Endorsed and supported by the Hope Heart Institute! This new series from Chicken Soup for the Soul - inspirational stories followed by positive, practical medical advice for caregivers and patients - is the perfect blend of emotional support and vital information about heart disease including: Understanding your diagnosis working with your doctor blood pressure and cholesterol the DASH diet smart exercise alternative treatments surgery and other options attitude and health cardiac rehab living better with heart disease than you ever have before

Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much the heart can hold. Zelda Fitzgerald I 've had my share of passionate stage kisses. As an actress, I've lip-locked with fellow thespians who have turned my knees to jelly and others who, frankly, could have used an extra strong Altoids . Regardless of dreamy or seamy, I always knew my stage kisses were professional, not personal. Until January 21, 1995. That night, it got deeply personal. It wasn't a particularly romantic scene. We were at the close of a typical show. Our half-hour sketch comedy television series, Almost Live! had been on the air since 1984, and I was in my fifth year as a full-time writer-performer. Our national run on cable channel Comedy Central had vaulted us to new heights of popularity in our hometown of Seattle, and our audience that night was standing room only. With the cast clustered tightly around our host, we waved good night Saturday Night Live! -style, and with applause ringing in our ears, the live taping ended. Waiting for an 'all's clear' signal from our technical check, we took a couple of questions from the crowd. Or at least that's what my colleagues told me we did. I have no memories of that show whatsoever. I do not recall anything that took place that day or for the several days that followed. Because that night, a minute or so after 10 p.m. , I died. Though I've written comedy for years, this is no joke. I have proof: the answer to Question 24 on my Seattle Fire Department Medical Incident Report, which asks 'Patient Condition on Arrival.' Two response options are provided: (1) Alive or (2) Dead. My report has a big circle around number two. I was dead. So it's official. Witnesses say I stood onstage among my fellow actors, began to sway in a woozy-boozy fashion, murmured 'I don't feel too . . .' then collapsed. The audience cracked up! Why wouldn't they? We had just performed a sketch spoofing the TV medical drama ER ! They made the logical assumption it was simply an actor's pratfall, and a very skillful one, too. How could they know I was a victim of sudden cardiac arrest, resulting from a dangerously fast heart arrhythmia called ventricular fibrillation? No one dreamed a vibrant and healthy woman in her thirties would literally drop dead in front of them. But I did. Fellow cast members knew my swoon wasn't part of the script. Rapidly it became clear this was not a simple faint. Our host, John, seeing my eyes roll up in my head, my ashen color and hearing the strangulated rasp known as agonal respiration (translation: dying breaths) escape my throat, turned to the crowd and shouted, 'Does anyone have medical training?' Amazingly, there were no health-care professionals in the audience. But far in the back, a young man built like a fireplug with close-cropped blond hair stood up and called out, 'She looks like she might be having heart problems.' John beckoned to him, 'Can you help her?' Without hesitation this young guy

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Excerpted from Heart Disease by Vicki Rackner, Mark Victor Hansen, Jack Canfield
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