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Skipping a Beat

On Thursday morning, with two days work to deal with before Tenerife, I woke up with a stabbing pain in my left chest. No problem. I'd been laid odd. Then the pain crept into my left arm.   Regular readers will recall that my younger brother succumbed to a sudden, massive heart attack four years ago. When it came on, neither he nor his partner understood what was happening. I remain convinced that if they had now, he would have had medical attention 24 hours earlier and been alive today.   I understood what was happening to me, even though I didn't believe it. I called a cab and shot off to A & E. They rushed me into a cubicle and took an ECG and some blood. Throughout all this, I remained convinced that it was muscle strain and I was just being cautious.   So were they. Before long they took another ECG, more blood ... and then they admitted me. They were honest. They didn't know and they were erring on the side of caution.   I spent Thursday night in the assessment unit of Oldham Royal Hospital, where they took more blood and more ECGs. They asked a million and one questions, but I needed the answer to one question. Would I be well enough to fly to Tenerife, Saturday? No answer.   On Friday morning, the senior doctor said the bloods showed I had not had a heart attack.  Some relief there then, but it was short lived. They were uncertain whether it was muscle strain or angina. More tests were needed.  In the meantime I was cleared to go on holiday, so at least we have the coming week in sub-tropical sunshine.   But it's still there, at the back of my mind. Some of those little aches and pains I've been ignoring for so long are making themselves known, and I need to take better care of myself. If it is angina, I may need to give up truck driving. You can't have someone with a dicky-ticker hauling 32 tonnes about the roads. Even if it a muscle-pull, I need to think about the future. My job can be strenuous, but the hard graft is intermittent, with long periods of inactivity while I drive. I need to think about taking things a little easier.   Trouble is, I'm in a money trap. I earn an obscene amount of money for my work, and I enjoy that money.  But is financial independence the be-all and end-all?   I have a couple of weeks to think about it, and the first of those weeks will be spent 2,000 miles south, where it's a bit warmer than Oldham.   By the time most of you get out of bed to read this, Her Indoors and I will be at the airport fighting our way through the absurd rules and over-regulation governing air travel. By the time United kick off against Burnley, we will be hurtling down the runway determined to get into the air before we end up on the M56, and by the time United have given Burnley a lesson in how to play the game, we shall somewhere over the Bay of Biscay arguing over whether we want to pay for the in-flight movie. (I believe it's Hopalong Cassidy v The Keystone Cops this week.)   While you're settling down, in front of an open fire, ready to take in your weekly dose of Ice Dancing or You've Been Framed, we shall be shivering in the 70+ degrees of the Canary Islands, trying to work to how we will survive a week of hot weather.   Somewhere between today and next Saturday, I will pass the big 6-0 and I'm looking forward to getting back when I will enjoy free prescriptions, free swimming and my bus pass.   A week from now, while you are all safely tucked up in bed, we shall get back to Manchester at half one in the morning, working out how we're going to pay for the money we have spent in Tenerife. I shall be armed with traveller's tales of woe and numerous piccies of a Canary Island winter.   See you all in a week, but if I can find a decent internet café in Las Americas, I may just post an interim report on my pulled muscle/angina.   In the meantime, you know the script. Be good, if you can't be good, be careful, if you can't be careful, try knitting Manchester City scarves. You won't make much money, but at least it will keep your hands occupied.   See you in a week.   Footnote: the weather forecast for Tenerife tomorrow is wall to wall sunsine, 25 degrees during the day, 15 degrees at night. The forecast for Oldham is wall to wall sunshine, 7 degrees during the day, 3 degrees during the night. I may feel a twinge of concsience ... as long as it's only my conscience.

