Heart – Page 3 – Middle Age Fanclub

My name is Graham and I’m part robot…

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a bloke in possession of what he thinks are a perfectly good pair of legs, will NOT be allowed to walk up to a cardiology ward from his A&E bed, no matter what reason he gives or how ‘ok’ he feels. And so it was that I found myself clinging to an overnight bag while a porter wheeled me through the eerily quiet hospital corridors up to my new temporary home.

Having spent around 7 hours working my way through the various stages of A&E, I’d almost got sent home. Almost. Then, minutes after the cardiologist doing my ‘final’ echo scan had mentioned discharging me, he found a problem and performed a rather neat about turn, admitting me to a ward.

So, having had my sleep disrupted on several occasions during the night, either by a nurse checking a monitor or taking my blood pressure or by a fellow patient making loads of noise in their sleep, I woke next day to the wonderful hospital sensation of a nurse turning on all the lights, yanking the curtains open and asking if I fancied tea or coffee! This would be the first of several occasions that I’d be woken from a slumber, hospital wards being both great places to nap and probably even better places to get woken up.

Now this was most unexpected when I started my working week. I thought I’d just be clinging on for Friday to arrive, as usual, and now here I was clinging on to the hope that I might still go home with just some tablets to take.

However, as the day went on things just seemed to get gradually worse, culminating with the visit of the head cardiology honcho, who broke the news that I’d be having a pacemaker fitted. Despite my relative youth for such a procedure, my condition just meant that it was the common-sense decision. Staggering. A pacemaker wasn’t on the menu as far as I was concerned; not for at least another 20 years. Yet, when everything was explained, it made perfect sense. I could either carry on not knowing when I might black out again – and have my driving license taken away – or I could have a pacemaker.

I was told that I’d have the operation that day, meaning that I could even be home that night. But in the end I never even got my next echo scan and so was told that there’d be another night in hospital.

To be fair, this didn’t much bother me. I think I was still quite stunned by what was going to happen to me and so the thought of having a bit more time to think was quite welcome, really. So, the rest of my day was spent mulling things over, reading, napping and snacking until it was time to go to sleep.

I got to sleep that night without a problem. Truth be told, I was shattered. The latest episode with my heart had worn me out and the news that accompanied it had been mentally draining. However, it wasn’t to be a quiet night and I was woken up by a new patient being admitted to the ward. Clearly drunk, my new Slovakian friend veered between laughing or crying hysterically, insulting the staff and praising them and telling anyone who’d listen that he’d been homeless for the last 6 nights as well as having been wrongfully imprisoned at the same time. Welcome to the ward my friend! I felt sure that I’d never get back to sleep, yet I did.

The next day was a whirlwind of activity that will stay with me until the day I die. And for a short time, it felt like it would be just that; the day I died.

Having had some breakfast, I was taken down by the now familiar wheelchair to another part of cardiology where I would have my pre-op echo scan. On my return to the ward I imagined that I’d have a bit of a wait for my operation, so I called my wife just to explain what was going on. However, within about a minute a nurse appeared with a gown for me. It was pacemaker time!

Thankfully, for this operation I managed to avoid the paper underwear that the NHS usually insist on, but even wearing my own pants, the gown and NHS slipper socks didn’t really do a great deal for my dignity.

The operation itself was successful – or at least it seemed so from my experience – so I won’t bore anyone with a blow-by-blow account. Rather, let me tell you a few interesting things that either struck me while I was there or have done since.

