Or how a throwaway comment became an unintended rallying cry for a heart attack victim
Experience: That most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.
In this piece there are curse words. Not too many, but enough for me to warn those of you with sensitive natures about. I left them in simply because it’s how it happened and what was actually said. You have been warned!
“So, what’s happened to me?”
It seemed like a good question to ask at the time. I was laying on an Accident & Emergency Room bed at Basildon Hospital and the doctor answered the question instantly, with clinical precision, and an almost surgical honesty.
“You’ve had a heart attack...”
I turned to look at my sister sitting next to me, who had turned ashen, while I lay there for a moment slack-jawed and disbelieving. The first thought echoing around my head was that this just couldn’t be happening. It was January 1st 2011.
I hadn’t been feeling too wonderful for a few days looking back. I'd noticed that I was slowing down as I walked anywhere and was not wanting to eat – which definitely wasn’t normal. There was a tightness across my chest, and I was getting out of breath more easily (even walking up a flight of stairs had become a challenge).
The weather had become savagely cold too. Britain had been enveloped by two white blankets of powder by the time the new year celebrations were about to get into full swing. Having lived in Central Texas for seven years, which is not exactly known for its snowfall, the shock to my mind and body were palpable and severe.
When the sub-zero arctic winds blew in they cut a swathe right through me and the snows that fell in unforgiving, relentless horizontal waves slashed across my face with the feel of flying glass shards.
This kind of weather shouldn't have been too unfamiliar to me, but I couldn't help but wonder if this was my punishment for trading my balmy ex-pat blanket for a frigid English winter. This wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but more like a doormat you might find at the entrance to the 9th Circle of Hell Hotel, a place where such an act of geographical treachery is duly "rewarded."
I noticed my body was aching. I felt hot, and I was catching my breath. I dismissed it at the time as the beginning of an oncoming bout of flu, but later I came to understand exactly what was happening (weeks later my doctor told me that extreme cold can cause arteries to tighten, restrict bloodflow and reduce oxygen supply to the heart, thereby setting the stage for potential disaster).
In typical cavalier fashion, however, I shrugged it off and continued with the job of recovering from my last eighteen months in Austin, Texas and all of the accompanying personal disasters that had prompted me to return to the island of my birth.
When I'd left Britain in the warm languid summer of 2003 I was full of hope, embarking on a new life, blissfully happy and newly wed. I returned in the autumn of 2010 unrecognizable as the man that had departed all those years earlier.
A physical and emotional wreck, a prescription drug addict, and a morbidly obese husk had returned in that man’s place. Family and friends alike were horrified to see with their own eyes the self-destruction I’d been able to hide from them thanks to the dubious gift of distance.
The moment of admission into the James McKenzie Ward at the Basildon Hospital was as surreal as it gets. I’d been in hospital wards before, obviously, but that was for shoulder injuries or small procedures that were easily dealt with. This was different. This was serious.
The strip lighting of the ward was blinding to eyes that had gotten used to the slightly more agreeable “mood” lighting of the emergency area downstairs. Being wheeled in on the bed I was to occupy for another 10 days and trying to make sense of what was happening to me was virtually impossible at that moment, but I somehow had to try.
My initial reaction was to cry, but I didn’t, well at least not until lights out and then as silently as I could so as not to annoy or spook the other “inmates,” I was too numb to be that emotional.
The main reaction I had, however, was anger. Not a public display, but a poisonous inward anger for being so stupid, selfish, and so weak both physically and mentally that I’d put my family, and myself, through this. All this seemed to stem from the fact that I simply couldn’t, and at times had no intention of, controlling my addictions. This is where my pathetic self-pity had gotten me and I had no-one but myself to blame.
Things went on for a couple of days. Visits from cardiologists telling me what was going on in various degrees (“you’ve had a non-stemi heart attack”, “that’s unstable angina” etc), the magnificent nursing staff hurrying around, and more medications than you could shake a stick at (which was annoying, since I’d managed to kick the drugs I’d become addicted to in the US). These drugs, however, were not the “fun” kind (and I use the term loosely) I’d become used to, these were going to help me stay alive.
After a while I settled down. The situation was bleak, and I was frightened and felt isolated, even though I was surrounded by other patients who were suffering the same as I was, or in most cases worse.
One man, who was about 15-20 years older than me, was wheeled in one evening around 9pm having been revived in an ambulance on the way into hospital. He was obviously weak and had a massive needle jabbed into his neck that they had used, I presume perhaps incorrectly, to help bring him back to this world.
