The Phoney War

Back on the ward, there was a feeling of relief, a feeling of simply not wanting to be in this same situation again in this lifetime if I could help it. The wound was uncomfortable but I knew this was just a temporary setback. It seemed that, for now at least, I had come through relatively unscathed. A few words from Churchill came to mind; “There is nothing quite so exhilarating as being shot at without result!”. Exhilaration may have been too strong a word in this case but there was a definite sense of having ‘dodged a bullet.’

After an angiogram/angioplasty procedure one is confined to bed for several hours in order to allow the wound in the groin time to heal. In this particular case, they had inserted a plug into the hole in the femoral artery, a relatively modern technique which avoids the need for a lengthier and more painful procedure whereby the site of the wound is pressed upon very firmly for some 15 minutes or so. For those of us who are a tad sensitive in the groin area, the very thought of it brings tears to the eyes!

For the next day or so, until the moment I escaped the confines of Whipps Cross Hospital, I was feeling strangely elated, almost slightly euphoric. Whilst in the limited spaces of Elizabeth Ward my increasing mobility and sense of general well-being were very reassuring. On the Tuesday morning I found myself busily engaged on the phone arranging all manner of things that needed to be done for those around me and myself. It felt good to be in charge of one’s life again, instead of just a passive victim of circumstance. As much as I appreciated the care and attention of the staff in the hospital, there was still a strong desire to be released from their ministrations and, once more, to feel oneself a free and independent person.

Before leaving I was treated to a visit from Caroline of rehab who offered enlistment into a program of exercise for those who had suffered a heart attack. I let her know of my limitations (the back injury) in such areas but gladly accepted her offer. Next came the rather exotically dressed lass from the pharmacy, a sight for slightly sore eyes resplendent in figure hugging dress and knee high boots, dispensing drugs and advice on how to take them. The list of medicaments was long, seven in all if one doesn’t count the ‘emergencies only’ GNT spray. There were statins, ACE inhibitors, anti-platelets and even beta blockers. I was a tad concerned at the last as my heart rate is pretty slow at the best of times but I was assured that in this situation it would take a load off of the embattled organ.

Phil Johnson, a good and trusted friend of many years standing. picked me up at around half three in the afternoon. He carried my bag along a section of the seemingly endless corridors of Whipps Cross. He was not walking particularly fast but even so I had to ask him to slow down. The light outside seemed somehow brighter than usual even though the day was overcast. I waited near the outpatients  department and enjoyed the sights and sounds of life going on around me once more.

Phil drove at a reasonable pace back to his maisonette just off Hermon Hill. Although his driving was by no means unreasonable, I still seemed to feel every bump along the way. On arrival, I got slowly and tentatively out of the car, feeling surprisingly vulnerable and frail. This was not at all what I had expected. I was well aware that I had had a heart attack but, at the same time, had felt like I was getting stronger and stronger, particularly during the previous 24 hours. That was in the hospital though. Now, exposed to the outside world, it was becoming obvious that all was not yet well.

I stayed with Phil and his wife, Simone,for several hours, most of which was spent strewn across their huge red sofa, being supplied with all I needed for the evening. They both seemed somewhat concerned, I think I may have looked even frailer than I felt. Eventually, around ten or so, Phil drove me home.

The next week was spent very gently reading, writing a little, waiting for the expected recovery. Indeed, for a time, I did seem to get a little better but would still find myself breathless climbing stairs and would still experience moments of faintness. The bruising in my groin and upper thigh was impressive, gorgeous shades of purple, blue and yellow. As ever, I rationalised my lack of a faster recovery, if my groin and thigh were like that then it would seem only natural that something similar had occurred internally. Recovery would be a matter of patiently waiting for the bruising internal and external, to subside.

I had been encouraged to take some exercise when I could so I went for a short stroll beside a lake in Wanstead Park. It was a sunny day and pretty soon I found that I was reacting badly to the light. After just a few minutes I had to sit down just  to allow myself the chance to recover. This wasn’t the recuperation that I had hoped for.