It always surprises me how many people are involved. Mine was quite a routine operation, but I swear there were at least 8 people present. In fact, at one stage a random man appeared in an adjacent room and began talking to my team via some kind of intercom. It was a bit like he’d just wandered in to have a look, like a competition winner. Perhaps someone on the team had told him, ‘Hey, we’ve got that bloke from the Middle Age Fanclub blog in again’ but I highly doubt it.
The sheer talent of these people is awesome. At one point they were chatting about the songs on the radio while one of them had my chest open and was concentrating on turning me into a robot. Meanwhile, I still stick my tongue out of the side of my mouth while concentrating…on anything.
My gown made me look like something from the hot counter at Greggs, such was its colour and design. I’d like to think that the operating team also had me down as something from the hot counter. Again, I very much doubt it.
Knowing that the area around my scar was numbed, the surgeon just kept dropping his instruments on to my chest. It wasn’t that numb and I felt every pair of scissors as they hit my collarbone!
They have to make a kind of pocket in your flesh to put a pacemaker in. To do so, they drag your skin and flesh around like you’re a particularly heavy and stubborn bit of furniture and although it’s not painful, you are fully aware of what’s happening! So, you’re kind of lying there thinking, ‘Ooh, he’s ripping my flesh!’
While pulling stuff around in my chest, I could feel the sensation in my throat. My voice has changed slightly since my op. No, really, it has! I take it this is not a coincidence.
They cover you up completely in a kind of big sleeping bag and have you face the right, leaving a gap you can see out of. It’s to protect the wound from your own germy mouth!
While looking to the right through my sleeping bag gap, I could watch my own heartbeat on a monitor. It goes unrecognisably mental when the pacemaker is switched on and looks nothing like a heartbeat anymore. I was also able to watch – in some horror – while my heart stopped a few times as the pacemaker started to get used to its new home! Coupled with the fact that, prior to the op, my cardiologist told me, “You’re heart stopped for 4.2 seconds this morning”, this was a development that I didn’t need to see. Indeed, it was at these points where I had the dubious pleasure – and not for the last time that day – of quietly telling myself, “Just breath and you can’t die”.
My feet were freezing for the whole op.
The whole thing took around 45 minutes, during which time the team involved chatted, danced (I think) and sang, while also telling me exactly what was going on and why. These people are incredible.

It was a relief when I got back on the ward and I was fairly sure that they’d send me home within a few hours. But not every story has a perfect ending, does it?

Having messaged a few people to tell them I was back on the ward, I sat back in my bedside armchair to relax. But, in what now feels like some kind of twisted tradition, my heart had other ideas.

Without warning, my heart began to race again and it didn’t feel like it would stop. I told myself that my pacemaker would kick in and take over, but that didn’t happen either. Suddenly the alarm on my heart monitor was going off and within seconds there were nurses and doctors at my bedside and the curtains were being frantically pulled round. If you’ve ever watched a film that has any kind of hospital-based emergency, it was just like that. Bodies everywhere!

No one was panicking, but clearly there was a problem. And I was it.

My heart wouldn’t slow down. In fact, it was getting quicker. A doctor told me that they were in touch with the people who’d fitted my pacemaker, whose customer service was thankfully as good as their operating skills, and that this would be sorted out and my heart would be slowed down. In the meantime, it seemed that lots of them would ask me how I was feeling, and I would reply as calmly as I could, that I was ok. I wasn’t ok, I was terrified and reduced to telling myself that I couldn’t die if I just kept breathing. So, I kept breathing.

Sadly though, my eyes were still fully functioning and the last time I saw a monitor my heart was hitting 209 bpm. They took the monitor away after that, but I’m led to believe that it went higher.

The ending of this particular episode still seems slightly surreal. After what seemed like a couple of hours, but was probably only 7 or 8 minutes, a man from the pacemaker team arrived at my bedside and ushered everyone else away. Then he uttered something incredible in both its calmness and ridiculousness.

“Hi Graham. I’m Dan from the pacemaker team and I’m just going to have a chat with your pacemaker.”

I think I laughed, which in the circumstances was great, given that I was fairly sure I was going to die, whether Dan was going to have a chat or not.

But then, he got to work. Dan pressed a few keys on what I swear looked like some kind of Fisher Price My First Laptop and then strolled around my bed doing I know not what. As he went back to his laptop, I noticed he’d placed some kind of device on my bed. It looked just like e Wi-Fi router. Then, he said,

“OK, we’re going to chat to it wirelessly now”.

After this he tapped a few keys on his Fisher Price toy and within seconds I could feel my heart slow down. So, I told him I thought it was working, to which he replied – cool as you like – that he knew it had worked. At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d made himself a martini.

