. But recently I’ve been thinking about the other side of the equation. What do my heart condition—and my experiences as a result of it—take away from me? How am I really dealing with all of it?

By Clare Almand

I’m not saying that I want the world to end on December 21, 2012, the last day of the Mayan calendar. I’m saying that should I live to see December 22, I will be living to my 26th birthday—also known as my last day with health insurance.

This is not a political essay, but I owe a wealth of gratitude to Obamacare. The new healthcare plan is the reason that I was able to quit a government job that was slowly crushing my soul, get on my parents’ insurance, and try my best to use this amazing one-year gift to break into the entertainment industry. And you know what?

By Clare Almand

When I was 21, I got an ICD as mostly a preventive measure. After an esophageal echo proved I was susceptible to ventricular tachycardia, I discovered that my brand new pacemaker of one year would be replaced with a bigger, bulkier device capable of electrocuting me. I was shocked (I had to say it).

The larger ICD was located slightly lower than my pacemaker, so that combination took some getting used to. But after the normal recovery period, life went on as usual. I wasn’t really afraid. Since I never experienced a long run of V-tach before, I didn’t dwell on the possibility of my ICD going off.

By Clare Almand

I find myself in a strange position. I have friends in New York who have known me for years and know all about my heart condition, but I don’t see them every day or even every week. I’ve actually spent the last two weeks in a sublet with two new roommates who don’t know about my heart. I’ve also been interning with a company for three months and they’ve seen my scar, too, but they don’t know any of the stories behind it either.

By Clare Almand

Moving to New York has opened my eyes to many things, including a secret that society and even my own mother tried to keep from me.

Brussels sprouts are delicious. Like, for real.

I was fortunate enough to live with a health-conscious friend who cooked dinner every night. She regularly made dishes with a heaping side of brussels sprouts, kale, or spinach. I’d always had a variety of vegetables at dinner growing up (except for sprouts), but I had become accustomed to my mother serving me fewer of them, because I’m Clare—I spread my food around my plate and eat my vegetables last. However, a combination of being a guest, having the desire to eat more healthfully and my roommate making really delicious meals caused me to clean my plate and even ask for seconds.

By Clare Almand

Ever since I was born, following a surgery, friends, family and acquaintances would ask my mother, “Is she OK now?” or “Is she all fixed up now?” And my mother would always say, “No.” I think it was difficult dealing with the same question over and over again and not wanting to have to explain that her daughter had something that couldn’t just be “fixed.” (And after reading this, my mother maintained that it is still difficult to answer that question as she still gets asked that even now).

By Clare Almand

I just did something huge.

I moved from my parents’ house in our suburban town of Arlington, Virginia, to my friend’s couch in New York City.

By Clare Almand

Today is my 25th birthday. I will be spending at least four hours of it on a bus home from New York and then who knows how many hours of it at the DMV to renew my driver’s license so it won’t be illegal for me to operate a motor vehicle the next day. While it’s not the ideal way I’d like to spend my birthday, I know that it could be much worse.

Over the course of many years, I have experienced what it’s like to spend each day from December 11th to December 25th in the hospital. And as someone who would call December her favorite month, having to spend any of it in the hospital sucks.

By Clare Almand

As an avid TV and movie watcher, I often think of how I would apply my experiences with CHD to the cinematic arts. Instead of a two-hour film filled with tears, laughter, heartache and triumph, I’m leaning towards TV sitcom. While an hour-long drama seems more appropriate given the subject matter, my experiences usually lean toward the comedic side.

By Clare Almand

After reading several blog posts about growing up with “expiration dates,” it really got me thinking about how different my childhood was. I never thought I had an expiration date. No one told me to watch out for a certain year. My life since day nine has been problem, solution, problem, solution. Problem on day nine: cardiac arrest. Solution: coarctation repair. Problem two months later: ventricular and atrial septal defects. Solution: my first open heart surgery. And so on and so forth.

By Clare Almand

My freshmen year of college, I was required to take a course on public speaking. We had to present one persuasive speech at the end of the semester and I chose to speak about giving blood, which is very near and dear to my heart—pun intended. During the middle of my speech, which I thought was going well, a tall and lanky student slid out of his chair and hit the floor.