Unhealth

It's a week or three since I last had a moan about my health and since I'm suffering, I don't see why you shouldn't suffer too.   To recap, I had a suspected heart attack in January, which turned out not to be a heart attack. No one ever found out what it was, but my personal theory is it had summat to do with shovelling snow from under the car day after day, night after night.   In order to eliminate cardiac problems, I had an angiogram, which proved that I have a minor heart complaint which amounts to narrowing of the arteries. They changed my blood pressure pills to cope with it and everything was tickety-boo ... but it wasn't and still isn't.   To get to my ticker, they shoved a pipe up my right leg. Now forgive my scepticism but as an old trucker, I know that if you want to get from Manchester to Newcastle upon Tyne, you drive along the M62 and up the A1. You don't head for Bristol first. If you want to fly to New York, you don't go to Liverpool and get a boat to Southampton and then a train to Heathrow.   Be that as it may, they drilled into the femoral artery and made their tortuous way to my heart to prove that it was fine. I was left with a plug in my leg, told it would be a bit grumpy in that area and told me to rest for a couple of days.   That was 10 weeks ago. I am still in agony. Angie's gramophone triggered something and it wasn't a fresh taste for music of the 60s. Whatever it did, it aggravated my knees (both of them) my right hip, right ankle which is still suffering the hangover of a fracture almost two years ago, and generally left me aching all over south of the equator.  I cannot walk further than 50 yards before I have to stop and rest. It doesn't matter whether I stand, sit or lie, I am in pain, so I do what any man would do in these circumstances: I moan and whine about it, particularly to Her Indoors.   As if that is not enough, I'm suffering soft tissue damage to my neck, and after finding the blood tests that go with the new medication extremely painful, my GP suspects the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome. This is a wrist problem, and there can be many causes. I prefer the one which says it's all the manual work I've done over the years as opposed to the other theory which is too naughty for Writelink and in any event, not applicable in my case.   And throughout all this, I haven't had a sniff of a Chupa-chup.   The upshot of all this is that I turn up at my doctor's so often, they're consulting me on the redecoration plans, and I am now officially disabled. How do I know? I've just been told to apply for a blue badge. Thanks to my iffy hearing, I thought they said a Blue Peter Badge, but when I checked the telly, I couldn't find a trace of Christopher Trace nor a single sight of Valerie Singleton.   If I'd known getting old was this bad, I'd have gone out in a blaze of glory before I was 50.

Elf Probs

I was at the hospital again yesterday, and it's official. I've been declared a national disaster and the relief fund should be in operation any day now, which will save me having to type out the begging emails.   For the uninitiated, prepare to be bored.   In January I suffered a suspected heart attack that turned out be a pulled muscle. When they said, "Do you want the good news or the bad news first," I opted for the good news. "It's not a heat attack," they said. "So what's the bad news?" I asked. "You'll have to pay for a taxi home." That particular bill almost gave me the heart attack I hadn't had in the first place.   While they said I hadn't had a proper wobbler, they suspected angina and in March I had a coronary angiogram. They drill a hole in your leg, insert a pipe and work their way through to you heart so they can have a proper look at it. While this is going on, you can watch it on a TV screen. I kept an eye on it in case they found my wallet while they were on their way to my ticker.   The news was good. There was nothing wrong with my heart. On the downside, I would need a fresh place to hide my wallet.   After this little procedure, I developed a large haematoma. (I love using these medical words. They give the impression that I know what I'm talking about.) This huge mass of blood collected in a place where I wouldn't wanna show my mum. That settled in a week but suddenly I was in an awful lot of pain. I couldn't walk properly, my hip hurt, my knees, always a couple of little achers, hurt even more and I felt like I had been kicked where it would hurt most ... my wallet.   This has gone on for months and I've spent so much of NHS money that income tax will have to rise tuppence in the pound just to cover the cost. I still cannot walk and as a result, I cannot work.   Yesterday, I had a Doppler scan. This thing monitors the blood flow in your veins and arteries and again you can watch it on telly. It even picks up your pulse from any point on your body and broadcasts it. Like a rap beat. Thumpa ... thumpa ... thumpa.   The nurse asked, "oh, what's that big thing there," and the beat accelerated. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa. She'd found my wallet, too.   The surgeon said there was nothing wrong with my blood flow, but my cash flow needed attention, whereupon he helped himself to a couple of fivers.   The upshot of this medical malarkey is a new unified theory of my pain. The haematoma put pressure on the iliac and femoral nerve and screwed them up. So notwithstanding all the pain, I now have a couple of nerve in need of psychoanalysis.   "What can we do about it?" I asked.   "It depends how many more of these you have at your disposal," said the surgeon holding up the fivers he had already claimed.   "None," said I.   "In that case," he said, "it will either get better or you'll be taking stronger painkillers and walking like Long John Silver - minus parrot, natch - for the rest of your natch."   I was determined to consult my GP, but he's off for a couple of weeks. His wife's having a baby. Inconsiderate is what I call it. I mean, it's not my fault she's having a baby, is it? (Answer: no it isn't.)   So that's it. I am now officially in pain for the rest of my life. And it's not just pain. I have to limp, too.   All I can say is it's a good job I'm skilled at multi-tasking.