The rest, as they say, is history. I think I had a major brush with death. Dan from the pacemaker department probably hasn’t thought about it since. However, for at least a few of those minutes I thought my time was definitely up. I didn’t panic, I didn’t see any light (people have asked!), I didn’t cry or shout. I just kept thinking that I should keep breathing.

My cardiologist decided that they’d keep me on the ward for the night, so that everything could be monitored, so again it meant that I wouldn’t be going home. For once, I was delighted. The ward was safe. The ward had Dan or a Dan alternative that could sort me out if anything happened again. So, I called my wife to let her know what had happened before having a bit of a nap. When your heart’s been beating at over 200bpm, you’re going to get tired out.

I’m now a few weeks down the line in my pacemaker journey. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t think of anything better to call it, by the way. It’s not been easy. I’ve not spoken to many people about exactly what happened, because it’s quite a difficult thing to talk about. Easy enough to write about and crack the odd joke about though. I can’t do much and what I can do tires me out. I feel guilty for not working and I miss being around my ‘big sisters’ and my students. I can’t hug my wife and kids and I’m not allowed to kiss them as I can’t shave and have grown a very tickly beard! And I really feel for them, because none of this is easy for them. I hope none of them ever finds themselves wondering when the next episode will happen, but I think they will and that might just be the saddest thing to come out of all of this.

On the bright side, I’m alive. I have a future, even if I don’t really know what it looks like yet. There’s thinking to be done. I also have a couple more stories to tell and a lump in my chest where me pacemaker is, meaning that in years to come I can lie to anyone and everyone about what that is and how it came to get there. Live a day in my shoes and then tell me that’s not one of the best things ever!

Be thankful for what you’ve got, tell people you love and cherish them daily, listen to your body and try to enjoy life as best you can. Stay safe everyone.

Fighting Fit; an occasional diary.

If you’re a regular reader you’ll no doubt know that it’s been a pretty rough year for me, healthwise, culminating with the fact that I’ve been forced to spend some time off work. I’m pretty sure that the two sick notes that I’ve submitted to work in the last few weeks have been the first I’ve ever had in almost 30 years of working for a living, so it’s all come as a bit of a shock!

If you don’t know – and let’s keep it brief – earlier on in the month, following quite a while of being poorly and stupidly attempting to hide it, I had to have a pacemaker fitted in order to regulate my heartbeat. It’s meant that I’m not really very well, which I’m finding very frustrating. I’m not one to enjoy just sitting about and am pretty desperate to be fit and well again. However, I’ve had to realise that I can’t just be flat out exercising and that there has to be a lot of compromise. In short, at the moment there is actually more sitting about than exercise and a lot of time to fill each day!

I thought it might be nice to diarise what’s happening to me. I imagine it’ll help me think it all through because although it’s actually a fairly routine procedure, it has definitely taken a toll on me. I don’t think keeping it a secret for such a long time has really helped either, as it just enabled me to get progressively more poorly and ultimately more tired! So maybe occasionally writing about it will help me make a bit more sense of what’s happening.

Therefore, today marks the start of exactly what the title says it is; an occasional diary.

So far, there’s not a great deal to tell. I can’t do a lot of exercise because it means that I’m absolutely knackered afterwards! However, I have made a point of trying to get out for some kind of walk almost every day since I got home from hospital. I think I got home on the Thursday and managed to get out for a short walk on the Sunday and I’ve just kept going since then.

It’s definitely making me feel better and stronger. It’s good for mental health too as it means I’m getting fresh air and not just sat watching telly and feeling sorry for myself. And, possibly because I can’t go far and I can’t race around the place, I’m looking at my local surroundings a lot closer. Which brings me to today’s post.

I’m lucky that I live within about 100 yards of quite a lot of green space and that is bordered by a farm, which means more green space. So while I’m literally walking around my block a lot of the time, it doesn’t always have to be in residential areas.

We’ve been hit by fog for the last couple of days here in my bit of West Yorkshire. So, where normally I’d take a picture of myself out on my walk and post it on social media, for the last couple of days I’ve been taking pictures of the area and what it looks like shrouded in fog and I thought it might help put a different slant on my diary, rather than just telling you that I went for a walk and it tired me out! These pictures are just a few minutes away from my front door.

