If you can wait, and not be tired by waiting...

It was a time of good news, a time of bad news, a time of hope, a time of despair, a period of….hmm, getting a little close to plagirism here, don’t want to risk being sued by the Charles Dickens foundation. Over the next few days following the heart attack, or myocardial infarction to use the technical term, there were many ebbs and flows in my perception of what had happened to me. On one level there was the thought: “Why me?” On another, one could frame these events in such a way that one perceived oneself as being essentially very fortunate. Fortunate to be alive in the first place, fortunate to have suffered no worse damage, fortunate that the problem was now apparent and could be addressed.

The first visit on that Friday morning was from a Dr. Fen Lie, looking very inscrutable and somewhat like a villainous character from a Bond film, who came accompanied by his many courtiers. Whipps Cross has, in recent times, been designated as a teaching hospital so such visits tend to involve multiples of keen young medical practitioners anxiously trying to ask the right questions. They were also accompanied by a young echo-cardiologist who ran a hand held scanner over my chest and prognosticated on the results to all and sundry. At least most of her prognostications were positive though, which, at that time, was felt by me to be very reassuring.

I spoke for a time to Dr. Lie and expressed a little of my surprise at having a heart attack. I had previously thought that I was at relatively low risk compared with the general population. After all, I didn’t smoke, at least not for fifteen years and then barely the odd puff in the garden with my ex, Natalie. I didn’t drink, well hardly, maybe a pint of beer or a glass of wine a month. I had been a vegetarian for the best part of thirty years and, despite having long terms back problems, I still managed to swim three times a week and thereby kept myself fit. All those, I had thought, would mitigate most of the adverse affects that the course of time would take on my body, or at least slow such things down. Not so apparently. The flemingesque Dr. Lie’s response was an enigmatic shrug of the shoulders and the suggestion that whilst I awaited the proposed intervention, an angiogram followed by the possibility of angioplasty, I should listen to music.

Sound advice, if a little odd... Afterwards I wondered what he had in mind and pondered my choice from the classical baroque of Mozart to the more strident opus of Black Sabbath. I decided to lean towards the former... By now it was Friday morning and I discovered that I had timed my heart attack to take place at almost the perfectly wrong moment. There would be no place for the procedure that day and, as the weekend was to follow, I would have to await my fate until Monday morning.

War has been described as 95% boredom and 5% terror. Life as a patient awaiting a procedure, the anticipation of which does not fill one with particularly positive expectations, could be spoken of in similar terms. In an odd way though, having 72 hours during which I was compelled to wait whilst at the same time being discouraged from any overly physical activity actually began to feel like an indulgence. I found myself reading, and really enjoying reading, in ways that I had not had the time to do for what seemed like ages. My fayre was a mixture of articles in The Times, a novel from Anne Rice and some very technical books on hypnosis, all of which I found quite absorbing in their own way.

It’s strange but, in such situations, one is obviously very much aware of one’s own mortality and yet I found I had no particular regrets, no need to find any more peace than I already had, nor even any particular need to solve any great existential questions. I have, over the course of my years in this form on the planet, come to my own conclusions and oddly, despite the seeming urgency of my situation, I felt no need to change any particular attitude. I did not want to die, in fact I rather liked the idea of a long and healthy existence after this episode. I felt no great fear of death either though. Again, when I think of the anxiety such thoughts gave me as a teenager, the peaceful acceptance of my own mortality, and mortality in general, allowed me to easily stay in a surprisingly peaceful state of mind.

I spent some time, particularly after lights out, pondering what else was important to me but could only reiterate what I had thought previously plus some thoughts about friends. The one thought that did come to mind was how important it is in life to develop friendships and friends. To help, in whatever way one could, one’s friends and those close to you to develop in ways that are right for them, respecting, at the same time, their individual uniqueness.

Friends were, in this situation, an absolute boon. At times, I am not always the most social of characters and often enjoy long spells of my own company, but in this situation the love and friendship of those close to me was more appreciated than ever. I was surprised by how many made the effort to visit me. Each and every visit was much enjoyed. I count myself fortunate indeed to have so many intelligent, interesting and considerate friends. Out of respect for their privacy I do not want to name individuals here but each and every visit, each and every text, each and every call was appreciated. Some would make me smile, some gave pause for thought, each helped in their own way so a hearty (!) “Thank You” to all.

Now it was just a matter of waiting for Monday morning and the proposed angiogram. Having experienced the procedure once before during an erroneous misdiagnosis a few years earlier I had some idea what to expect, so it was with some trepidation that I fell into a fitful and dream filled sleep late on Sunday evening.