Ticker Trouble

All the world knows I suffered a heart attack, which wasn't one, on January 14th. It wasn't an MI, but they suspected angina and I had to go to the hospital this morning for the initial investigations. The news is not good.   Having forgotten my hearing aids, the doctor asked me a shed load of questions, most of which I didn't hear, so I kept nodding my head like Churchill on the insurance adverts. Notwithstanding the fact that my knackered knees can barely get me to the car, she decided I should undergo a treadmill test.   "You know what a treadmill is?" she asked.   "I should do," I replied. "The boss has had me on one for 45 years and the missus jacked the speed up 30 years ago."   After a little negotiation, which on my part consisted mainly of repeating, "Are you pennies short of the full pound, or what?" we agreed that I should give it a go.   The young feller supervising the test first shaved some areas of my chest and while he was doing so asked what all the scars were on my tummy.   "Some dipstick was shaving my chest 20 years and didn't watch what he was doing," I replied.   He laughed and almost shaved my left nipple off.   After the argument had finished, he wired me up to a computer, to monitor my heart rate and blood pressure. The latter almost blew the main fuse.   The first thing he did before starting it was tilt it upwards. "Hang on," I protested. "We're having a downstairs lavatory fitted because I can't climb."   "You need a serious test of your heart's effort under stress," he said, and started the machine.   This was no gentle stroll round Tescos. This was running uphill for an 83 bus at two minutes past eleven when the last one left at eleven. In no time I was out of breath and my knees were screaming for relief.   "We've only gone fifteen yards," he complained when I told him I'd had enough.   "The car's only ten yards from the door," I explained between wheezing my breath out.   The test continued for hours ... well six minutes, at the end of which I really had had enough. "You know this heart attack I was supposed to have had but didn't," I gasped.   "Yeeesss," he said, dragging his eyes away from page the naked chick on page whatever it was of The Star.   "If you don't stop this bleeding machine, I'm gonna have it now."   Now we get to the serious bit.   Resting after the test it took a full five minutes for my heartbeat, respiration and blood pressure to come back to normal.   Back upstairs with the doctor, the news was not encouraging.   "We can't say what, if anything, is wrong with your heart, so I'm going to arrange a coronary angiogram."   She was about to explain what it entailed, but I stopped her. I know exactly what a coronary angiogram is, and I also know the risks. One in 1,000 patients will suffer a heart attack or storke during the procedure.   My mother suffered from a congenital heart condition, which help kill her at the age of 71. She had an angiogram almost 40 years ago. Neither my brother nor I inherited the heart trouble, but as you are all no doubt aware, my brother had a massive heart attack four years ago, which killed him too early.   I'm prime for heart trouble. Even though I've lost a stone and some over the last year, I'm still overweight and my buggered knees make exercise difficult.  I smoke, I have raised (but not critically high) cholesterol. On the other hand, I don't drink and I'm already on statins to reduce my cholesterol level.   Nevertheless, it's all quite worrying. It will take about 5-6 weeks for the test to be arranged and I will be in hospital for a full day. Between now and then I am not allowed to drive heavy lorries. That means I'm at home, sic, which in turn means I can drive you lot nuts all day.