As well as making it a bit more difficult for this asthmatic to breath, I think the fog always gives the place a kind of other-worldly feel. It’s been so thick that you can’t really see a great deal of what surrounds you and walking round the quiet streets, any voices that might be heard become quite detached and hard to track down. It’s been bloody cold too! But, I won’t let it put me off as I’m determined to get myself fit, healthy and back into the swing of normal life as soon as I can.

I genuinely thought I’d be back at work within a few days and the realisation has hit me hard. I’ve lost track of time but can safely say that it’s been a number of weeks now that life has been completely altered for me. No work, quite a lot of pain and discomfort, little sleep, I can’t move well on my left side still and the reality that I really have to sit down a lot!

However, I’ve started to feel a great deal more human in the last couple of days and it’s meant that rather than just go out and concentrate on the number of steps I’m managing and whether or not I might pass out, I’ve been able to have a bit of a look around, especially as I think the place can look so dramatic when surrounded by the fog. I thought it might be a nice angle for this diary, rather than just telling you that I’d been for a walk and it had tired me out, so I had to have a nice sit down!

This next picture is of the top of the road that runs past our house and I just thought it looked pretty amazing (especially when you know that if you turn a little bit to the right there’s a big Aldi supermarket at the top of the hill!) The sun is doing its best to fight through the fog, but you sort of know that it’s not going to win!

Tomorrow, I’ll be back out again for another walk as I try to just build up a bit of strength, resilience and a great deal more fitness. It’d be nice to get to the second half of what will be a reasonably short walk and not be out of breath, but I know that’s unlikely for a while yet. Hopefully tomorrow though, the fog will lift and there’ll be a bit less of a chill in the air.

Until next time, stay safe, listen to your body and be nice!

Doctor, doctor…I wish there was a joke to finish up with!

So, there you are, a forty something year old man, living your life, minding your own business when all of a sudden, your heart decides to stop working properly. While at hospital, you think you might die and when you don’t, one of the things you decide to do is start a blog. At the very least you’ve got a sob story to tell…

Fast forward four years and hundreds of blog posts later and everything seems peachy. You’re fit, healthy, love your job and family life, you coach a football team and really enjoy going out running. It’s like some kind of Disney film, if you want to watch a Disney film that’s probably in black and white and is about a bloke with a very normal life who occasionally pushes the boat out and tries out stuff like smiling and having useful ideas in those meetings where he’s not in a semi-comatose state.

Then, a few months after your 50th birthday, you start to realise that you don’t feel that well. Work leaves you almost constantly tired. You’re having to cut down on the running. Your heart’s beating a bit funny and you’re lying awake at night listening to it do just that. You see a doctor, go to a hospital and have your heart monitored, but the results are pretty inconclusive.

Fast forward some more to October half term. We’ve booked a very last-minute holiday to Majorca, hoping to soak up some sun and just relax. Having not felt well for weeks, this felt like the right thing to do. Just go and sit by a pool and laze around on a beach, with not much pressure to do anything else. And that’s exactly what we did.

However, this was partly because I think we all felt too scared to attempt anything else.

At Manchester airport I’d felt rough, but had kept quiet. I figured that we were almost on the plane and that a little bit of sun would make me feel a lot better. And then, it happened. One minute I was in the queue for security and shuffling forward while my wife tried to retrieve the passports from her bag. Next minute, everything went black.

There were voices disturbing my dream. And they were getting louder.

“Are you alright mate? Are you OK?”

I wasn’t sure who they were talking to, but he wasn’t responding. It didn’t matter though, because I was asleep and still dreaming.

“Are you alright, mate? Do you need help?”

Suddenly, I could see my wife and kids. But why was I looking up at them? Why was the voice still asking those questions? Why did it sound like more voices had joined in? And more to the point, where was I?