Over the next few days I struggled on and, after a couple of weeks or so, I was actually feeling a tad more comfortable, although the photo phobia seemed to grow more and more bothersome with every sunny day. Two friends, John and Erica, had invited me to share a trip to the British Museum to see an exhibition on early European Christianity’s addiction to the notion of relics. It sounded interesting so I decided to take a chance and embark on my first trip to London for a month.

I had only just started driving again which felt like something of a liberation.  I left the car in a side street close to Woodford Station and tried to walk the short distance to the ticket office. It was a sunny day and immediately the photophobic effect was obvious once more. Every white, or even light, coloured wall  or surface seemed to glare unbearably. It felt a little like the snow blindness I had experienced in Austria many years previously, this time though it was accompanied by feelings of light-headedness and even nausea. When I reached the barriers I was feeling quite ill and had to make a decision whether to go or stay; once through, I was more or less committed to the journey.

With some reluctance I decided to go. Taking the seat on the train I immediately felt better and was relatively fine until reaching my destination, Holborn. Once there though, I had to walk a short distance to a coffee shop where we had decided to rendezvous. Reaching the meeting point, even though it was but a short distance, became a struggle, so much so that I could feel the sweat running down my back at the effort involved. Every light coloured surface seemed to be breaking up into darker blotches. Finally, and much to my relief, I reached the basement of the coffee shop. John and Erica were already there and looked concerned at my discomfort. After taking a seat in a deep and cosy chair  and chatting with some expectation about the exhibition I soon became much more comfortable.

The exhibition itself turned out to be a beautiful presentation of a variety of relics from the early Christian era. Across Europe in the middle ages, all manner of relics recovered from the crusades were revered for having been involved in the story of Christ. There were splinters from the cross, a piece of bread from the last supper, even a towel said to have been wrapped around the head of Christ as he took the cross upon his back. All incredibly implausible of course, but bread (literally in the case of the relic!) and butter to the early Christian church. People would make pilgrimages in order to have a chance to even simply be in the proximity of such relics. Added to those connected to the Bible story there was also many artefacts connected with various saints. Many of these were body parts taken from the corpses (allegedly!) of martyred saints immediately following there martyrdom. Quite gruesome and, in many cases, equally implausible.

Coming out of the exhibition I still found myself weak and a little breathless but I did seem to be managing the demands of the situation quite well. Strange, looking back at it now, that same process of  rationalisation that I mentioned in a previous blog, that same willingness to believe the more mundane explanations for one’s symptoms, served to prevent me from the realisation that I will still in trouble. This process seems to be a defence mechanism that many of us share, a way of shielding us from the harsh realities that confront us at times in life.

All this was to change just two days later. I had been invited to undergo an exercise test at Whipps Cross to see if I was ready for the rehab program. It consisted of walking on a running machine whilst the operator, a sympathetic Irish fellow by the name of Brian in this case, gradually increased the inclination of the apparatus.

For the first half a minute or so I was OK. My body was festooned with connections so my heart could be monitored during the process and, at first, nothing unusual was apparent. Then the slope was increased. Within seconds the chest pain returned. I soldiered on. The inclination was increased and, almost immediately, so was the discomfort in my chest. I started to feel quite faint. Brian, monitoring the ECG and enquiring as to how I felt, decided quite suddenly to stop the test. He looked somewhat perturbed.

“George, I think you should come back into hospital” he said.

“Hmm, bit inconvenient right now Brian” I responded, “When do you think it could be arranged?”

“I think now would be the right moment!”

I had made all manner of arrangements for the coming days but I could see from the look on his face that he was quite concerned. I enquired if it was at least OK to return my car home and get a friend to bring me back but even this was, according to Brian, inadvisable.  When he said now he really had meant it and so it was that within a few minutes I found myself sitting in a wheelchair being wheeled along the interminable corridors of Whipps Cross back to Accident and Emergency to undergo further tests with a view to readmitting me.

Back to square one it seemed. There was some concern amongst the staff in A&E that I was having a second heart attack there and then. More electrodes were attached to my chest, ECGs were taken and samples of my blood were extracted from my much punctured arm.

My basic nature is, fortunately, inclined towards the optimistic, but, sitting there in A&E with little idea as to how serious this latest event might be, I have to admit to getting just a tad fed up with the vagaries of my heart.