Sick as a Chip

Some of you may be aware that I went back into hospital yesterday. It wasn't for the angiogram. It was another rush job when the pains in my chest and left arm cranked up another few notches.   I'd already promised Laurie I would turn up for last night's chat, but I couldn't, and the only thing I could do was email Maureen (the only email address I could recall off the top of my head) with my apologies. Thanks Mo.   I've spent another night plugged into various bits of machinery, they've taken another couple of gallons of blood, and the result is the same as last time: they don't know what's wrong.   As it happens, I have an appointment for the angiogram: Wednesday March 10th, 12:30. Hopefully that will give us the definitive diagnosis.   For now, I don't believe it is angina. I have absolutely no medical qualifications. I even failed first aid because according to the instructor, anyone giving CPR with the amount of force I used, would probably crush the patient's chest and kill them off. Notwithstanding that, I still do not think this is angina. I think it is torn muscle. Privately, I think the doctors do, too, but they can't say so until they have the results of the angiogram.   I get the impression that the old body clock is saying "time to slow down, pal." Before Christmas I was working 12 hours shifts, five days a week, but everybody knows that truck driving is such an easy job, don't they? (sardonic laugh) All I can say is, if you feel it's easy, then have a dabble. It's nothing but hassle from start to finish, climbing on and off the truck, in and out of the cab anything up to 20 times a day is hard work even for younger drivers, and when you're changing trailers, the pressure in the airlines makes you feel like you're trying to connect the QE2 to a North Sea Gas pipe.   I was well paid, but we all know that money isn't everything (did I really say that?) and it's perhaps time to think about an easier life.   In the meantime, every time this pain winds up, I'm supposed to dash off to A & E and make sure I haven't had a heart attack. Trouble is all the stress of rushing down there, going through the various tests, waiting for the results, is so stressful it's likely to bring on a heart attack.

Scared? Me? You Bet I am

Had a call from the hospital yesterday afternoon. My angiogram was originally scheduled for next Wednesday, but they'd had a cancellation. Could I make it this morning? No problem, said I. The moment I put down the phone, I began to shake.   Most readers may get the impression that I'm not easily scared. It's not simply a front. I have more bottle than the Parachute Regiment, and I'd tackle the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders if they owed me ten bob. But right now I'm terrified.   The moment I finished speaking to the hospital, things began to happen. First it was the desktop computer. I'd managed to crash it thanks to an electrical supply problem. When I rebooted, it wouldn't. The drivers have been corrupted, and with my usual skill at arms, I hadn't backed up any of my work for months. Everything is locked away in that machine (hopefully uncorrupted) but I can't get at it.   No problem, I thought. I have the restore discs which should let me in to at least retrieve my work, if nothing else.   I searched the house upside down and found discs for very piece of software ... but the restore discs have been chucked away.   I know where they are. They're in one of several bin liners full of crap awaiting disposal.   It was almost as if some unseen force decided to tamper with the computer just as I had enough to worry about with the hospital do, and then, late last night, another thought occurred to me, one which is profoundly more worrying ...   But I don't want to verbalise it. To do so may turn it from my insanity to a frightening reality.   The procedure I'm going in for is routine, but there can be complications. Afterwards, according to my reading, I need rest, at least for a day or so. I will be AWOL, therefore, for about 24-48 hours, at which time I promise I will clue you up on what is really worrying me.   See you in a day or two.