It took a short while to figure things out but it turned out that I’d blacked out. I remember feeling dizzy and trying to hold onto a wall for balance, but nothing else. The airport ambulance was called for and we were reassured that we’d still make our flight if I was ok. We were moved over to one side and the queue diverted in the other direction while the security staff got me a seat and some water. Then, when the ambulance staff couldn’t attend because of an emergency, we were allowed through security on the understanding that if I felt poorly, we’d ask for help. We made the flight, but it’s very much a blur as I slept for much of it.

A few days later, there was another dizzy spell and although we had an amazing holiday, I felt poorly for much of it. I just hoped that it would pass and that I’d get back to work and begin to get better. I did manage to cop for a few emergency ice creams as well, so the dizziness wasn’t all bad!

Back at work, I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. Sorry pals; that didn’t turn out to be my best decision, did it? But I didn’t want anyone to worry, and I really don’t like a fuss. Pretty selfish and pretty stupid, eh?

I think I failed with the fuss and the worry stuff as well.

On the following Monday, I was giving out some texts at the start of a Year 10 lesson, when I felt the now familiar dizziness. I knew before I felt it that my heart would race and I crossed my fingers that it would be over within seconds. Not long after common sense prevailed, which it doesn’t often do where I’m concerned. I got myself sat down and continued on with the lesson while writing a short email to my department. Someone needed to come and help. I couldn’t black out in front of my students.

It felt like hours before someone arrived, but it was probably less than a couple of minutes. I closed the door on my classroom, quickly explained what was happening and then headed into our main building, not knowing what I wanted to do. I did know that I felt awful though. I was too hot, dizzy and felt sick.

I don’t remember much after that. I know that I saw my friend Gemma (yes, she of ‘Educating Yorkshire’ fame) and that in our office people rallied round and made stuff happen. I also know that I was apologetic and just felt really upset with myself. And I do know that I’m eternally grateful to everyone who helped me out.

As I sat there, I was still hopeful that it would all fade away and that I’d be back at work by the Wednesday, but my friends insisted that I was going home and that I shouldn’t worry about work. They also stopped me from driving home; a good idea given my dizziness and the fact that I’d have tried to concoct a story about not feeling that bad to tell my wife when I arrived home.

Instead, I was made to call my wife and confess! Not long after she collected me and, after we’d called at home to change my clothes, we headed into Leeds to go to A&E.

Once there, there was another dizzy spell and a bit of a fall into a nearby seat, which actually righted my heart rate. But I wasn’t getting out of this one. Instead, we were taken through various stages of Accident and Emergency and tended to by several amazing people. And just when it looked like I’d be able to head home, a last echo scan revealed a problem with my heart – a leaky valve apparently – and I was told that I’d be admitted.

This made me feel equal parts sad and relieved. I’d told my wife that I didn’t want to be back on a cardiology ward, but the news that I was going to do just that meant that whatever the problem was, it was hopefully going to get sorted out. But it was incredibly frustrating to know that my heart was letting me down once again.

The next day, after more monitoring and scanning, my latest wonderful cardiologist broke the news that I’d be fitted with a pacemaker and I have to admit, it felt like my world was crashing down around my ears! My heart’s abnormal rhythm would need to be controlled and a pacemaker was the answer, despite my age. But, pacemakers are for pensioners and here I was in the prime of life! But there was no point wallowing in self-pity. After all, what did I know about heart health?

It’s a bit of a big one to write about just now, so I’ll do the detail in my next blog, but it’s safe to say that it’s been a weird last month or so. On October 9th I ran a 10k race here in Leeds and ran it well, feeling fit and strong throughout. Just over a month later, I was on an operating table having a device fitted to control my heart for me. Writing about that another time isn’t some dramatic cliffhanger ploy, it’s just still a lot to take in. And I’m too knackered to do much at the moment!

For today, I just wanted to write something to update people and to say a heartfelt thanks to the friends and family that have got me this far. So, from the bottom of my poorly, electronically controlled heart, thank you! And sorry for not saying anything sooner. Boys will be boys though, eh?

Until next time…

Poetry Blog: 24 Hour Hearty Person

This is another poem about my health, which over the last few years seems to be absolutely fine for just about long enough to lull me into a false sense of security before – metaphorically – jumping out from behind a bush to scare the living daylights out of me again. Middle age is proving to be a cruel mistress at times!