His wife, who had taken her place sitting next to him, held his hand. She rubbed an insistent comforting rhythm on his fingers and knuckles as she cried silently, that silence broken only by short, almost dignified sniffs, and the odd groan of pain from him. He had a look of undiluted fear in his eyes. It was a scene that will live with me for a very long time, if not forever.
But, the next day something, or rather someone, happened.
Paul had one of those voices. It’s difficult to explain to someone if they’re not from a particular part of London, or Essex. It was part nasal, part whine, and bordering on almost open aggression. The vocal inflection instantly reminded me of those boys at school that used to come up to me, and other poor saps, demand money and knock me down whether I gave up the cash or not. Every time he spoke, I shuddered inwardly.
“I don’t even wanna fuckin’ be ‘ere nurse.”
“We know that Paul, but let us get on with our jobs, yeah?”
“Get me a beer and a full English.”
“Paul, shut up.”
“Alright, alright, keep yer ‘air on for fuck sake”
These conversations went back and forth for a while like this until he became bored. Eventually he just sat beside his bed still in his street clothes staring into space, only occasionally looking around to see if anyone was paying him any attention.
The days started to melt into each other almost seamlessly. Nurses rushing around, me wandering off the ward to use my cell phone, eating, and watching TV. A metronomic rhythmic tedium that was almost comforting.
One afternoon, I found myself standing staring out of the ward window, a long stretch of glass spanning one entire side of the room. While looking at the expanse of temporary open spaces and suspect high-rise buildings, a familiar voice interrupted my reverie.
“Alright mate. See anyfink intrestin’?” Paul had decided to go walkabout and had lazily shuffled across the room and ended up on my side of the ward. As I turned to toward him his shock of bright red hair, pale skin and piercing blue eyes seemed to take up the entire space I looked into.
“No, not really. Just looking at how ugly Basildon is.”
“Yeah, you’re not fuckin’ wrong there mate.” “How ya keepin?”
“Not too bad. Still trying to get used to the fact I’m here.” “What are you here for?”
“One of me stents collapsed and I’ve gotta get a new one. Fuckin’ pain in the arse.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m still ‘ere, know what I mean?”
We made a few more minutes of small-talk until he wandered off with a disinterested look, hassled a nurse then sat down to read a well-thumbed copy of The Sun. Stopping at page three for a few seconds, he started reading the back page where some spoiled and overpaid footballer was being praised and knocked down in equal measure.
Paul had told me about the angiogram procedure. When he described the doctor that had performed his as “a bull in a china shop” my eyes must have stood out on stalks as I had been told that was to be my surgeon. A badly mistimed virus delayed proceedings by a few days, but eventually the moment arrived. Even though it was to be a day of discovery, I was terrified.
As I was wheeled into the operating theatre, I noticed how cold it was. Dr. Bull In A China Shop (name changed to protect the clumsy) told me what was going to be happening and he was not painting a pretty picture.
After the description came the action. Dr. Bull In A China Shop produced a needle that I felt going into my groin that held the anesthetic, I winced a little, but that was no more of a problem than getting a flu jab in the arm. Then it was catheter time and this is where it got nasty.
The doctor told me the catheter was about to be inserted into my groin. It started with a slight pressure.
“Pah,” I thought, “I can handle this, what was I worried about... “OH... MY... GOD!” My nerve endings shrieked as they were hit by the catheter and that shriek made it's way up from my groin and boomed out of my mouth, top speed.
“Oh, did that hurt? I’m very sorry.”
I exhaled a little. “No problem.”
Another push. “Shhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit”
“Sorry.” Ok, I can’t get in here.” I’ll need to make an additional incision.”
“Mummy”
“Sorry.”
There were a few grunts and groans from his end of the table, then a deep sigh. “Please, I’m sorry. Please keep still.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Right, right, yes.” “Sorry.”
He finally made the incision he’d been threatening to, but something felt...wrong. It was a warm feeling on my leg that seemed to be spreading. Not unpleasant, just warm, but not right.
“Erm, doctor, there’s something warm on my leg. What is it?”
“It’s blood. You’re bleeding quite a lot.”
“WHAT??"
“Nurse, can you get someone to clean this please, it’s going all over the floor, we don’t want anyone to slip and fall.”
“Don’t worry about me doc, the lawsuits are more important,” I thought.
Shove, push, yank.
