The Widow Maker

by Peter Davidson



I wound up dazed, disorientated but still alive on what I decided to name Walrus Beach on a Saturday night three weeks before Christmas 2009. Once I'd been plugged into the entertainments machine, wired up to an intravenous drip, oxygen and uncomfortably connected to my catheter bag, I was unveiled to my fellow walruses.

Opposite, a large and lugubrious man was sitting on an oversized chair next to his bed regarding me balefully. Once the curtains had been drawn back from around my bay, I raised my right hand and wiggled my fingers in a weak greeting.

‘You look like you've had a rough time, mate,' he said in response.

I consider this statement for a moment. ‘Well, I feel almost human again. Even if I don't look it.'

‘Harr, humour,' he chuckled, his large frame wobbling long after his laugh. ‘I'm Steve. Dangerous thing humour in a place like this. Isn't that right Dave?'

Dave was in a bed on Steve's right. A diminished looking late middle-aged man with a worried, long suffering expression rolled his eyes and gave me a wave. I waved back. There were a total of six of us in the ward. All heart patients. No televisions allowed to avoid any excitement. The ‘entertainments machine' were our heart monitors and Steve's machine was the most exciting, showed wildly irregular patterns.

‘I'm an enigma. They don't know what's going on with me.' He raised his arm and the pattern wobbled and changed. ‘See?'

Dave chipped in: ‘And look, it says my heart rate is 120 - even though I count it at half that! Bloody stupid thing.'

Only later does Dave mention he has a pacemaker and he's convinced the monitor is doubling the heart beat count. I like the black humour. If I'd been in a private room and on my own with no one to compare war wounds with, my time in hospital would have been much harder.

That first night sleep was difficult. But I officially became a fully paid-up member of the Walrus gang the next night, contributing enthusiastically to the discordant symphony of human and robotic sounds. In a fitful dream I was a despairing conductor, vainly trying to organise the coughs, groans and snores - punctuated by bursts of flatulence and mechanical bing-bong alarms – into some form of weird symphony.

To make sure everyone enjoyed the concert, a despotic nurse would regularly on the hour, wake and stick a needle in an arm. Although I managed to filter out all these sounds and eventually sleep, in truth it took me a long time to gain the confidence to close my eyes. Without the distraction of daylight and humour, my mind returned again and again to the event. The fact was, I could no longer trust my heart to keep beating.

The attack itself came without warning while lifting carpets. No dramatic clutching of the heart as seen in Hollywood movies. The exertion simply made me feel dizzy and out of breath. And my back ached. Nothing unusual I thought. I lay down on the floor to recover and that's when the chest pains started. My wife realised I was in trouble - even if I didn't - and called an ambulance. I'd given up trying to manfully shake off the discomfort, but by this time I didn't care what happened, the pain was crushing. I was also very cold and shaking, so much so the paramedics thought I might be convulsing. They decided to blue-light me to the local hospital.

As the ambulance arrived at the hospital the paramedic gave me a shot of GTN spray under my tongue to relieve the chest pain. It didn't work. The ambulance doors opened and the lights went out. I was unconscious in a flash.

Click. Just like flicking off a light switch, I meet oblivion. But not quite finally, yet.

Faces float above me, two men, a woman, their shouting. The woman has a blue nurse's uniform and she's telling me to try and be still. I'm squirming from the pain but I try. They're holding my legs. She's talking to me.

‘There's a risk of stroke, but we need to do this procedure, do you agree?'

Stroke? I don't want a stroke. I hear myself say the words. She reassures me it's a small risk. Do I agree? Damned right I agree.

Click. Again that light switch is flicked off.

Now another man is floating above me, shouting my name. I'm confused, why is he shouting?

‘No need to shout, I can hear you,' I tell him. He chuckles.

‘Sorry,' he says. There seems to be lots of noise and bustle. It dawns on me that what is happening might be serious. But I have no time to dwell on this thought, as ...