In summer of this year my heart decided it was time for a bit of fun and began to play up again. Having been admitted to hospital over four years previously with heart palpitations that led to enough tablets to sink a boat and then an operation a month later to resolve it all, I thought me and my heart were done with our difficult relationship. It turns out I was wrong.

In July, I had a mini episode when my heart began to race and stayed that way for around 5 hours one Sunday afternoon. I tried to hide it from my family, but eventually had to admit there was a problem after my complexion had gone grey and you could see my body shaking through my clothes. Dead giveaway, really!

In short – because I’ve already gone through this in a previous blog – I ended up being referred back to the cardiology department of Leeds General Infirmary and then referred on again for a 24 hour ECG. It found nothing at all unusual, but made for an eventful couple of days…and a poem.

24 Hour Hearty Person

Summoned to an inconvenient hospital you've never heard of
your first impression is of a relic from a different time,
a bit like yourself, you think, and smile to seem brave.

The clouds have returned again though, as the heart acts up,
like a toddler seeking attention, giving a firm 'no' to all of your requests
and striking with a clown-like tantrum, shaking its head at your every syllable and making you feel that you're not as in charge of things as
you thought you might be.

Once again, you'll notice every flutter, every beat, every time you're
out of breath.

So, here we are again.

A hot summer's day when you shouldn't have a care in the world,
even if you're stuck at work,
but instead, you're stepping tentatively through the automatic doors,
outwardly confident you hope, but inwardly full of fear.

A receptionist greets you, smiling through the Covid mask,
takes your details, asks the all too familiar questions about symptoms and tests and then motions you over to the exact place to where you will sit and wait...

A few minutes pass like a decade and despite the hustle and bustle
you're alone with your thoughts, your confusion and your paranoia.

Child again.

Then, your name is called and, still smiling you step into a glorified cupboard.
Pleasantries exchanged, seats taken, your next 24 hours are explained
and before you know it you've lifted your shirt without even being paid a compliment, let alone the offer of a drink.

The inevitable question of the scar comes, like night follows day
before you're scrubbed within an inch of your life and sticky patches are applied.
You instantly vow to be brave and rip it off without a sound when the time comes to leave it behind.

Next, the tiny machine that will shadow your every move is prepped and plugged and you're briefed about exactly what it is you'll need to do.
And then, when it's time to go, you clip it to your belt like a pager last seen on an 80s trading floor and off you go, back out into the sunshine to have as normal a day as you can while your every heartbeat is recorded and scrutinised in search of an abnormality that you'd rather they didn't find.

It was a strange couple of days while I wore the portable ECG machine. It makes you quite self-conscious, the fact that you’re attached to a machine that’s liable to make itself known to people if you move in a certain way.

After the hospital, I went back to work where those in the know were surprisingly eager to see my ECG machine (although secretly I’m sure it was a sneaky look at my abs they were after!). I’m sure that it was as disappointing a sight as could have been expected; the machine and the abs!

Having been at my appointment for a while there wasn’t a lot of work left, but it was simply a case of doing what would be normal in order to see what my heart did. And this continued when I went home before getting up the next day to have some breakfast and head back to the hospital to give the machine back!

As it turned out, there was nothing overly worrying found in the results of the ECG and the blood tests I’d had, other than the need to hydrate myself about 100% better than I do. So, it turned out to be quite a worrying time that led to no real answers, which is never what we want when we visit the doctors or the hospital, I would imagine.

I’ll end with a word about the title, which if you didn’t know, references the Happy Monday’s classic made popular in the late 80s and early 90s. Although the song is about doing drugs and staying out raving, adapting the title to fit the poem just felt like it worked, even if the drugs are purely prescription and the partying has very much slowed down these days! Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the poem!

A spanner in the works.

It’s been a bit of a strange week in our household. It’s revolved around me, but it’s affected the four of us and probably spoiled everyone’s half term break in some way or another.

