To
start this blog I thought I would go back to the original problems
using some notes that I wrote at the time. In the two and a half
years since I have learnt a few things about surviving and even
living well after a heart attack but I have also made a few mistakes
along the way which, I hope, may be helpful to readers.
It
started on a Saturday about two and a half years ago. I was laying in
bed and trying hard to swallow but somehow finding it very difficult.
Swallowing, hmm, not normally the greatest of achievements but in
this case it was proving mare than a match for me. After an hour or
so my somewhat fuzzy brain gave up the struggle and fell to sleep
despite the difficulties.
The
Sunday was a bright and clear day, or at least at the start. I busied
myself with the normal comings and goings of existence until around
about half twelve. I had arranged to chat to a close friend on the
internet. Only problem was, when I finally did so, my voice had
changed. Not substantially, not hugely, but definitely changed.
My
initial reaction was that I was coming down with the symptoms of one
of those annoyingly slowly developing colds that I seem to be a
victim to every couple of years. Monday was fine though, even
pleasant as I recall, no obvious symptoms but…..Tuesday….I got
out of bed for an hour and promptly got back in again!
I
seemed tired beyond belief and yet I could not think why that should
be the case. I slept until early afternoon, got up for a couple of
hours and promptly slept again! I had planned to go out for some
coffee based chatting and general all round socialising but my lack
of energy made the prospect much less inviting than would normally be
the case.
Angela,
the lass who was staying with me at the time, was due to go to London
on the Wednesday and so, despite feeling a tad fragile, I found
myself at the centre of our great metropolis enjoying a mug of
Starbuck’s coffee in Great Russell Street. I seemed to feel
relatively good although still aware that I had some kind of bug. We
took the hydrofoil down to Greenwich and enjoyed a rather copious but
very tasty (and reasonably priced) Chinese curry at Tai Won Mein.
The
next day, Thursday morning, I treated myself to a hearty bowl of oats
only to find it disagreeing with me. It felt a little like
indigestion but was more in the chest than the stomach. Angela had
not risen from her pit at that time and so I was just checking e
mails and such like when I became aware of just how uncomfortable I
was feeling. I tried shifting position, laying down across the couch,
turning around the other way but… nothing I did seemed to stop this
discomfort.
I
returned to bed to try to sleep it off but throughout the day I
experienced an ever present discomfort. It seems strange now, looking
back at it, that I did not understand what was happening to me. I
think many of us share a common tendency in such a situation, namely
to rationalise the obvious with more banal explanations.
That
evening, at around seven, I was due to dine out with several friends
at The Castle in Woodford Green but the feeling was now quite
oppressive, so oppressive in fact that I thought it wise to forego
the culinary pleasures of a Harvester and instead just take it easy
at home.
At
around eight that evening a friend of mine, Keith, rang and began
what was planned to be a long and in depth conversation about life,
the universe and everything. Keith is a modest guy but often has some
very interesting and challenging views. They are usually couched in
polite and non-combative language but can be quite surprising all the
same. Normally, I enjoy the pleasures of ruminating on various issues
with him but, on this occasion, the more he spoke the more
uncomfortable I felt. My chest was getting tighter and tighter and it
was becoming progressively harder to breathe.
After
a couple of minutes the cold sweats started. The beads were running
down my face and off the end of my nose. I felt terrible. So terrible
in fact that it was becoming obvious, even to me, what was happening.
“Keith,
excuse me, sorry for interrupting but I am not feeling so great.
Could you call again in half an hour and, if I don’t pick up, call
an ambulance?”
Keith
was a little shocked but agreed to comply. As I put the phone down I
was feeling worse by the second. ‘This is madness,’ I thought to
myself, ‘if you are feeling that unwell then you should be phoning
for an ambulance yourself!’
The
operator at the other end of the line was efficient, advising me to
leave the front door open (very wise) but then not to do anything at
all. I unlatched the door but thinking I may be detained sometime,
dragged my body upstairs to collect a kindle and a mobile phone.
Fourteen steps…..felt like the side of a mountain! By the time I
returned to sit on the next to bottom step I could hardly breathe at
all and the world was beginning to disappear into yellow and black
blobs.
The
ambulance was prompt thankfully and within a minute or two I was
ensconced in the back with an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. The
crew were chatty, bright and optimistic, almost annoyingly so, but
they did a good job.
“We
don’t think you’re having a heart attack’” I was informed
reassuringly. Funny, I was pretty sure I was. The taste of the oxygen
was just a little unpleasant, almost unnatural. One feels like taking
the mask off and gulping great lungfuls of good, fresh air but….even
in the somewhat confused state I found myself in I realised that this
was not a good idea.
On
reaching A & E I was rushed into the resus (resuscitation) unit.
My skin was punctured in various ways, samples were taken and
questions asked. Funny how, when one’s mortality is starkly
revealed, everything becomes more precious. Looking around, I was
aware of wanting to see every detail, to take it all in. If this was
to be the last of my life I wanted, even in that situation, to live
it well.
After
a while, all such thoughts were put to one side as morphine was
injected into my arm and I slipped softly into a kind of gentle
oblivion, still conscious but, to a large extent, out of pain. Oddly,
I remember finding the voluptuous curves of the young female doctor
particularly attractive at this point. It seems that even at such
moments in a man’s life some instincts remain fully intact.
I
was assigned to the main cardiac ward , Elizabeth, at Whipps Cross
Hospital. My bed was located close to the nurse’s station and,
during the night, I would listen to snippets of their conversation,
hanging onto normality, whilst also being aware of the rhythmic and
high pitched beep of the apparatus that was constantly monitoring me.
Every now and again it would emit a shriller tone and red lights
would flash. My heart rate in particular seemed very inconsistent. At
one moment, as I endeavoured to relax, it would be around 65 and the
next, responding to the slightest of movements, it would shoot up to
130 or so. I remember feeling that this was of some concern at the
time…
In
the morning I was greeted with seemingly good news: “The test
results came back and they were positive.” ‘Good,’ I thought,
‘Nice to know they were positive, I wonder what was happening to me
then?’
“Yes,”
the nurse went on to affirm, “they were positive. You have had a
heart attack!”
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