Click.

Again, new faces float above me. There's a huge jolt and I see my chest rise into the air. I'm almost detached from what is happening as I hear myself groan at the shock. A voice.

‘He's back' More voices, more bustle.

My wife and daughters are at my side. They look worried. Now I'm afraid. For the first time I feel like I might not get out of this. I take the chance to say goodbye. Then I ask my eldest about her new carpets, my youngest about the faulty car headlight bulb - has she fixed it? They get irritated but it gets my mind away. Then the pain is in my chest again. I recognise the symptoms now. I just have time to say: 'It's happening again,' before ...

Click.

Yet more strange faces appear above me, lifting me. I'm being manhandled onto a hospital trolley, they tell me I'm being transferred to Harefield, a specialist heart hospital. Hospital ceiling lights flash above me. I'm in a Hollywood film. Now I'm in another ambulance, the ambulance ceiling is smooth white plastic. I study its contours minutely.

Minutes or seconds later, time is seriously warped, I arrest again en-route, the ambulance bumps and sways and jolts to a stop, the doors open. Another corridor, a doctor pushes a form in front of my eyes, I must sign. I feel like swearing but haven't the strength. I scrawl my name and I'm in theatre. Pale blue walls and ceiling. Multiple LCD screens hang down as grey and silver machines robotically float over me while two surgeons work by my groin, sending a wire to my chest. I see my heart on-screen on my left, the wire tunnelling. I turn away and study the ceiling and listen, strangely calm. Apparently, I arrest again. I have no memory of the event. I'm back, watching the surgeons.

‘There it is, an hour-glass restriction, just suck these blood clots out, and there, good, push the stent further, go on, further, far enough do you think?'

These words came from a young, confident surgeon and he's teaching. I pray he's a good teacher. The student looks rather nervous to me.

‘Got it? Happy with that? You happy? I'm happy with that. Good. Close up.'

The young surgeon strides away to go behind a long glass partition where the techs are controlling the xray imaging device that is floating over my body.

‘Good. Good.' He shouts from behind the glass.

I whisper to the student, a registrar, who is diligently closing me up. ‘Hot-shot surgeon?'

He rolls his eyes and nods, his hands working. ‘Damned good teacher though.'

Out and pushed down the corridor to the ward I'm introduced en-route to the sister in charge. She has flame coloured hair and I compliment her on it. She raises her eyebrows slightly but smiles.

‘Feeling better, are you?'

And I realise I am.

'You've got colour back in your cheeks, always a good sign.'

That night, I have a passing 'event' that brings the crash team running. For the briefest of seconds, I felt my heart stop.

'You all right?' One of the team asks, checking the monitors that sounded the alarm.

Nothing feels very normal anymore.

The next day brings the consultant to my bed for a chat.

'Well, you've had a lucky escape, five hours since your first attack to surgery is longer than we'd like. You had a blockage in the left anterior descending artery, an L.A.D, which we sometimes call the widow maker of attacks. But, you're still here, and you should be home in three or four days.'

I'm astounded. I'm alive. I've beaten the odds. The primary angioplasty procedure combined with the quick actions of the surgeons and their skill, saved my life.

I'm only fifty-eight, I've never smoked, I'm not terribly over-weight and hardly drink. If I can have a heart attack, anyone can. And frankly, it's a matter of luck where you happen to be when you have an attack for the odds on your survival.

I live less than a mile away from Frimley Park Hospital where they are aiming to get any heart attack victim into surgery within ninety minutes of the ambulance arriving at the scene of the attack. But to do this they need expensive machines and currently they have a shortfall of £700,000 for one more to make the service efficient. They have launched their Heart2Heart appeal to raise these necessary funds. Helping a little towards this goal, I've set up a charity donation site that sends funds directly to the hospital.

Do please consider donating – your life may well depend on it!




If you can, please donate as much (or as little, every bit helps!) as you can towards the target.

Thank you!