Last Sunday I had a bit of an unwelcome visitor. My heart problems resurfaced. Not in a big way, but big enough to completely stop the day and have me worrying for the rest of the week. There was no hospital visit this time so it was a lot less dramatic than four years ago, but it served as a bitter reminder of my age and the fact that, deep down, I’ll always be worried about my heart health.

We’d been visiting family in the morning and everything had been fine. I did feel a little bit grumpy though, but I put that down to hunger as by the time we left it was past dinner time. I felt tired too, but assumed that was just a hangover from the day before when I’d pushed myself far more than I’d intended when out on a 5k run that turned into a 10k one.

I can’t quite remember when I first felt my heart racing., but it was Sunday afternoon and I was conscious of the fact that it wasn’t right. However, I was confident that it wasn’t going that fast; just faster than it should have been. I put it down to the previous day’s running and decided that no one needed to know as it was sure to calm down soon. I then spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the settee watching TV, afraid to move too far and fully aware that my heart was still racing. After a few hours I was starting to worry.

We were supposed to be going out that night. My wife had booked tickets to see the Alan Partridge tour as part of my 50th birthday celebrations and tonight was the night. As the time approached for us to be getting ready, nothing had changed. My heart rate didn’t seem to be any worse, but it wasn’t any better. And then I went upstairs to get my clothes ready.

At the top of the stairs I suffered a terrible spell of light-headedness and I kind of staggered into our bedroom and grabbed onto the window sill to keep myself upright. I scrunched my eyes closed, seeing stars as my legs turned to jelly. After a few seconds I sat on the edge of our bed and put my head between my knees. My heart was now thumping and had quickened up noticeably. Stupidly, I decided to just sit tight and see if it would stop. That’s stop as in calm down, rather than just stop. I figured that could be a problem with my heart!

After a few minutes, it went back to just racing. I took my heartbeat via my smart watch – 105 bpm, not too frightening. So, I went back downstairs.

Thinking about the stairs in Leeds Arena – venue for our night out – I knew that I probably couldn’t go out, so when my wife headed upstairs to get changed I followed. And at the top of the stairs it happened again. This time, I told her.

She got me to lie down on our bed and said that she could see my whole body shaking through my clothing, that she could see my heart thumping through my t-shirt. I could see this too and I didn’t really want her to have noticed, but it was ever-so-slightly obvious! We decided pretty quickly that we wouldn’t be going out, but then when things didn’t calm down, we packed a bag for hospital. Last time they’d admitted me really quickly as I have previous for heart problems – oh, and they thought I might die at the time as well – so we decided we’d head to A&E a bit more prepared. We told the kids and there were tears.

In the meantime though, my heart rate felt like it had dropped. My watch was measuring it at various speeds now, but none over 100. It was fluctuating, but I’d stopped shaking and sweating. After about half an hour, we headed downstairs, more settled and prepared to wait this one out. Probably ten minutes later, while sitting on the settee again, I had another awful dizzy spell. It made me feel sick and was so violent that it sort of forced me forward in my chair. I saw stars again and I gritted my teeth hoping that it would pass with me still conscious. My main thought was that I was not going to hospital in an ambulance! I didn’t realise that my daughter was sat opposite and witnessed the whole thing.

As it passed, I reassured her that I was OK. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to worry her. She sat with me as did my wife when she came downstairs. I told them that I just needed to rest and so we just sat. Something was different now though.

After a few minutes I realised that my heart rate was completely back to normal. No racing whatsoever and when measured it was going at 49bpm! And that was that. The end of an episode that had ended up with me terrified by my heart once more, but in actual fact, entirely back to normal. I was absolutely shattered though and secretly frightened at the prospect of being back in hospital again.

Almost a week on and, as I said, it’s been an odd week. The next day was a write off and the two after dominated by visits to the doctor. But by Wednesday I’d had an ECG and blood tests and they’d declared that there was nothing to worry about and provided no explanation of what might have happened. That’s not a criticism either. I mean, how would they know? But I’d gone there hoping for a clear answer and left with nothing but a sore arm from needles and an itchy chest from the fact that they’d made me shave it for my ECG!

