AN ELEPHANT SAT ON MY CHEST
by Dr John Mantle
I was drying between my toes after a morning shower when I had a heart
attack. The diagnosis was not difficult - I had crushing chest pain and a
dripping cold sweat. I put on Y-fronts and lay on one side of the double bed.
An elephant sat on my chest. I called to Jean, my wife.
Very soon, our GP was injecting diamorphine into my right arm. This did not
help the pain for long, but acted rather like a second party drink; I became
talkative. Two very young ambulancemen appeared, efficiently deploying boxes of
resuscitation equipment. I did not feel good. I thought I needed some
Streptokinase. So did they. Before they carted me off in the ambulance, I told
Jean I loved her. I felt a fool, but it helped.
In the ambulance, the combination of excitement, intravenous diamorphine,
and analgesic gas as we sped towards the Bristol Royal Infirmary, almost
outweighed the elephant doing morning exercises inside my thorax. The man
beside the stretcher itched to justify his training by jumping on my chest at
any sign of cardiac feebleness. I distracted him by having a muffled
conversation through the mask. They even put the siren on for a bit. to please
me.
I arrived at the hospital at the right time, 8 a.m. on Tuesday. Accident and
Emergency was full of bright nurses and doctors, fresh from a good night's
sleep, and keen to exercise their diagnostic skill and save life. That was just
fine by me.Dr Lau, female, Oriental and efficient, took charge.
My ECG showed an inferior infarct. How downmarket. I had invested years of
strenuous bad living in a heart attack, only to have an inferior one.I smiled
bravely, but another problem arose. The clot-busting Streptokinase infusion was
ending; the pain in my chest continued. More diamorphine. Dr Lau and the nurses
began to conceal concern. Fear needled my drugged euphoria. Another drip was
prepared, a vaso-dilator to persuade oxygen to reach parts it manifestly was
not reaching. New vials were opened, the last-chance infusion was summoned.
As Dr Lau reached out her hand for the new drug, I gave a cry of triumph.
The elephant had floated off my chest, the last drops of the clot-buster in the
syringe-driver had worked. If you arrive in hospital alive with a coronary, you
usually leave in the same condition.
I spent the next 48 hours wired to a monitor in a coronary care unit. The
tedium was relieved only by the sticky leads falling off everyone's hairy
chests, causing the traces to go wild, and the nurses no end of grief. With
practice, I learnt to stick mine back on again before they noticed. Eventually,
things looked good, and I was transferred to another ward. I surveyed my
cubicle, my bed attached by umbilical wires to the monitor, my fruit, my
flowers, my territory. I wept. I hated it.
At the first ward round, I argued with the registrar for an early discharge
and won, with the proviso that I pass the pre-discharge exercise test. This
involved monitoring me walking on a treadmill to check the functioning of my
heart. I hoped it would happen before the weekend.
Friday lunch arrived. Fish and chips. Some, 30 or so late middle-aged men,
all with heart problems, settled down to scoff their high cholesterol lunch as
though their lives depended on it. In a way they did. After all, we were all
going home to the wife, salads, and low-fat spreads. Apple pie and hospital
custard was definitely preferred to yoghurt. The ward then settled to its
collective after-lunch nap.
Suddenly, I was wheeled off for my exercise test. We rumbled into the bowels
of the hospital. Laced with wires, I nervously mounted a fragile treadmill. We
started rolling. The test lasted eight minutes. My heart rate reached 175, less
fatal than it sounds. I did not vomit my lunch. I passed.
On the ward, sweaty but pleased, I prepared for discharge. Any written
"do's" and "don'ts"? I read the sheaf of papers. They did
not mention sex.
Two hours later, I got home. I told Jean about the exercise test and the
angiogram I was booked in for. I went to bed. She brought tea. "What about
the instructions they give out?", she asked. I had thrown most of them
away, but to avoid reprimand produced a sheet of paper. "It says here that
if you can walk up two flights of stairs, you can have sex safely". We
drank our tea thoughtfully, pleased to be together again.
|