“FOR FUCK SAKE”
“Sorry.”
While all this was going on, Mr. Cleaner With Mop had entered the room whistling a happy tune. He smiled at me, as he mopped up my blood while standing next to the doctor as he continued to poke, prod, shove and pull. I think I managed a slight grimace by way of reply. Pity I didn’t know the song he was whistling though, I would’ve joined in with the chorus...although possibly not.
After about 45 minutes of pain and high farce it was done. I’d made it through just about the weirdest medical procedure I’ve ever experienced and Dr. Bull In A China Shop was history.
I was told later that afternoon by a consultant that I had a blockage in one of my arteries and damage to the bottom of the heart. I needed stents. I wasn’t too happy, but at least it was progress, and now I knew what was going on. My life had changed and, like it or not, I had to adapt.
It took me a few days to settle down back at home after leaving hospital. Everything seemed strange and new and completely unrecognisable. I’d left 10 days earlier not knowing what was going on. Now I’d returned. I sat alone in my bedroom staring into the mirror not only knowing what was going on, but wondering exactly how I’d let myself fall this far.
It was then, quite randomly, that Paul came into my mind. I had no idea why he’d popped in there, but there he was. His reed-thin voice bouncing around in my head like so many superballs in a rubber room.
For no real reason I could think of, I was focusing on three words in particular. He’d uttered these words in a typically off-hand East London/Essex kind of way that it would’ve perhaps been easier to ignore them as take them on board.
“I’m still ‘ere.” Those words echoed in my mind and were rebounding off the walls around the room. “I’m still ‘ere.”
I sat silently, but I was thinking at 100mph. The profundity of those three words, even said in such a “whatever” kind of way, was now absolutely all-consuming to me.
“I’m still ‘ere”
I’m alive.
“I’m still ‘ere.”
Then it really hit. I’M. STILL. HERE.
Tears welled up and coursed down my cheeks in long straight clear lines, quickly turning into an uncontrollable sob. I still don’t know whether I was crying through relief, fright or fear, but it was probably all three.
That night I cried myself to sleep, but woke up the next day knowing what was ahead of me and thinking clearly. It was going to be a long road, but I had no choice other than to walk it. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
So, a year later I sit here writing this. Spring and summer came and went without much fanfare, but lots happened to me within that time. I had four stents fitted (I’ve named them John, Paul, George and Ringo), and although the surgeon, who was magnificent, only wanted to fit one originally, the blockage was so complete that he did a quick rethink and added a further three. Now, that's improvisation!
I attended a dozen or so rehab sessions at Basildon Hospital with the “Fabulous Rehab Gals,” Tina and Donna, lost a lot of weight (4 1/2 stone for my English friends, about 70lbs for my American readers), and continued to make strides in my attempt to fend off a premature end. I am, in every way, still very much here.
This experience has given me, and this sounds cliched I know, another perspective on life. It’s almost as if, because of what a relatively close call it was, the world turned from black and white into technicolour. Everything seems so new to me now. It’s why I used the C.S. Lewis quote at the beginning of the piece; experience is indeed a brutal teacher and, no doubt, I have learned and am still learning.
Small moments with family, good friends, both old and new, or even complete strangers, have become more precious than they ever were before and have taken on more meaning and depth. Just to be able to spend time with people, or someone, I love, respect and cherish is a gift that God has given me the opportunity to continue to have. I don’t intend to waste time, or waste words.
After an experience like this, the smallest gesture of love, affection, and support means so much, either received or given. We forget this at our own peril and I had indeed forgotten these gifts, and received an unwanted, but very timely reminder.
I’ve met many people so far on this journey, but none have had quite the effect on me that Paul has had. I spent all of five minutes with him and his words are never far from my thoughts. I hope he’s well and that maybe he’s managed to be “still ‘ere” himself.
Paul will likely never read this. But even though he uttered a seemingly innocuous phrase it is, and continues to be, a rallying cry of sorts for me. Definitely not what he’d intended or even thought about, but words are powerful things, for both good and ill. They can kill or they can comfort, they can wound or inspire. Thankfully these words were an inspiration. Possibly even a revelation.
I don’t fully understand why I’ve felt the need to write all of this down and I’m not really going to question it. I’ve just gone on automatic and let the words flow. I hope that it all makes sense, even though to me at least, the whole situation continues to defy my own fragile logic.
My heart may be blocked up, damaged, and full of stents, but it's still beating, and that's something I will be eternally grateful for.