I’m back to work next week and I know that I’ll have to be careful. I’m forcing myself to rest and have told myself that there’ll be no running for a while longer. I continue to plan my next run though, while continually considering the fact that I might just get away with it in the next couple of days. I have to keep reminding myself of my daughter’s reaction as I nearly passed out in front of her as well as the fact that up to Thursday I was knackered all day every day.

I’m hopeful that this was just a scare and that it was simply the result of pushing myself far too hard, followed by not recovering properly and not keeping hydrated. I started this blog as a result of being hospitalised four years ago. I have no wish for any more cardiology ward blogs!

Look after yourself, folks!

Poetry Blog – ‘No blue lights.’

Photo by Pranidchakan Boonrom on Pexels.com

So a little while ago, during lockdown, I got to thinking about a couple of years ago when I was poorly and got admitted to hospital. Fun times. It led to a couple of poems, the first of which – imaginatively entitled ‘Heart’ – I published on here a few weeks ago. At first I didn’t know what to do with the poems, given their personal nature. but as I’m not one for going back through notebooks and reading my own work, I decided to publish.
I thought I’d share because otherwise – as I said when I shared ‘Heart’ – it’s just words on a page for no one really and they’ve been sat in a notebook for months. This poem was actually the first one of the two.

No blue lights, no ceremony.
Instead, a last meal, rushed to send you on your way into the dark.
A numbness. A thought nagging at the back of your mind, like a job that needs to be done, but feels better ignored.

In the steady opening of a door time accelerates, yet thought slows down.
A world spins, but you watch wondering if you’re still part of it. And for how long?

A sharp scratch jolts you back, a reminder of a TV drama.
This is really happening. So you summon the banality of the everyday to make it go away.
Then a dark hint dropped by a friendly face and before you can utter a sound, formulate a thought, time moves on and you struggle to keep up.

Death is no longer a stranger. Death is the friend that everyone else hates, but no one tells you why.
Death is a temptation, but a step too far, a drug you will not take. An adventure that tempts you, talks to you before something unnamed barges in and stops you.

Dreams. Faces in the dark. One long nightmare.
The morning’s loneliness and thoughts that you’ll never see them again.
Until you do.
And you fight, kick like an Olympian down the back straight until you catch life. And them. Feel their tears, their warmth, their hearts still beating with yours.

Reading it back for the first time in a while, this feels like a really fast version of events. I don’t know why. There was certainly plenty of subject matter to tackle, so maybe subconsciously I wanted to reflect how quickly certain things seemed to happen. I’m not sure it was a deliberate intention though!

The story behind it is having to go to the Emergency department of the hospital when I was having heart palpitations. I drove myself in – I didn’t want any fuss – and fully expected to be given tablets and sent on my way. And maybe this is where the pace of the poem comes from. They were expecting me in A&E and unlike whenever I’ve been there before, I was seen almost immediately. People came into my cubicle in quick succession, each with a more serious expression on their faces! The ‘sharp scratch’ was a canula being inserted into my arm by a male nurse. It was something I’d heard of on TV, notably on things like Casualty, so I knew things were more serious than I first imagined when a canula got mentioned.

The friendly face was a kind looking young nurse. However, as kind looking as she was, I couldn’t help but notice her tine change when I explained that I’d been feeling this way for a few days and nearly didn’t come in at all. For the life of me, I can’t remember her exact words, but it definitely hinted that I was in a bit of a mess!

From that moment everything was a bit of a whirlwind. Doctors and nurses came and went and my wife popped in with an overnight bag, so I had to resume my act that it wasn’t all that serious. Not long after she’d gone I was told that I was headed for a ward, but wouldn’t be allowed to just walk up, so was helped into a wheelchair and taken by a porter. I’ve never felt so helpless in my adult life!

I was terrified that I was going to die. Doctors and nurses kept waking me up in the night when exhaustion and probably prescription drugs meant that all I wanted to do was sleep.

When I woke in the morning I felt massively lonely – as it says in the final stanza – and, although I’d had the fact that I’d be fine but needed an operation explained to me, started to think that I’d never recover.

I did recover though. I kicked ‘like an Olympian’, tried to eat the right things, exercised, rested when I needed to and cherished the people around me like never before.