Not So Scared Now

Hello you lot. Here I am, back again, a lot sooner than expected.   Firstly, thank you all for your messages of support. They are appreciated.   Having left you all on tenterhooks with my last post, I suppose I had better explain myself ... but first, a word from our sponsor.   Buy sod, the brand new washing powder. If Daz doesn't work and Persil won't get it clean, Sod it.   The results of the angiogram surprised no one, least of all me. There is some narrowing of my coronary arteries, but it's not serious enough to be described as heart disease, and it's only to be expected in a parsimonious old git like me. I keep a tight rein on my money and a tight rein on my blood. I don't want too much of it going through my ticker at any one time in case I run out. It might help if I packed the fags in, too, but I have a busy schedule and it's finding the time.   This news is good news. I am, as I always suspected, in fairly good fettle for a short, fat, balding, arthritic, middle aged smoker.   The procedure itself was uncomfortable, but only while they were messing about with my leg. I don't even know when they put the tube in, or when they injected the dye. I now have a plug in my leg, but they didn't tell me whether it was 3 or 13 amp, so I don't know where to tap into the electricity supply.   The plug takes 90 days to dissolve and I have to carry a card telling everyone that it is there. Will this be to my advantage? Will it get me a discount in B&Q or the Dog & Duck? "Hello, I'm David Robinson, can I have a pint of Tetley bitter and I have a plug in my leg, so can I have it at Happy Hour prices?." Will it let me jump the queue at Tesco's checkout? "Excuse me, I'm first, I have a plug in my leg."   Will it get me preferential treatment on the buses?   DW: I have a plug in my leg so I don't have to pay the fare.   Driver: But you've just shown me you senior citizen pass, so you don't pay the fare anyway.   DW: So now I don't pay double the fare. What's complicated about that?   With my knee busted, my broken ankle playing up and my hip getting iffy, the last thing I needed was someone sticking a plug in my leg, and I feel that my chances of taking over for Michael Owen for the rest of the season have gone down the Swannee. But that's nothing when compared to trying to teach the dog to jump on my left leg for the time being.   The day has not been without its trials. I had to get taxis there and back and that set me back the thick end of thirty quid and as if that wasn't bad enough, I left my phone in the cab on the way home, and I'm waiting for the driver turning up with it. That's gonna cost me even more money. And I still haven't got my computer working. I'm using the netbook right now. I am also in a lot of pain: a leg with a vicious cut in it and the agony of a walletectomy.   The news that I am not suffering any kind of heart trouble is a mixed blessing. I am relieved, naturally. But it begs the question: what's causing the pain in my chest and left arm. It was while thinking about this that I realised the whole thing coincided with Carol buying me a new wallet, and I think that's the answer. I wish this government would do something about the weight of these half crowns.  I visit my doctor next Thursday in search of an answer (about the chest pains, not the weight of half crowns.)   Now the answer to the question that has been on everyone's mind all day: when in doubt, fake it.   I said in my last post that there was a potentially more frightening aspect to all this. The angiogram was scheduled for March 10th, when it was suddenly rearranged for today, March 5th, 2010 ... the 4th anniversary of my younger brother's death ... from a sudden and massive heart attack.   It was the memory of his untimely death that sent me scurrying to A & E in January. It was the memory of his death that kept my worries (and Carol's) at a peak. This morning, it seemed to me that the fates were conspiring against me, and my big fear going into hospital was that I would go the same way ... today.   I should have known better. I believe in the spirit, and I believe that the spirit of my brother played a part in all this. I believe he sabotaged my computer yesterday, but not out of malice. He did it within minutes of the hospital ringing me, as if to let me know that he had a hand in these events. And why? Because despite my fears, despite (or maybe because of) my cavalier attitude towards my health, I needed to go through this. He wanted me there, in the hospital today, a day when I was sure to be thinking of him, and he wanted to let me know that he would be there, watching over proceedings and make sure I was all right.   When the procedure was done, I wept, but not for myself. I don't number self-pity amongst my failings. I wept for my brother. Four years ago, if someone had put the symptoms together, he would have gone through the same thing I went through today, and he would still be with us   I miss you, Terry, but I thank you.

The Diuretic & The Tricky Ticker.

Once upon a time there was a trucker who thought he was having a heart attack. In a panic he shot off to A & E and they said no he hadn't had a heart attack but he might have angina. So he went for a meeting with Angie's gramophone which said, no there is no angina, just some narrowing of the arteries, but otherwise you're okay, and with that news our hero planned to live happily ever after. But ...   Yesterday afternoon I had a call from my doctor's receptionist. He wants me to stop the bendro pill that I take for my blood pressure. He's acting on instructions from the cardiologist. He's arranged an alternative prescription which I pick up tomorrow, but I have to stop the current one immediately!   Fort those who don't know, ever since I had the angiogram, I've felt a bit better. The knowledge that there is no coronary disease cheered me up and I was even looking forward to going back to work the moment the consultant gives me the all-clear.   I've taken bendroflumethiazide for 7 years now. It's a diuretic. It sends you scurrying to the lavatory every ten minutes to flush the salts and other nasty little chemicals the raise your blood pressure. Research shows that it's also used for heart problems because it slows down your heart rate, makes the old ticker take things easier.   Now I have to stop them. Not wean myself off them, but stop them immediately, if not sooner. Why? I don't know. It was the doctor's receptionist who rang and she can't say.   I don't yet have an appointment with the cardiologist, but logic dictates that she has found something in the angiogram that precipitates this action.   And for me it's a yo-yo. First I have heart problems, then I don't, then I might have, then I don't, and now obviously, I do.    Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?   PS: if you're wondering why this post has no bloglancing type odds and sods added to it, it's because I haven't finished reading the book yet.

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